Yesterday the dazzlingly talented Jessica Flores asked me if I had a page featuring my drawings. You see, she’s working on a website that showcases the work of deaf artists called The Deaf Artist Collective.
And she thinks I’m an artist.
If you think only important news should be captioned, it means the deaf community will only have access to the depressing stuff. Right after I uploaded the previous post, I started on a new post explaining how I came to move out of the parents’ place at 17.
Halfway through the post, I thought, “This is pretty melancholy so far. Do I want to post something like this immediately after writing about my inaccessibility woes?”
So, I ditched that post and instead put my energy into creating accessible content for YouTube.
The fond memories tied to the Langley house mentioned in my last post mostly happened outside the house rather than inside it.
My parents made the decision to relocate to Langley in 1995 after my siblings moved out to free me from a life of continued isolation.
There, I was within walking distance from my school and eight deaf kids with whom I had varying degrees of friendship.
It was the best thing they’d ever done for me. I could have done without the big house with the 800-gallon fish tank in the rec room, hot tub, pristine living room carpet, a backyard that was a mushroom paradise, and so on.
None of that mattered as much as being close to my friends.
Yann asked me if I knew how to use clippers.
“Yeah, I used to have my own back when I had a mohawk. Waaaaay back, yet waaaaaaay past the 80s”
If he needed the reminder, so do you:
We are all limited as to what kind of goals we can set for ourselves right now. My fitness routine is restricted to what I can do with a yoga mat, a set of 8-pound weights, and the hangboard we mounted above our bedroom door frame last month. It seems iffy to be leaving our neck of the woods to do some moderate-distance cycling. Even if we go for 4-hour walks, I’m finding that I’ve been spending most of my time on the couch, perfecting that ass groove.
If only I had the inspiration to tackle a new art project.
The most inspiring person I’ve seen in the past week is my across-the-street neighbour who comes outside on his front porch to toot his gold vuvuzela every day at 7pm. Obviously, I can’t hear his masterful vuvzelling, but I can appreciate how he surveys his surroundings when he comes out, “I hope nobody sees me do this,” then gets in position.
I know the point is to thank all the health care workers and that many people are creating their own noise of thanks. To me, it looks like it’s just this one guy tooting away.
I’ve now been separated from the outside world for a month. I started quarantining a week before most stores in Victoria–including my now-former workplace–closed for the pandemic.
In that time, I’ve come to realize that for the past few years, I’ve been a dialed-back version of myself. I’ve trained myself to not do anything too far off from social norms as to not further alienate myself. My deafness already makes people uncomfortable, so I can’t afford to be weird on top of that! But, after a month without outside exposure, I feel the eccentricity creeping back into me.
I’m starting to feel one of the side effects of COVID-19: Cabin Fever. I’ve become acclimatized to a very narrow range of temperatures of 18-20ºC. The only time I don’t see Yann is when he uses the washroom, and sometimes I go in there just to be alone. I’ve been experimenting with aerating my meals, making egg soufflé and soufflé pancakes, which I then pair with a glass of club soda. Yeah, I have a lot of air in my diet. (And cat hair. I cleaned out the fridge yesterday. HOW DID THAT MUCH CAT HAIR END UP INSIDE THE FRIDGE?)