Bye and Bye

So I actually went out on a 'date' a couple months ago. I'm thinking about it now because I just finished a wonderful Aikido session--new bruises! what fun!--and the school's instructor stopped by to watch and when my class ended informed me that I would have my first examination at the end of March. I never really considered examinations as a possibility. I only go once a week but, I guess I'm improving. To be frank, I am mildly obsessed with it. What has this to do with the date? The person I went out with was in one of my classes. He asked me out for coffee and, after checking with my sitter, I said 'yes.'

We headed to the local Starbucks -- him in his car, me in mine -- and when we entered I started grooving off Bob Dylan's take on 'All Along the Watch Tower.' The fellow I was with immediately started to whinge and complain stating that Dylan had ruined the genre of folk music. 'I like him,' I said. 'Didn't he kind of open up the genre of folk music?' 'You too have been snowed by a mass marketing machine,' he replied. Then we sat down -- he paid for his and was a bit put out that I bought my own but I was thrilled that my magic car had had a couple dollars hidden deep in the ashtray which I thought was a sign that I should be self sufficient and get my own -- and he started to tell me about his life while I started to hum 'Lay Lady Lay.' He talked about his divorce. (I started to think that his ex wife and I would probably get along) His kids. (They weren't really living up to what he felt was their true potential) His schooling. (Sociology...need I say more? Along with philosophy, art history, linguistics...a true Renaissance Man) His personal philosophies/convictions. (I like independent thought. I am also not one to shy away from a good argument. I can indulge in mental masturbation with the best of them. A good argument, however, has to leave some room for dialogue).

It wasn't all about him though. To be fair, he did bring me into the conversation. It went kinda like this:

Him: Do you know what your problem is?
Me: I have so many I feel it quite unfair that you are determined to focus upon only one.
Him: You aren't relaxed enough. You weren't able to knock me down.
Me: Was I supposed to? I thought we were working on the mechanics of the technique. Besides, you act like a big rock. I'm not interested in forcing things.
Him: You should practice opening doors in a relaxed state.
Me: What?
Him: Use your wrists.
Me: Using my wrists to open doors will make me more relaxed?
Him: Try it.
Me: I think that I might just follow what the Senpai is showing us for now.
Him: You should really take advantage of what I can teach you. I have experience.
Me: I see.
Him: You are a guitarist? I love the guitar.
Me: Ok
Him: I bet I can ask you some questions about the guitar that you can't answer
Me: I have no doubt about that.
Him: I think you should know as much about your instrument as possible. How much do you play?
Me: I don't play very much at all anymore.
Him: If I could play I'd never stop.
Me: I guess you'll never know for sure eh?

An uncomfortable silence followed. I started humming 'Everybody Must Get Stoned' and checked the time.

Me: I've got to go. My sitter will be wanting to go home.
Him: Ok. See you next week.

Thus endeth my first post nuptial date. He showed up to class the next week and I did throw him and he ended up elbowing me in the face and stabbing my leg with one of his overgrown toenails. He has not since returned. The dojo is a happy place for me. I'll be ready for the exam. I wonder if I'm ready for another date?

Crossroads

Ok. I am actually 38 years old -- not 12. I will consider last night to be a minor blip on the radar. This morning was rough. Too rough. I considered blowing my brother off and not meeting him at the airport but my sense of personal responsibility told my irresponsible self to suck it up and keep in mind that the airport had public bathrooms if I had the need to puke some more. We went out for lunch at a favourite pub of mine and I indulged in a chicken filled boxty (potato pancake). It stayed down. Thankfully. The kids were being their charming selves and my big brother is still my big brother. Me? I was the chirp :)

What did I figure out last night? I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads. I desperately want change but I don't want to risk losing what I have. One summer, when I was in university--I think I might have been doing co-op at DND around that time or I was living the good life on EI and taking night courses, it doesn't really matter I guess -- there was a man who could be found around the neighbourhood who would be dressed in a dark suit and would be holding a briefcase. Our neighbourhood had its share of those with particular forms of mental illness. There was the woman who walked around with her doll baby, there was the man who kept checking banisters to ensure that they were straight, there were the odd folks wishing all passers by to listen to Jesus and there was this man in the dark suit. This man would stand at intersections. For a while, he chose to take his daily stand at the intersection by our apartment. He would stand at the corner watching traffic pass him and, when traffic let up, or he was at intersections having crossing signals that changed from don't walk to walk, he would shift his position so that he was once again facing the static red hand. He would stand there for hours. He did this, as far as I know, all summer. During the summer his suit started to hang on him. He lost a great deal of weight. His skin, subject to the elements, became redder, more wrinkled and dry. I personally never saw him arrive at the corners nor did I ever witness him leave. I remember trying to write about him and how he seemed to stand at the corner of chance and choice. He was less a human being to me and more liken to an organic allegory.

