Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why

"To whom it may concern: It is springtime. It is late afternoon."

I just found out that Kurt Vonnegut died. I've been out of the loop for two days, fully oblivious to this ENORMOUS fact, which seems entirely insignificant to the people to whom I've mentioned the news, hoping for a gasp to match the one I let out while skimming over the Globe's obituary section on the ferry, but getting nothing more than, "Who's that?" Maybe it's not the earth-shattering event I am making it out to be. But why does it feel like it's earth shattering to me?

I seriously thought he was going to live forever, as I did about Mother Teresa and my wily great grandma. And then these people die, at a zillion years old, and it makes sense, but it doesn't, because you're used to them being there, you're accustomed to and even comforted by their presence in the world - even if you don't know them. Because you've been influenced or affected by them, and want to (and expect to) continue to be influenced and affected by them.

The death of one old man isn't a tragedy in the grand scheme of things. But at the same time it is a tragedy to the esoteric community that makes up his cult following, to generations of book nerds who grew up on his writing, like two generations of the Thompson clan who grew up on my grandpa's famous spaghetti and meat balls. And I realize it's an obscure connection to make, but they're both familiar, and and that familiarity is comforting, and now there will be no more new Vonnegut stories, just as there are no more Grandpa T's spaghetti and meat ball dinners. He will never again write anything else. Ever. The world will have no more new Vonnegut. He's a thing of the past, now, like all those other famous dead writers. He's a dead writer! It's crazy. It's ... crazy.

All said and done, it was a weird day. I woke up this morning practically falling off the ledge of the bed. You could have fit a small family between Erin and me again. When I rolled over and made this observation Erin exclaimed, "No TOUCHING!!" like the prison guards to in Arrested Development, and I erupted. I can't think of any greater way to start the day than being laughed awake.

The maid cleaning the room beside ours wished me good morning as I was leaving, and called me ma'am. She was probably in her late 40s, and the elevator couldn't have come soon enough. There's something really embarassing about a woman, who could be your mother, whom you've never met and who is about to go wash your towels and make your bed and empty the garbage you threw in the waste basket, call you ma'am. I felt like I did at St. Anne's spa with my mom, while people massaged my scalp and rubbed essential oils into my feet. I didn't want to be associated with the pampered women traipsing about in their bathrobes (like hedonistic caesars), their faces shiny and glowing from $200 facials. Anyway, I felt bad. Maybe I don't want to be a kept woman, afterall.

So my guilt and I went for a long swim, and then had breakfast in a cafe, where I read all about new discoveries in the dinosaur world - seriously, dinosaurs are so rad!! Then went off to find the Victoria Art Gallery, tucked away in a little corner of town near Craigdarroch Castle.

I spent an hour in the practically empty gallery, alone with an amazing collection of Rodin sculptures (and I fully admit that I checked out the naked ones. Anyone who says they don't is a liar). There's nothing like being alone in a gallery, where you can take your time and go back and forth between pieces again and again. And what's amazing about Rodins is that they seem to have been designed with the purpose of being seen from every angle, as if each view is the main view. It boggles me how he could create forms that are at one time so muscular and commanding and strong, yet at the same time fluid and graceful and sensual. The busts were so incredibly life-like that I fully expected them to blink. But they never did, and so I moved on.

To close (abruptly, I admit, but I have to rush off to UBC), a Vonnegut quote, one of many that I love, and will probably love even more, now...

I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center

More Vonnegut