You may wonder and I wonder myself, why I sit at the Marina with a cup of tea and a bagel for a while each day. On the surface, there is nothing much to see. A few people pass by, bundled up or not as per the weather. A dog or two leap and play or not as per their inclination. A squirrel skips past, slams to a halt long enough for me to imagine he is wearing a tiny brown derby hat, then scampers off. A few birds swoop down to the water that is, as yet ice or float when the wind is right. Today, there is gusty wind so the birds just sit it out. Not much going on at all. Just breathing and occasionally breaking wind, listening to the radio, staring off to the horizon.

I am gazing toward a place I know to be called Toledo, Ohio. This causes me to wonder. (hahaha…to-wonder, To-ledo…get it?) I can’t see Toledo, I can only see an apparently horizontal line demarcating sky/water. I know from map study that Toledo is over there, further. I was told this in school. Folks I know have mentioned it. It was on tv. Toledo is just over the horizon and the horizon line is because Earth is round, like a ball. I know these things, have heard about them, believe it to be so but I can’t see it. Without the witness of my eyes, I have to take it on faith that Toledo is there.

I have lots of questions, sitting here observing, that science can answer readily. The folks who know and have run tests and experiments and things cheerfully explain about what I am witnessing/feeling. They give me in-depth background and I believe them but some of the stuff they say isn’t apparent. I see the trees bending and feel a pressure on my face and the scientists call that wind. I can’t see the wind but I can feel it so I believe them. Wind. Okay. Then, after we decide it is wind and it is blowing, I ask, “Why does the wind blow?” I am thinking inside that maybe the wind is not blowing but is standing still and earth is turning so fast that wind seems to blow. It is blowing the hair back from my face. It is causing the lady over there to lean forward just so that she can stay upright.

“Well,” said the scientist, “you are almost correct.” “Which part is correct?” I say… (in patriarchal language we use the pronoun ‘he’ when there is an indefinite and unascribed sex to the subject) He (see?) says, “..The part about earth turning. It does”. It is then that I start to wonder again about what causes the wind to blow and the scientist says it isn’t the earth turning, it is a bunch of other reasons and I stop listening after a while because it gets too complicated. I mean, I am not deciding which stock to pick or anything…I was just curious. Okay, so the wind is blowing because some air got hot somewhere and cold moves to hot and cold is heavier than hot and so air becomes wind and wind blows.

Okay. I don’t have proof. I only have the feeling of pressure on my face and the image in my eye of a lady leaning forward against something that is invisible. Okay. Wind. I also don’t have proof that the earth is a spinning ball. I believed a scientist and who knows if they are scamming us. Maybe they want us to only ask them questions so that they can feel important. Maybe they make all this stuff up because it sounds good on paper. Maybe Toledo isn’t just over the horizon?

The religion folks are just like the scientists sometimes. They say things like, “Rome was built in six days and God rested on the seventh day.” They act like this God guy (see? again?) was human and got tired after a week’s worth of hard work creating stuff. If someone was strong enough to build all the stars and the fish and the wind and the water and the planets… why would they get tired after six days? Seems to me that this person or thing or electrical pulse would not be able to be tired or energized or feel anything that I feel. I don’t know though. I guess I will have to take it on faith that what Mr. Preacher said on Sunday morning (which I did not research by reading that book) is true. I have to take on faith about the wind and the scientist’s comments, too. (I did not read those books, either)

So I am sitting here, looking at the sky and the birds and the squirrels and feeling the wind and thinking about God and scientists and Toledo and how nice my bagel tastes. Hmmmm Maybe I should read a book today.

I glanced up and out the window, noticing the bright blue sky, the still air, the quiet, the peace…a vague promise of spring fully upon us now. Wee creatures are calm yet, readying themselves for the joyful noise of going about a regular season’s business. On my precious, last season installed, flora the buds are swelling up. Each winter-hardened green thing is warming, softening. Where there was tundra, there is delicious squirming mud. I thought, “We made it! Summer is on the way!” and, “We made it! Vaccines are rapidly arming us against danger!” It was then Jethro Tull’s song ‘Aqualung’ came into mind. At once, in heart’s flight, I was cheered and felt a sense of dread. We are almost making it to spring while at the same time ending used up on a doorstep somewhere. The feeling is one of reaching the goal, at the moment you are swept away by a last wave from the Ice Princess. Are we going to have one last hacking cough and stillness as legacy?

