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Go shoppingOn January 11 at 20:26 the tall quiet ghost of John Dick, my red-headed, balding ephemeral neighbour, dropped by for an unscheduled art critique.
His review was visceral.
He smashed my latest collage off our common wall and then with the restraint of a man who respects process, placed it upside-down behind a chair. Not flung. Not discarded. Installed. This was not vandalism. This was editorial.
Granted, the collage’s placement had been speculative. I was testing it beside the complementary photograph of my sister lying as if deceased in a Lausanne art gallery. A subdued pairing. Tasteful. European. Still, could it have fallen on its own? Possibly. But with enough force to mangle the corners? And then land in the specific, tucked-away disgrace of its final position? Gravity alone lacks this level of discernment. My understanding of physics and polite ghost conduct has been respectfully revised.
My brain immediately flagged this for investigation. The universe, it appears, has a stance on mixed media. I took the photograph, a receipt for the bizarre, tethering my inner nonsense to the outer world’s confirmation that yes, this happened, and that my dead neighbour has strong opinions about composition, hierarchy and possibly negative space.
The collage itself was a masterpiece of modern collaboration. It featured the collected works of Nina (6) and Vito (4): a dinosaur, a pride of lions, an antlered girl, assorted insects, and a Rene Magritte print, because children understand surrealism without the burden of theory. Everything was arranged in window panes made from old overhead-projector transparencies, as if I could peer through to John and Ruthie’s suite next door. The window motif was born of pure necessity. My fellow co-op owners vetoed my skylight proposal. One must smuggle in sunlight by any means necessary, including minor violations of taste.
Ruthie died on December 27th, 2025. The ambulance crew left the building’s doorstop open, a chilling, mundane detail, as if death itself required better airflow. On the days after she died John was overwhelmed with lamentation. He couldn’t stop crying. He had adored Ruthie and they went everywhere with each other. He didn’t want to go on. On New Year’s Day, John swallowed his accumulated pills near the beach. His wallet waited neatly in the front hall. His apartment door was unlocked. Everything about it suggested order. Closure. A man who returned library books on time.
So, at 2:49 AM January 12 I texted my friend Marianne, Do you know anyone who could perform a smudging ceremony on an apartment? She didn’t reply. Later that day I ran into on the street and explained. With the quiet efficiency of a true friend, she arrived that afternoon carrying her homegrown sage. She lit it, blew out the flame, and fanned the smoke with calm authority, as if this were a normal errand between groceries and an ink cartridge or her printer. I opened the balcony door, an exit route for spirits. I asked that John be released. That he find Ruthie. Peace. My friend and I hugged, cried, and exhaled together. She left me the remaining sage, for when I finally get access to 411 their suite for sale.
On January 18, Sharen in 413 called. She’s been hearing moving noises.
I’m considering titles. Anti-Gravity Calls has a ring. Or perhaps Post-Mortem Home Inspection.”
John would hate the font.
When people speak about their identity, some include a dry sense of humour. Me? An art school dropout and a Harvard grad, I have a damp sense of death. (I live in a rainforest.)
I lived in the Downtown Eastside in Vancouver Canada since 2001. I wrote facing the Lions Mountain and looking over CRAB Park and the Port. I listened to the trains.
I crave darkly comic fairy tales of our time. I read and write stories to quench this need.