After having my marriage fall apart I've been feeling more and more like I've been snoozing for the past 10 years. Yes, I had kids and have grown in my job and such but I feel that other facets of my life have been lying dormant. I think I'm ready to wake up. I'm just not too sure what road I should cross.

In Case of ... Please Break Glass

The view outside of my living room window late this afternoon depicted a scene that could have come straight out of a snow globe after having been gently shaken and set down. It was gorgeous. Large fluffy flakes floated to the ground. An insulating silence enveloped my home and I felt the comfort of the scene reaching out to blanket me. Cover me.

Although peaceful, the scene didn't mirror what I felt inside and I rebeled against it. I felt alienated from the beauty. My living room window was a barrier instead of a way in. I felt agitated as if I had been the one shaken up and set down forced to watch beauty from afar. Art was happening beyond the glass and I was merely a witness but not party to it. I wanted more.

I want more.

I had a sleepness night yesterday. I was wired. I had called a hang & focus and for the entire evening I had not been able to reach my groove. My rhythm was off. I was making silly errors. I was hyper and anxious. I was trying too hard. When I got home, I couldn't turn my brain off. I hate nights like those. My bed felt foreign. For the first time in a long time I felt lonely. Not only lonely in the sense that I am currently physically alone but lonely in an artistic and emotional sense.

I've been living day to day and making do. I've been surviving. I've been doing more than just scraping by but to be honest, I haven't been fully involved. I've been hibernating. Stagnating. The past couple days I've been feeling that I have been just a witness for too long. It's time to be a participant once again. I'm just not entirely sure how to go about it. All I know is that I shouldn't be pressing the snooze button for very much longer or I risk becoming permanently incased in glass.

Requiem for EAM

Rest in Peace.

I met you first. The first member of the family of which I would eventually become a part. You were charming and stern. Wearing white. Your chair was more an accessory than a hindrance. Your beard was trimmed as was custom. You had a twinkle in your eye. You knew I didn't quite fit in. Me with my flowered skirts and long untied hair. I brought daisies and dandelions with me to work. You would smile. Accepting me for who I was. What, I wonder, did you think when your son brought me home for dinner? If you had any reservations, you never let on. You would regale us all with tales from the sea. Your eyes always held their sparkle. You would flirt. Shamelessly. I saw the best of your son in you at those moments.

I remember when the boys had a task of digging a trench in the backyard. I don't know whose idea it was to take a break after digging a couple feet and getting the beer. It was probably a mutual decision. Your face when I came upon the scene was priceless. The other guys ran off and left you to protect them; Take the fall more like. You stuttered and stammered and then just shrugged your shoulders. Boys would be boys. It was a club that I would never be allowed to join. You, however, never made me feel excluded.

I'm glad you are now at peace. I'm glad you are free. You left this world in control. When all control was taken from you, you made the ultimate choice to let go. As you lived, you died. A captain.

I Believe

Another day another ... day. It wasn't a bad day at work. I trained a sound tech on lights. This fellow has been working for me for a couple of months. I think he has a lot of potential. Unlike some wanna be technicians he acts more than talks. All he needs is a bit more confidence and he'll be great.

I went out the other night after aikido. (pause now and take a deep breath of respect for the beloved aikido and senpai) As I was getting into my car a fellow asked me if I could give him a ride. He opened his coat to reveal a puppy. I was instantly conflicted. One shouldn't give rides to strangers. Especially dodgy looking fellows wearing bandanas with long hair in neighbourhoods known to be on the rough side. But, he had a puppy. And I don't like the feeling of being fearful. He also seemed earnest in that 'tough guy not so tough' way. He had a puppy. Nevertheless, I think I surprised both of us when I said 'sure, hop in.' It was snowing huge Christmas time flakes. The puppy was 8 weeks old. Could the scene be more Christmas spirity? He said that he wished he could do something for me in return. I told him to just pass it along. 'Like Karma' he said. 'Exactly,' I replied. He got the puppy from a man on the street. The man came up to him and asked 'Hey, do you want a puppy?' When he had said yes, the man gave him the puppy along with a bag of food. I dropped him and his puppy off at his door. The puppy's name was Maggie. His was Eddie. He was going to be working on a roof the next day. I told him to take care and remember to wear a harness. It was a brief encounter. I'm glad I was there to help and give a ride.