There is much in the last year we have suffered through. Notwithstanding our history as humans and the daunting trials we have survived, It has been a deadly, hard year for the whole world wide. I think we are best to acknowledge that. It might be best to recognize the difficult time and that it still exists. Spring might be here but winter isn’t over yet. The vaccines are here but Covid isn’t over yet. Still, this day is hopeful. The sun promises that hardness has cycled toward a better time. Having a vaccine means that some return to community is on it’s way. A shift of season approaches. The changing season proves that future is still a thing and will become the present at some point. There is light but the brightness of obviously approaching spring is not simply cyclical this year. There could be an irony, too. We survived through this thing but as the cavalry rides in, we could collapse. We are exhausted, just at the moment of re-birth. While the time we are part of changes for the better, we might have used up everything to survive.

I am looking out my window and feeling that we almost made it. Of course, that’s an extreme sentiment, we will continue. There is more to see but the wholeness of spring is tarnished. It is a hollow spring I am witnessing. Joy has an edge to it. The coming season of growth/hope, the promise of prosperity are here and Aqualung lies used up on a doorstep somewhere. Our spirit, my spirit has bled out or remains frozen. Song is hushed, I have little energy for poem-writing. I find only commonplace when I search for the thread. I see the neighbours on their way about and don’t have a clue what is interesting about that. There is no visible aura of the greater picture, the humourous one. I don’t feel sparky. Spring is a so-what-ism.

The modern pandemic has changed living for human beings across the world. We were so close. We flew everywhere, landed there within hours. Locking down has forced us to see our oneness. We witness the common suffering of each other on our ipads/phones/tvs but those machines close us off from each other. Brought closer, separated…more irony. When we are ‘distanced’, our dailyness has a changed shape. Rather than being energized, we are made tired by the new ordinary way. We chat with each other, we sing, we continue but we are emaciated by the way we feed on the simplest joys. We are starving, with our spoons dipping in virtual pudding. It doesn’t satisfy. The computer doesn’t connect us, no matter our bit-rate, no matter the height of the definition. Something dry flashes across the back-lit screen. The artificial, the reproduced is missing body heat. In my own experience of chatting with friends, attending funerals, singing in cyberspace, there is dryness and crackling noise. I was struggling to hear nuance from the accompanying piano when trying to sing or trying to take my piano lesson. It just ain’t as alive as live.

The promise of Spring is glowing there, right outside my window. It is a promise and not yet reality but that is enough to get by and to lift the gloom. Experience tells that winter will end and sooner than later. Good. Covid is a thing we have little experience of. In 1917 or so, the pandemic flu dissipated and daily life returned to normal. I would like to believe that such a thing is possible with our new pandemic. I am not so sure it will be. Maybe our lives will return but it will be different. The vaccines arrived but Aqualung had his last gasp, I fear. Vaccines are sloshing over the sides of the health care bucket but Zoom and Facetime will stay awhile longer, taking up the brightness and air. Our discontented winter ain’t over yet. Ah well…

There’s proof enough time does exist,
each dub follows lub,
each tok echoes tik.
Why worry myself to sick
which direction the clock takes?
Each additional day wakes,
groggy with the last evening’s drunk
as I am,
wondering:
Why is the furniture broken?
Who is that man?
Is there anything for breakfast?

March 3, 2021

Today is one of the most delicious of days. A warm sun, a hesitant breeze…disappearing snow. Carl Sandburg wrote of the snow hiding in the bushes? I believe. Sadly, I don’t remember enough of the poem to find it anywhere for a re-read.

Yes, the snow has receded to that point of lurking at the edges. Season is leaning heavily toward spring though that is still a piece down the road. Without much regard to when or where spring is, I woke up during my little drive to get a tea and bagel. On my way, I crossed paths with a most desireable young man. Ah, spring! He was so fresh and new looking, I could not help but enjoy the view. It is not that I was imagining a more intimate setting, not at all. I am an old man, we haven’t met… the spider passes the fly on the way to somewhere else. More was not necessary or perhaps, even welcomed. I had pleasure enough from admiring the work of art. Just that. Something beautiful stepped into my field of vision and I enjoyed that immensely. Simple as any true pleasure.

