Category: deafness

Loose lips sink ships.

~ Lkvy ~ 1 Comment

Thought of the day: We have collectively decided that screen addiction leads to brain rot. But, how come audio addiction is not a concern? I’ve met individuals who always seem to be tuned out, no matter the activity: driving, cycling, or even hiking. Evidently, there are people with the desire to drown out the horrible sounds of nature. 

“Ugh! The birds always sing off-key, and squirrels have no rhythm. And, that babbling brook won’t SHUT UP.”

I don’t have that option. My deafness has robbed me of the joy of having Taylor Swift accompany me on my walks in nature. For this reason–among other less comical reasons–I am eligible for several subsidies. Among those is a card that grants me a 50% discount on the standard passenger fare for BC Ferries. These savings amount to between $7 and $12 each time I take the ferry, unless I get hungry and blow said savings on a stale Bread Garden cinnamon knot from the ferry cafeteria.

For 30 years, I’ve used the same card: a piece of cardstock with the BC Ferries logo, my name, my address (from the mid 90s), and my signature from when I was 10 years old and therefore still had the energy to get through my long name in cursive. Although I’ve kept the card in a plastic sleeve since the beginning, it has yellowed and begun to disintegrate along the edges.

From what I understand, BC Ferries changed the design 15+ years ago, and it is now a plastic card that includes an ID photo. Even so, the majority of ticket agents want nothing more than to keep the line moving and honour the discount based on my papery relic.

However, if I’m early and the only one in the line-up, it’s a crapshoot. Twice now, I’ve had the same ticket agent give me a print out of the application for the current Accessible Fare Identification (AFI) card. She was kind, so I couldn’t even be mad about it. The second time I encountered this agent, I lied and said I’d mailed my application a few weeks ago.

Well, now I’m trying to catch up to that lie and get my new card before our paths cross once again.

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Ridiculously Assiduous

~ Lkvy ~ Leave a comment

False Spring has arrived! The weather forecast through Tuesday looks so promising that my plan to go on an overnight cycling trip tomorrow night has been met with encouragement rather than bafflement from those I’ve shared it with. This won’t be a repeat of October’s Hell of the South Island ride, as Yann, Burger, and I are expected to reach the campsite well before dark.

My adventures in 2026 continue to be a series of anomalies. Today, I combined two uncharacteristic activities: ice skating and interacting with the local deaf community. I was more successful with the former, accomplishing about 30 laps around what looked like a giant planter box. When I first saw the ice rink, I got excited about the strip of ice that stuck out of the circular rink, thinking it’d join up with a second, larger rink–the adult rink. But, no, that strip led to the Zamboni garage. This rinky-dink ice rink was about 1/3 the size of a standard ice rink and teeming with deaf kids pushing around skating aids. Barely big enough to wow anyone with my mediocre ice skating skills. Even though I didn’t “find my people”, I didn’t regret going.

Even on the mainland, where there’s a much larger community of like-eared folks, my childfree status has kept me from re-integrating in the deaf community to which I once belonged. I’m also not quite old enough to get amped for Bingo nights with the deaf empty nesters. Maybe in 2046?

I have committed to attending a Heated Rivalry-themed party in March with one of my favourite deaf people, Zoée. It’s not a deaf event, but a dance party at a queer bar! I think I’ll dress like Scott Hunter when he tried to go art shopping incognito.

“Where’s all the heteronormative art at?”

That reminds me, I haven’t yet shared the screen print I did over the holidays.

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UK? Because I am.

~ Lkvy ~ 1 Comment

Once upon a bright and sunny day in 2018, Yann and I found ourselves before the door of a residential building in Arles-sur-Tech, France. I had the key — previously hidden behind the green shutters of the window to the right —in my hand. I had yet to meet the person to whom this lodging belonged. This stranger had hung the black Reynaud-Bray tote I’d abandoned at the Toulouse-Blagnac airport a few days earlier off the doorknob to make it easy for Yann and me to know which place to rob.

Lucky number 13.
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