Last week, my girl had a birthday party to go to. The boy and I decided to catch the Santa Claus parade. We dropped the girl off at the bowling lanes and went for a slice of pizza. Then we went in search of Santa. Of course, we missed the parade. Traffic was horrible and by the time I found a place to park, the parade was over. We decided to go for a walk anyway. We crossed the canal on a culvert. We then crossed the road and made our way to the place where the parade was being dismantled. We got there just in time to see Santa come down from his sled. The boy ran over and when asked by the big man himself what he wanted for Christmas, the boy replied 'I would like a magic Christmas sleigh bell.' (for those not 'in the know' the boy was referring to the 'Polar Express.') Santa didn't quite 'get it' either and said 'ho ho ho...remember to add it to your list.' The boy and I kept walking and found a huge pile of snow -- scraping from the nearby hockey rink. I told the boy that Santa must have brought this snow from the North Pole. After a good snowball fight we went into an adjoining building. This building was hosting a huge toy sale. I told the boy that Santa must have brought along one of his warehouses.

When we finally got home it seemed that both children had had very good days. The girl had had a wonderful time bowling. The birthday girl's mother commented to me on how well behaved and polite my wee one was. When I complemented her about it in the car she said 'oh yes mommy. I was polite. I said excuse me after every burp.'

The magic of the day wasn't over yet. My brother came for a visit that night. He brought with him some boxes that he had had with him since the summer. Boxes that he was supposed to deliver to us from my dad and uncle & aunt. I finally got him to bring them over by bribing him with a chicken dinner. When I opened the first box, there lying on the top of some hand me down clothes, was a magic Christmas sleigh bell. The boy's eyes opened wide. He asked me in a hushed tone if I could hear it ring.

'Yes,' I said. 'I believe.'

Seeing Red

Our city is turning red. It began last year as a movement to show support for our troops in Afghanistan. Wearing red on Fridays was a visible demonstration of one's support, not necessarily in the war, but in the young women and men across the ocean who are fighting in it. The local dry cleaners promoted 50% off all red garments. I remember thinking that red was an odd colour. Weren't yellow roses more symbolic? To me, thinking of red at the same time as the war only brings to mind thoughts of blood spilled in the name of ???? and mental images of those poor sods who would never have the chance to make it back home.

Now, our city is pushing for more red as the Ottawa Senators advance even closer to the Stanley Cup. 'Let's paint the town red!' has become a battle cry. People are being encouraged to not only dress in red but to paint their cars and houses red too. Canada's lone team in the playoffs is fighting the good fight. The honourable fight. One isn't a true Canadian if one doesn't jump onto this particular bandwagon. The Stanley Cup even made a trip to Afghanistan somehow linking the work being done by the troops with the accomplishments of the players making up what has been recently dubbed Canada's Hockey Team.

Remember when red was a bad word? Images of evil commies worse than any Bogey man were conjured by that colour. Wasn't the saying 'better dead than red' a common truism? The liberal party resurrected the colour somewhat but after the many broken promises in the liberal red books, is it any wonder why the new liberal leader prefers to be known for the colour green?

Colours are evocative. I make a living mixing colours on stage. I play on people's emotions with the colours I choose. It worries me, however, how easy it is to get people riled up and ready to stand together behind one colour. One flag. One idea. The oversimplification of issues and the tendency to inflate ones emotional investment makes me tend to see red.

Red was bad.
Now red's good.

Two feet bad.
Four feet good.

Green Alligators

I've been thinking about the Irish Rovers recently. Thank you G. Specifically, The Unicorn Song.

The lyrics were written by children's author Shel Silverstein and the song was made famous by the Irish Rovers. I remember their television show with fondness. Am I dating myself?

I was unable to get a clip of them singing the song but, found a version sung by Brobdingnagian Bards. They altered the ending in order to make it 'happier.'

I'm not in favour of the Disneyfication of children's stories. The Little Mermaid is supposed to turn into sea foam. The Little Match Girl dies. Wendy grows up and Puff the Magic Dragon disappears into his cave.

If the endings are all happy, what tools are we giving our children to handle any sadness or trauma? What about the terrible beauty that exists in life? The joyous ache of the bittersweet?

Here is a copy of the lyrics as I love and remember them. If you want the 'happy' ending, listen here.

A long time ago, when the Earth was green

There was more kinds of animals than you've ever seen

They'd run around free while the Earth was being born

And the loveliest of all was the unicorn

There was green alligators and long-necked geese

Some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees

Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born

The loveliest of all was the unicorn

The Lord seen some sinning and it gave Him pain
And He says, "Stand back, I'm going to make it rain"
He says, "Hey Noah, I'll tell you what to do
Build me a floating zoo, and take some of those...