There are so many pleasures drawn from living. Which to choose? I think that, while aging, the task is not to forget them, individually or allow them to diminish each other. It’s also probably not best to compare them in any way to any thing other than: what they are.

The simpler the pleasure, the better to understand and endure life. The simple pleasures are here every day. They vary from one point of view to another but they exist in every day. On that ‘worst day of your life’, there was still a pleasure from something. A pleasure existing at the edges, just under the bush. Perhaps, you really enjoy the colour blue and the day Grandma died, the sky was a most outrageous, rich blue? If you had allowed yourself to step into that moment’s relief, that pleasure…what then of the horrible day? I had a brief experience with my dear mother in law, near the end of her life, that showed me the value of simple pleasure. Her stroke had virtually incapacitated her and she could only communicate with a sparkle in her eye. I held a phone to her ear and played her a recording of Andre Rieu…I could see in the sparkle how delicious it was for her. Simple. Easy.

From one day to next or one pleasure to next, comparison, evaluations are such a waste of time. Sometimes, the pleasure has receded a bit under the bushes but it is still there. That pleasure may diminish, dissipate, the way fog does but another pleasure is somewhere in the day. Maybe not the sort of pleasure that was felt before…but pleasure the same.

I remember being young on a glorious about to be spring day. So nice. All muscles worked, no aches, no pains, vigor enough to last. I stepped out along my way with energy, sensuality. An old man may have passed by as I was walking and enjoyed the view. I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. Wow. Wasn’t it grand! Just that. Grand and for a moment.

Yes, it was grand but grand in it’s own way. It can be difficult to feel exhilarated by simple pleasures, now and I ignored them then. I had, as most young folk do, a wealth of pleasures, sorted through them as if picking one out to wear on a beautiful day. I am ashamed, sort of, to admit I never saw them…the pleasures…the simple ones, for what they were. Simple pleasures were obscured by anticipation, appetite, expectation of more or better ones. After a while, gradually, the simple pleasures came fewer between and became easier to see. Now, here I am. I am in this place where my hip hurts, my fingers and other joints are in surrender to arthritis, I am fat, disheveled, walking slow into old age. But…I have today, yet another day of living and being ambulatory. I also had, today, the most wonderful view of a smooth, tight behind in very tight jeans. Haha.

P.S., according to the World Health Organization, I am middle – aged at 70, not old until I am 80. Well, that’s good news, then!

March 2, 2021

Being alive, having that experience was amusing twice this morning. It rubbed off on me, changed me a tiny bit. I used up some of my remaining freshness by laughing. I gained another laugh line. I am less young and smooth than I was before this morning. What happened to cause this?

I watched and listened in real time as a friend argued with Alexa. I heard the question as it was posed and listened as the machine became gloriously confused. Alexa just seemed to start talking out of it’s head about something completely irrelevant… Then, in an attempt to restart the conversation, I could hear my friend say, “Alexa…no. Alexa…stop. Alexa…cancel.” Each request fell on a deaf microphone as the machine kept on. I laughed and laughed. Listening to that argument was an early high point of my day. Later, I drove past a man and his little curly-haired dog. They were out for a stroll and came to a point of some disagreement, I could see that the dog had planted it’s feet quite stubbornly. It was a stand-off between man and dog. The two were facing each other, man looking down, dog looking up. Comical.

Two showdowns affected my day, man against dog, man against machine. My mood was changed and both battles ended as a draw. I laughed, I used up some of my air. My lips widened into smile and further creased my chin. I witnessed life going on and it had a consequence, I was moved, changed, marked. The ordinary chaos of living through a day gave me a mark to notice in my mirror reflection. That mark is proof of an experience to remember, to comment on, to laugh about and enjoy. I don’t regret earning the mark. Living has consequences. Whether you sit it out or get involved. Whether you choose to notice life or ignore it, there are consequences from simply being where time is passing. The sun wrinkles your skin, whether you are laying about on the beach or labouring in the fields.

The consequence of living is a thing, a mark, a change. Whether you are doing the ‘right’ thing or not, being alive leaves marks. Making a good choice leaves a mark. Making a bad choice leaves a mark. Standing still leaves a mark. Agonizing over the choices that left marks only leaves more. We are going to have marks, no matter what. The glass blower’s cheeks are witness to the hours spent puffing away, working, doing the right thing. This happened to Louis Armstrong, too but he was puffing into another sort of bent pipe. I did some puffing once, long ago but I was puffing in. That changed me, inside. I argued for a long time that my insides are a little loose, my brain rattles because I did the wrong thing. I was naughty. Maybe I was. But…maybe I was wrong to waste time worrying about it?

Unlike Louis or the glass blower, my cheeks are billowy and sagging because I talk too much, not because I puffed in too much. Whether my talking was musical or beautiful is a good question. One fellow I was spouting off to stopped me. It was at break time when I was working. I (as you know) like to describe and consider the world around me. I was off on some sort of tangent when the fellow stopped me. “…stop for just a second, Bob. You can go ahead and talk…in fact I sort of like listening to you….but I think you should know, I have no idea what you are talking about!”

I know that at the time of it’s happening, my puffing in felt okay…if it had been legal, I might done more than I did. It was afterward that I worried about consequence. “What will people think of me?” I was human, though and ‘human’ is probably what people think of me. I guess a lot of us do worry about consequence when we are dealing with it and not before, when we are enjoying it’s source. The point is that there is no point to worry about consequence when it arrives…best to just touch the saggy cheeks of it and shrug. On we go. (Lovely work, Mr. Glass blower…good luck with Alexa and the dog…ta ta!)

February the Last Day

It isn’t May yet but, if you notice, creatures are already acting funny. I saw a couple birds who must have evaded quarantine when they returned from wherever. Perhaps they were tired of the B and S of Covid compliance suggestions, tired of endless Netflix viewing and came home early. I guess the long, undefended, unfenced border makes it easy to just scoff at regulations. Perhaps these feathered ones are equally as well-feathered as Tom…no, Ted Cruz or any of the other North American politicos and wealthy turkeys who don’t have to stay home or quarantine. So, there they were…puffing out the chest, flapping the wing, hopping closer to objects of desire who sat, preening, on the garage roof next door. Oh, the sweet nudge and smile of delicious spring!

(The birds are scoffing at more than mandated regulations, having included social mores and customs in their scoffing. They weren’t wearing masks and I heard a teensy kerfuffle, noticed a bit of ‘menage a fowl’ going on for a moment. A little coupling or trying to was happening right there in plain view. My guess is that Facebook will block any posts including such bold avian love…although, I have only my supposition as evidence that what was happening was love. It might have been just routine. It might have been the, “Let’s get this over with!” attitude toward an ordained or pre–arranged coupling/marriage. Who is to say?)

Not ready for nudge and smile, the plants are quiet still. You can feel them saving their green for a brighter day. The little bushes I put in last year are straight and tall, looking eager but cautious. Maybe they know something about future exchange rates and are still waiting for an auspicious time to cash in. The colour won’t be out for an even longer time. Nope, there is no forsythia. I can see not much moving in the wood, either, only sleepy buds on the trees. One note: the squirrels (who are also on the trees) are pretty active. They have been breaking into vacation homes and watching TV on the big screens all winter. Now, they are ‘out and about’, tossing empty Tim’s cups as if they imagined mom was going to clean it all up. Of course, she will… she always does.

Mother Earth takes it all back in and sorts it for recycling. Over thousands of millions of years, stuff that breaks or wears badly and gets tossed aside sits, waiting for clean-up and re-use. Relentless, the good, useful stuff breaks because it weakens and gets rusty or sometimes it is just plain cheap crap to begin with. In any case, everything that ever was turns into crap. Crap is like a mandated state to change toward. Crap and stuff and change keeps Mother Earth feeling needed.

Everything changes condition like water in it’s cycle. All of the crap becomes food, gets eaten or used up, becomes crap again ad nauseum. Crap and water evaporate, condense, freeze a little, flow a little and, evaporate again. The same crap and the same water for ever. The same stuff. The crap gets squeezed by extra crap tossed on top and turns into oil. We burn that, making smoke or mirrors and putting out the resulting fires with water. It looks like the water might be running out or we might be running out of crap but all that is still here. It is a different shape when we are finished but it doesn’t go anywhere. We don’t go anywhere, either. That is the recipe.