Green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees
Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born
Don't you forget My unicorns

Old Noah was there to answer the call
He finished up making the ark just as the rain started to fall
He marched the animals two by two
And he called out as they came through Hey Lord,

I've got green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees
Some cats and rats and elephants, but Lord, I'm so forlorn
I just can't find no unicorns"

And Noah looked out through the driving rain
Them unicorns were hiding, playing silly games
Kicking and splashing while the rain was falling
Oh, them silly unicorns

There was green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees
Noah cried, "Close the door because the rain is falling
And we just can't wait for no unicorns"

The ark started moving, it drifted with the tide
The unicorns looked up from the rocks and they cried
And the waters came down and sort of floated them away
That's why you never see unicorns to this very day

You'll see green alligators and long-necked geese
Some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees
Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born
You're never gonna see no unicorns

Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam

My email inbox has been inundated of late with spam. I know. I'm not the only one. I have been luckier than most I guess.

My penis enlargement, breast enhancement, please send money to me so that I can escape Nigerian exile and in return I'll give to you a veritable fortune spam emails have been few and far between.

I even have been so bold as to scoff and mock those less fortunate than I. They, thought I, must not know how to properly block these unwanted nuisances. Although I have had no clue as to how to perform such 'blocks' I believed, nonetheless, that what I was doing was right and what they were doing was obviously wrong.

Until recently that is. Now, my email gets a healthy dose of spam. Between 10 and 20 messages everyday. Each message is thematically linked. Each with a seemingly nasty intent. To question my sense of well being.

What is the message?

Lose Weight Now. Use herbs, drugs and surgery to get rid of all those unwanted pounds. If that fails, try acupuncture or hypnotism. There seem to be more ways to lose unwanted poundage than there are to put them on. That I am receiving these messages at a time when I actually feel pretty good about myself -- I have lost approximately 25 lbs this past year through, go figure, eating a healthy diet and partaking in exercise -- the timing of this particular flood of spam is oddly ironic. I don't know why I have been suddenly blessed with these messages obsessed with my weight and welfare. Perhaps I should say thank you?

What would McLuhan say?

Village People

There is snow on the ground and there are fresh chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen. December came in with a storm. A little icy for my liking but, the temperature dropped and the snow came so I won't complain.

The kids had 'playdates' yesterday. A 4 year old boy with his 8 year old sister came over for 3 1/2 hours. We made cookies, did art, started a band and they made a fort, railway station and played cars upstairs. No casualties and only a couple tears shed. A success.

I chaired the annual AGM for the kids' daycare the other day. A bit nerve wracking since I have never done this before and I was asked to do this the night before. It went well. I'll be on the board next year as well. I hope to do my bit and try to get more support for not for profit day care centres. It really does take a village to raise children. We are all responsible and should begin taking our responsibilities seriously. Our new mayor was quoted saying that it wasn't his problem that people have children and don't know what to do with them. Looks like there will be a lot of work needed to be done.

Today is dance class for the kids. They have fun. I enjoy having a mandatory coffee break while they are dancing. Funny how it only takes a few weeks for a tradition to be created. I am a fan of tradition. 'Fiddler on the Roof' is a favourite of mine. It's set in a village.

A Christmas Wish List

It's just a regular workday.

This is not November weather. This sucks. It's rainy. It's mild. The world around me seems mouldy. Yuck. My son races to the window every morning looking to see if he can wear snowpants yet. No such luck.

End of November. Today's high is set to be 10C. Tomorrow, it's going to shoot for 16C.

I want cold air to freeze my nose hairs together. I want my eyelashes to feel moist as they freeze and thaw with every breath I take. I want wind burn on my cheeks and a slight numbness in my finger tips.

I want to shovel snow. Really. I do.

I want to watch as my kids make snow angels. I want to once again decide whether or not this will be the year I learn to skate.

I want to have an excuse to wear my swanky new down filled coat.

I want winter. In all it's glory. I'm a Northern Ontario girl. I'm not from the west coast. I want snow.

I want to feel all snuggly warm when I get into bed and have the tip of my nose cold to touch. I want hot cocoa and homemade slippers.

I want to sit on the couch and watch the flakes dancing in the wind outside of my living room window.

I want to see the cats snoring away as they lie atop the floor rads.

I want to wear colourful scarves and mits and hats. I want to spin around outside and catch snowflakes on my tongue.

I want my kids to know winter as I have known it. And to love it just as much.