Sweet Mother has a certain way with the little bit of a stove she keeps about 93million miles away. She keeps the thing lit although it’s anyone’s guess how. She has a magic source of pre-split wood from somewhere. She doesn’t seem to break a sweat chopping and it’s a good thing too, with all of her other tasks. The lady is pretty darn well occupied here and there, cleaning up crap, turning the lights on and off, warning all of the little creatures. “If I hear you kids messing around again, I am going to come in there and sort you out! Don’t make me do it!” I can see her with a ‘camo’ bandanna wrapped around her head and tied in front, her dusty apron flapping in the extra-heavy hurricane breeze as she tries to make life afraid to do anything except behave.

The birds today reminded me that Mother is busying herself about in other ways, pushing the romance and ‘get things going’ buttons as well as managing all else she does. I saw a young couple of human folk at the marina. Mother was pushing her ‘keep it rolling, time is a’wasting’ button and those folks started inching toward each other on the park bench. “mmm..hmmmm,” I thought, “Mama’s busy making more birds and humans out of recycled crap.”

Though she is always busy, Mother is busier at the moment of history we find ourselves in. It is our fault. I think she got pissed. Humans upset the balance because we learned how to kill and eat everything or turn it into a ‘smart’ phone. We started to believe in crap for crap’s own sake. Pink crap. Blue crap. ‘Luxury’ crap. More crap. MORECRAP. ‘New and Improved Crap’. All of the crap became too much and the noise of it’s turning from one phase to another woke up Mother. She was only resting and now we are going to catch hell because of our farting around.
A few of us will be swept away when she empties the wash pail. A few of us will be choked out when she dusts the broom. A few of us will get thirsty and die when she is delayed making rain. Some of the plants and cows will, too.

The changes are coming. Mom is awake and pissed. Funny thing is, being a mom means she doesn’t stay pissed forever. Some of our toys will be locked up and we might have to quarantine in the corner for a while but Mother will let us out eventually. There we will sit, edging closer to each other on the bench, watching the birds do the same thing…and the cows and the dandelions and the fish. All of it will come back at some point after it disappears. It would be nice if we could at least try to behave a little bit now, though.

Maybe it is apple polishing but I am trying to get on the good side and help out by not using plastic bags — walking to the market — planting bushes — pressing one for liquid and two for solid, etc. As to keeping things going, I always was a good one for sidling up to some other person who sat on the park bench. Ha ha. No trouble there excepting the ‘tab A and slot B’ part. Ooooops. ‘s okay, though. I see enough youngsters of different variety working away at the ‘moon and June’ bit. It will all keep going, we’re good. Ah yes, the nudge and smile of spring.

February 26, 2021

Some remarks made about Canada are wishful thinking in part but also a bit more than half true. Folks are more polite here, they do say “excuse me” and “oh, I am sorry” an awful lot more than other places I have been. Why this should be happening in a country that shares a lengthy, mostly unguarded border with evil (?) is a mystery. The grinning devil is ‘just over there’, complete with red tail and painted face. My brother will be angry for my calling a pitchfork a pitchfork but I lived in the U.S. a long time. I know those people. They are complex. Some remarks made about them are also, a bit more than half true. On the one hand, they can be arrogant, rude, demanding, surly — on the other, generous, loyal, open, friendly…it’s confusing. It is almost as though they can’t make up their minds about anything except apple pie and baseball.

All places, groups, societies on the planet have their specialness, identity, community. Some have a lot, some have a little. Here, where the border is long and ninety percent of Candians live within one hundred miles of it, the blend of cultures is a real thing. It is a sort of sfumato. As you get close to the border, there is less distinction in accent, ways of doing things. The further from the border, the more unique things become on both sides. Of western cultures, generally, I think you could say that the further from the melting pots or cities or mixing places, the more unique the folk. Folks are more relaxed, kinder? maybe. In Canadian’s case, the U.S. is like ‘big city’ and we the toothless ‘poutine with a daub of maple syrup’ fanciers are more relaxed, more gently human. We are in the countryside, after a fashion. We are different.

There are other unique things burrowed into the Canadian social ouevre. ‘Grabbing a ‘Timmy’s’ is one, passing it down is another. The passing it down is a new-ish paying it forward effort, though in the case I am talking about it is more a paying it backward thing. Folks pay for the next person’s coffee and donut order from time to time. This is actually a rising trend. It gets mentioned in the news. Today, I was gifted of a free coffee and bagel. I was surprised at the announcement from the grinning server and decided I would do likewise, passing the free coffee back to the next car-load of hockey fans. The server and I chatted idly, speculating on how long the backwardness would continue. She noted that it had been as long as fifteen or twenty cars in her experience. We shared a cheerful adieu and I eased my vehicle away from the window toward the outbound intersection. As I waited for the stoplight to turn green, my paying it backward recipients nudged up next to me and flashed hairy, winter-hardened smiles and thumbs went up all around. Off we went to our various days.

From Tim’s, I headed to the marina to watch nothing happen on the frozen lake. This is my ‘consideration’ hour, sitting with bagel and coffee and cogitating. I reflected on the backward paying incident and I counted the folks who each had a pleasant moment from one person’s effort. The server had a break, a moment’s pleasant distraction, I did, the car ahead who payed it back to me did, the two fellows in the car behind who received my donation did. So. Five or six people were lifted a moment from the grouchy fog of the mundane because of one person’s sparky, grinning impulse. It was brief but memorable. A little something nice to remember, to discuss over a coffee during a Facetime confab or Zoom meeting. That little crack of daylight spread faster than Covid ever could.

My leaning-toward-gruff mind was changed this morning by a free coffee. I saw, in that moment, how to carry forward toward all of the other moments. Vigor, brightness, life is brief and so bloody simple, maybe that’s why it is hard to understand. One, little, “Hola!” costs nothing, requires zero effort, cascades lightly. The same is true for a growl but the growl doesn’t feel as nice. It is a personal decision, easy and quick to make, a change for the better. There is always a choice which ripples to spread outward. Smile. Hold the door for an overburdened soul. Let the fool who is cutting you off go. Fahgedaboudit. It is not worth stewing about. Offer a toonie and respectful nod toward Aqualung from time to time, instead of crossing to the other side of the street and frowning. There you have it.

February 22, 2021

I haven’t commented in a little while. The vagarious world has continued apace, still spinning, still flying toward Wherever. There is still war, pestilence and cheap plastic everything. Whew. The upsy-downy world is heading toward the endplace, if there is one. There is one for us wiggly things, so I think Earth has one, too. I think we should call the endplace ‘Wherever’, don’t you? In that way, no one should be offended. There is a wealth, diversity of opinion on what happens there and exactly where, when it happens or what the place should be called. Heaven and Hell have an edge on place names but I just think it should be called Wherever and leave it at that. “He prayed real hard, avoided pork, fish, red meat – drank moderately, never engaged in sex outside of marriage, he didn’t help the poor but always voted conservative…and he is going to Wherever if anyone is…”. “He raped and pillaged and ate too much ice cream, he is definitely going Wherever!”

Yup, we are going Wherever Mother Teresa is or Hitler Abominus is. We are going Wherever President Kennedy or Little Barfy the dog is. We are going to Grandma’s new house, Wherever that is. We are going Wherever. It is unavoidable. We have to do the thing but we cannot know what happens or where we go at the end. Duh… this is not news, just call me Sherman Obvious. That we forget Wherever we are going and engage in fruitless excitement or worry about ‘the state of things’ is equally old news.

As creatures on Whomever’s good green earth we stand alone in our denial of or praises of and fretting about — Wherever. As creatures on Whomever’s spinning ball, we forget the end and crawl around looking for that last little something that is more important. As self ordained superiour creatures, we have discussed and discussed Wherever. We have denied it, acted as though it wasn’t a place, that we aren’t going there. We have focused on the transitory day-to-day as if it were crucial. We have kept our heads down and fought over what is free to each and all, always. We tried to keep Wherever labelled and owned by this group or that group who each have specific rules about entry into Wherever. We have tried to follow the rules but Wherever is so factioned and nebulous a place, that no one really knows it’s real name and how to get there.