It coulda been another type of story

The other night I received a strange phone call. A woman with a thick Eastern European accent spoke to me about a survey that I might have done and a prize worth over $100 that I could receive and was my husband home? J was 'out.' I was pissed off at him at that particular second and was waiting for him to get home so I could tear a strip off him for getting me pissed off in the first place. So I told the woman, very sweetly I might add, that 'no, my husband was not home but would be home very shortly.' 'Good,' the woman responded. Someone will come by to my door and give me a prize, after I had had a chance to look at, and comment on, a product they were going to show me. The only caveat was that my husband needed to be home. I hung up the phone and wondered what exactly had I agreed to. I called J and told him to hurry home because a stranger was coming to our door and he needed to be there. Now, J is not a stupid man. Knowing full well that I was pissed and knowing full well that he had a full pint in front of him and knowing full well that I wanted him home, to his credit, he didn't think I was lying. He told me that he was on his way. You see, in J's particular state, he believed that our house was being cased by burglars and that if he didn't get home quickly, something quite terrible might happen. My hero. Unfortunately, he passed on his concerns to me and, with my imagination, I began to believe that something quite terrible not only might happen, its occurence was unavoidable. I could feel my pulse begin to race.

I should take a brief moment to explain my heightened paranoia. I have always had a wicked imagination. When I first started working at the theatre, one of my shifts was an evening look after the office and answer phones type thing. I was bored so I began to snoop. Openning the bottom drawer of one filing cabinet revealed a chain saw ... covered in a red gooey partially dried substance. Blood!!! I freaked. I phoned J (whom I had met only 2 weeks before) and told him about my grisly find. Using a tone that hid his amusement very well (our relationship was young and he didn't want to blow it) he informed me that chainsaw oil was red. I was embarrassed. I told my boss the next day who got a kick out of my thinking him to be some warped killer. Especially when he reminded me that it was an electric chainsaw and he could only kill folks who stayed withing range of the ac cable. Before you get any ideas...I'm not dumb....just imaginative ok?

Back to the phone call. J made it home and, although a bit pie eyed, was ready to face any would be intruder. For a bit, I forgot about the phone call completely as I remembered, once again, why I was pissed off at him. I started getting into my beratement. Then there came a soft knock on our front door. I pushed J to the door to open it. I stepped back around the corner. The open door revealed a young man carrying a large box. 'Are you expecting me?' he asked. 'Come in out of the rain,' said J. Yes. It was also a dark and rainy night. The fellow then proceeded to empty the contents of the box and put together a vacuum. Well, not a vacuum cuz 'the technology is so different that we aren't allowed, by law, to call it a vacuum.' Sigh. It was our first ever door to door vacuum cleaner salesman!!! We called the kids down to watch. A jumped immediately into the box and proceeded to ask a thousand and one questions. S looked and quickly got bored. She's started reading and nothing will hold her attention for long unless it has a lot of letters. The fellow did a good job of trying to sell the machine. I had him clean the couch and our front room curtains. I also asked him to do the floor by the cat box...I had to see how well this machine picked up kitty litter. Suffice it to say, we did not buy this amazing machine. Even at its discounted price of $2100.00 (although, at one point, J actually asked the fellow to step outside so we could discuss it...this is probably why the woman who called said that the husband should be home...J has little will power when it comes to machines with space station plastic parts). J and I received coupons redeemable for 2 weekends away at a hotel. It might be legit. I might not. I don't mind though. I got my living room cleaned and J was home before 3am. All's well that ends well.

Fact or Fiction?

I've been reading a lot lately. Fiction. Stories. My mother isn't a fan of fiction. I remember my entry into the adult world of reading via the public library. My mother brought me through Dr. Seuss, the Freddy the Pig detective series and the Black Stallion books. After these, it was time for biographies and real life historical novels. I read about American slavery, the Canadian fur trade and the concentration camps of World War II. To my mom, the real stories were more relevant than fiction. They could teach one more about the world. My mom could draw. She can draw. Very well. Although she is blind as a sightless cat when her glasses are off, she can transform the blur she sees while looking at a pile of dirty laundry into a tigress nursing it's babe. She doesn't explore her art though. Well, that's not entirely true. She can reorganize furniture and plants so a plain room is made into a designer's dream. Growing up I remember my room being rearranged at least twice a month. Her landscaping abilities are incredible as well. Her art is used as a utility. It's a tool. She likes things to be pretty. Done. Real. I am drawn to mess. Rebellion? My cupboards and drawers are in a constant limbo between order and chaos. I want things to be neat but I get satisfaction when things are in disarray. Dust bunnies are allowed under my beds. I don't wash walls and ceilings twice a year (once every 2 if I'm lucky). I like curling up and tuning out the world around me as I read. Other worlds. Fictional worlds. Worlds that really do teach one about real life. And art.

Picking Berries

Home again. Good trip. Met a fox as I was walking to the toilets at 3am--I'm not a fan of tenting when my bladder is weak. It backed up and let me pass. Licked itself as I walked by. Somewhat telling in an I'm not sure how way. So J and I watched 'Crash' last night. Not the Canadian sex flick but this year's esteemed Oscar winner. Good film. Loved it. Dragged a wee bit at the end as story lines were tied up in neat bows but overall, I thought it quite powerful. Not only as a discussion of race but of gender as well. Although not the primary focus of the film, I found it very interesting to see how the roles held by women in this film illustrated how intolerance affects them in manners unique to them. Assumptions and stereotypes abounded in this film and it did a good job of illustrating just how complicated issues surrounding individual power dynamics are. It was also disturbing in that the film effectively held up a mirror to the viewers. We are all complicent to some extent. Shamefully, I can look back only to last week. Driving home, I was on the look out for blueberries being sold by the road. I love wild blueberries. I began to get impatient with J. He kept driving by various road side stands seemingly oblivious. When I mentioned it, he stopped at the very next car he saw. I got out of the car and noticed an east Indian gentleman with 2 baskets for sale. I was grumpy at J for stopping at the very next car...not seeming to care where we stopped...to me, finding the right blueberry stand is an art. But, that's not really an excuse for me not buying this man's berries. I made an immediate assumption based on no fact that this man didn't pick them fresh himself....that he didn't need the money...that he wasn't a part of the 'blueberry culture.' The best berries are picked in the morning. I also like to buy berries from people who, I feel, do this every year to supplement their incomes. This man wasn't dressed for picking. He didn't 'look the part.' After I thought all this, I noticed that his berries didn't look all that good anyway. I told him no, got in the car and grumped to J to keep driving. My grumpiness compounded by my not wanting to face up to my own behaviour. I hadn't liked the look of this man's berries but, I felt that I would have said no to these berries regardless. We ended up getting berries at the next stop (lucky for us cuz it was the last stand on the highway). I'd like to say that the berries were bitter sweet but, they were amazing. As blueberries should be. Fresh picked and perfect. I feel that I got the right berries. I just don't like the fact that I brought up other issues into not choosing the first berries...when all I had to think was 'no, these berries don't look good enough.' Sometimes looking in the mirror is a difficult thing to do.

Been Awhile Will Be Awhile Again

As of 4pm today, I am on vacation. We're leaving for the North land. Looking forward to bears and mosquitos, swimming in lakes, wood burning and electric saunas. All good. Away from all news sources will be nice too. Except I'll miss The Daily Show. I have a serious crush on Jon Stewart. He frames world disasters in such a way that I can only grin sardonically with the occasional blurted gaffaw as piece by piece we're shown that the world is going to hell in a hand basket. That's all I am really in the mood to write at the moment. Catch y'all later.

2 Thought Trails Taking Up Space In My Head

Through a peculiar set of circumstances, I have ended up watching 3 Tom Cruise movies practically back to back. War of the Worlds, Mission Impossible III, and, The Last Samarai. How could I do it? I played a game of 'good actor/bad actor' while watching them...shouting out 'bad acting' whenever Cruise was centred on the screen and juxtaposed it with yelling 'good acting' when it was someone like Seymour Hoffman. War of the Worlds wasn't a great story to begin with. HG Wells ran outta ideas and killed the aliens off with small pox. On screen, it was even more pointless. The third of the impossible missions? Ok. Diverting but...c'mon....the ending really blew chunks (yes, I have to revert to grade school mentality). Finally, The Last Samarai... despite Cruise, I wanted to enjoy this film. But, alas, just another end of an age, technology is evil, the old ways cannot survive morality tale that attempted depth via flashbacks (I have expected a flashforward to an atom bomb explosion to reinforce the point just that wee bit more that wasn't obtained by the subtle use of the figurative sledge hammer but I guess having the white guy show the emperor the error of his ways was good enough). Blech.

My daughter has a favourite stuffed toy. It is a green and white platipus named Larry. I asked her the other day whether Larry was a boy or a girl. You see, sometimes, she refers to it as a 'she' and other times it is a 'he.'
She looked at me and said, in that overly patient tone denoting that she was speaking to someone just a wee bit slow, that: 'Larry is not a boy and Larry is not a girl. Larry is just Larry.'
Now, my daughter understands the boy/girl dichotomy pretty well. She feels (at times quiet strongly) that somethings are girl things and others are boy things (in part to separate some of her belongings from those of her brother). What really impresses me, however, is that the greyish area of 'other' does not present any difficulty to her. Larry can be just Larry. Larry can be referred to by either 'she' or 'he' and, it doesn't really matter which it is. The need to have Larry defined within a box is not necessary. It doesn't matter what Larry is as long as Larry is Larry. She loves Larry. Larry is her friend. That's that. If only we could all be that accepting.

Happy Canada Day!!

Family. Sunshine. Breezes. Ice Cream. Beer. Barbecue. Good day over all. Hope yours was as well.

New Dog, Old Tricks

It's an old story really. Real old. Perhaps a bit dull? Boy goes to school. Boy meets girl. Boy continues with school. Boy gets married. Boy continues with school. Boy has family. Boy finishes school. Boy grows up to be King. Early in his reign, he surveyed his domain and said to himself 'I am one of the people...I will go out and mingle among them.' He invited them to breakfast in small groups where they were able to make their own minds up that their new king was, indeed, a wonderful man, brilliant tactition and compassionate good hearted leader of the people. The King listens to them and responds to them--when, of course, they are speaking his language. The language of conformity. The language of banality. The language of structure minus heart. It's an old language. Spoken by many boys for many years. Unlike Latin, it's not yet extinct. One might wonder why it's still around and spoken throughout the world? Seeing that it hasn't evolved? I dunno. Another one of life's mysteries. The world is full of them. Nevertheless, the King loves to speak the old language. He is a master of the witty turn of phrase. The, how do the Europeans put it? The double entendre. More entertaining than any salesman one might encounter -- even those who sell used cars. On one particular occasion, the King was invited to a special ceremony. He was to honour people in his Kingdom who had 'done good.' It was another opportunity for him to speak to the masses and he was tickled pink -- not that pink...but, the manly pink. He had awards to hand out. He looked around. Knowing that he was King. That all eyes were upon him. That he was untouchable. He could do or say anything. What did he say? He looked around and asked for his 'Vanna.' 'I need a Vanna. Where is my Vanna?' He kept asking until he spied a young blonde woman. Thrilled to be chosen by the King himself for this honour, she assisted in handing out the awards, all the while doing her very best to hide behind a post as the King's people looked on in awe.

Mythology

It's a rite of passage. Santa Claus doesn't exist. Neither does the Tooth Fairy. Certain people actually tell you that they love you for their own personal gain. So-called 'reality t.v.' is scripted. I've accepted these and more. This latest one, however, is more difficult to handle. I didn't realize that I was so naive but, can you believe that I believed universities were supposed to harbour a culture of independent thought and freedom to research things that mightn't be on any top-ten list of the moment. I received in my mailbox today a red book outlining the new and improved direction that the university is planning to take. I actually submitted a proposal to the committee in charge of creating this plan of action. I kinda wish I could take my words back. The report is called 'Global Engagement for the 21st Century.' Seriously. Here's the link so you know I'm not making that up: Report Can you tell that the communications office has gained more control? Besides the 'newspeak' type of writing, the content leaves a bit to be desired. Art and culture are pretty much ignored in this particular report. There really isn't much meat here on the whole. There is, however, something that I find particularly disturbing. When addressing the matter of research, the report states that '[t]he University must be strategic in determining those areas of research excellence to which it is prepared to give institutional priority and support. These Strategic Research Areas, must, however, be determined from the ground up, so long as they reflect or express the University's priorities.' (emphasis mine) The report goes into specifics: 'there should exist a critical mass of faculty support within the institution to support any particular initiative. The risk that strategic themes simply reflect a single unit or an elite few, to the exclusion of the broader university research profile, must be minimized.' So...am I reading this right? Does this mean that the research that will be supported will be the most popular? I'll take a guess that this popular research will have the support of corporations who are willing to provide lots of money to guarantee that what they want studied is studied. A bonus for them, I guess, is that they are also getting specially trained future workers.

For some reason, I've been thinking about my family. My grandfather on my dad's side was whisked away to a Soviet labour camp in approx. 1937. My grandmother spent months trying to find out what happened to him. She went from one office to another...each time being told that she was in the wrong line. Stalin was a master of bureaucracy. Finally, one man told her that if she continued, she would be taken to join him. Another, kinder, fellow told her that the minimum sentence for a crime against the state was 10 years. It was in her best interest to give up. She packed up her family and escaped to Finland. Later, when approaching her pension years, she was told that she needed proof of either her husband's death or if he was still alive. She managed to find out that he had died at a camp somewhere in Siberia in 1947. I guess his sentence was up.

When the freedom to think and research is taken away, innocent people can get picked up and forced into labour ... their lives stolen. If the freedom to think is gone...so is freedom. I'm probably overreacting but I really don't like what's happening. Not at the university, not in government, not in the environment...etc. I love my family. I love my friends. These are things I value. I also value my thoughts (as mundane as they are...they're mine). It's very difficult to sit back and watch as an institution I value is transformed before my eyes into something unrecognizable. Or, have I just not noticed the truth? Have I believed in this particular myth for too long?

Who Is John Galt? Part II

I'm feeling increasingly irrelevant as mornings come and go. In a recent message outlining his perspectives on the role of the university in today's world, the President of Carleton University argues that a primary function of the university must be to prepare students for the work force. Although he agrees '...that universities are first and foremost about the public good--about providing our students with the self-awareness and critical skills necessary to be responsible citizens in civil society....' he goes on with a 'but' and states that '...given their [students and parents] enormous private investment, it is only reasonable that students expect some form of private return.' Huh. I guess a higher education itself is no longer a 'return' eh? Knowledge for knowledge's sake is not worth all that much unless it can bring in the coin. Where did this 'reasonable' belief that one deserves a return come from anyway? Anyone else read 'Pygmalion?' It reminds me of those students who state that they 'paid enough in tuition to deserve a grade better then a B.' I wish I were making that up. Well, the president also mentions that '...without a decent livelihood, it is difficult to make much headway on living a good life and making a difference.' Hmmmm. Funny how I don't see many social activists driving around in Lexus. The president takes on critics who have said that '...the university should not be in the business of preparing students for work....' as it '...simply ignores the reality of the world in which we live, and that universities, over time, have become enormously complex institutions that provide a range of programs and services unthinkable even 50 years ago.' I guess the university should become one stop shopping for education. Part trade school, part professional school, part ... circus? What about us poor sods who believe in learning for the love of learning and after obtaining a degree don't even want to teach (heresy). He also states that '[l]earning is no longer something that only occurs at the "beginning" of a career' as he argues that most people in the current workforce will need to be retrained at some point in their lives. I think I'm beginning to catch on. He's not arguing for students. He's arguing for funding. If he can swing retraining as an option he's opened up the university to an untapped well of prospective clients...er, I mean students.... To read the entire piece, feel free to go here: 'From The Top'

Why does this article bother me? Why indeed. Why are universities becoming more like Walmart chains then institutions of higher learning? Just because this seems to be a current trend does it really make one naive to want to rally against it? Surely not all trends are good ones...remember shoulder pads? Is there a place for the intellectual? It seems to me that the university, if it continues to head down this road, will no longer be able to be a safe home for those who want to challenge the status quo...it might mess with corporate sponsorship. I feel disheartened. I feel that I may as well be going wee into the wind. I feel outnumbered. All I can do is say that I don't subscribe to the particular point of view that is posited in the above mentioned article. Is there hope? Who is John Galt?

A History of Smoking (Part V)

It was funny how one month I was chastising my boss for smoking in the office, and in the next I was bumming a light from him. I loved smoking. I worked in a university cafe and took delight in grabbing 'breaks' during light moments and going over to sit with other smokers. My guitar instructor found out. He chastised me. Told me I was killing my capillaries...that my playing would suffer. I really didn't care. I had a bottle of Jack in my locker. I was enjoying the life of the 'artiste.' Geesh. Then I met 'A.' He came to one of my recitals. He told me that he thought smoking was sexy. I mocked him and faked coughing up a lung in his face. I liked him. He didn't smoke. After a while, neither did I. Well, not until we went off to England together. A couple nights before we left there was a moment of forshadowing. One of our drunken neighbours dropped a bottle on his car and smashed the windshield. I reached for a smoke. I nearly puked. The desire to smoke it was there. We left the country. We were gone for 58 days. We backpacked and stayed in hostels. After 2 weeks, I bought myself a pack of B&H and was smoking in the tent. I was rebelling. He didn't like it. I didn't care. I was in control. We got back to Canada and, about 4 days later, he broke up with me. I was heart broken. Devestated. But...I was smoking again. I also lost weight. Perfect. How could smoking be bad for me? I gained new friends...of course they smoked. I remember sitting in rooms downing red wine and jack and finishing off a pack. One night, I brought a boy home from a coffee shop. I remember finishing off 2 bottles of wine, a half a bag of pot, 2 condoms and a pack of smokes. I remember my mom calling me the next day and I was able to mention all of these things except for the smoking -- the pot I mentioned...the cigarettes I couldn't. Strange eh? I became adept at hiding my smoking from my parents. Much easier when I was 12 hours away. Harder when I went to visit them or they came up to visit me. The smoking/non smoking dance was an odd one. And, at the time, one I had fun being a part of.