Some folks get worried about Wherever and strictly follow the rules as they understand or interpret them. Adherence is the one true path. This makes for some unpleasantness from time to time. Families get left at home while there is work to be done. Folks tie each other up and send each other to Wherever, thinking they are doing a service to their own, personal Wherever. Pleasure of living is set aside while our tomb-horde is assembled. Every last penny is frugally spent or agonized over if not. Our imperfect selves get criticized and criticized. Either we are bitching or someone else is. Either you are bitching or I am. Still, no matter the noise, we are going Wherever…cannot be avoided.

I guess every soul who is headed toward Wherever has a sneaking suspicion that there are no high-end Hifi stores there, no vinyl records, no shopping around. There are no mansions, even if Jesus promised us. No virgins. There isn’t any ‘no, I shouldn’t buy it’ expensive stuff. There are no banana splits, no driving too fast, no sitting on the beach, wasting a day. There is no laying about in bed, smooching with a favourite someone else (or plastic doll). There is no just plain soul satisfying enjoyment of living. It is obvious to all.

On the way to Wherever, we will each do our best, no matter what. Some shit is gonna happen but Wherever is there, no matter what. Deep down, we know that. Nothing to agonize over. It would be nice to try a little sweetness and light. It would be nice to be pleasant and kind. It would be nice to save the money for retirement, but…we are human anyway and humans are pretty chaotic. From time to time, we will get it right and from time to time we will forget where we are going. The creatures who share Whomever’s world do this as well but they do it with a difference. They relax more. They don’t worry so much. They don’t call each other, “fatty!”

Ask a pussycat where he is going at the end. First, the pussycat will pique both ears forward, thinking, “Is there something you are not telling me about that last horrible visit with the vet? Was it more than just a hair-ball?” After searching your face for clues, then deciding that you are sincere and not predicting anything, necessarily, M. Poohsay Kaht will answer. He/she will answer with a yawn and a little self-lick of face, “…Wherever, man. I am going Wherever.” It will be said with a hint of condescension. It will be said in that voice only a so-called, in-name-only ‘owner’ would understand. At the same time the answer is given, the furry small creature’s inside voice will be mewing with, “These guys really don’t get it, do they? Whatever…”

February 18, 2021

Dear God;

1a) I am nearly seventy years of age
and began functioning as an adult
at age thirteen. How many climaxes
have I had? (I lost count)
and
1b) How many more are there in the box?

2a) How much credit do I have for
the good deeds so far done?
and
2b) Must I continue banking credits or do
you give folks a ‘best ten years’ average?
I am getting tired of telling myself “no”
instead of, “definitely, yes!”

3a) Where did we come from?
and
3b) Where the hell are we going when all this is
done? I hear are some crazy things that I hope
are not true. (Except the part about the many
virgins. I hope that IS true.)

4) Why did you let me get too drunk and say
mean things to that nice old lady who was
still crying about her son who died from
cancer all those years ago? You knew I
was gonna do it. You could have made
me pass out just in time.
Shit.

February 17, 2021

My so-called Valentine,
misguided valentine…
you hurt me deep,
to the heart.

My looks are…laughable?
Those words aren’t…affable,
you hurt me deep,
to the heart…

No, my figure sure ain’t Greek
and you should think, before you speak,
have a heart!
Don’t
say another word,
if, you want room and board.
Shush! Little Valentine,
please….
Val en tine’s had
his day.

Haha. My contribution to ‘cancel culture’. I am half-way off the fence on the current scene, being not quite certain what to make of tearing statues down. The tearing down happens in the lively arts as well and I am a little conflicted. My heart knows it is right to stop singing ‘Mammy’, even though I love that song for it’s sense of home and it’s rhythmic, melodic structure. Well, the song uses terms that evoke an unkind, disrespectful way to speak about black folk. It was written by a white person – from a white attitude of innocent? ignorance. It is also, a work of art reflecting the time of it’s creation. It is valuable as an artifact and valuable as entertainment but the social attitudes it regurgitates are abominable. How do we get around that, do we want to? Should we just shut it down and try to hide it away? Maybe, maybe not. I just don’t know.

What to do about and how to treat the unpleasant, sometimes dangerous attitudes reflected in works of art or in public speech is a real good question. Should we tear down the statues, the way Pharaoh did, and assert our modern notions on history? Should we shout down the band when they play ‘Mammy’? There is a movement afoot by hard people of all political persuasions to force art and culture, history, government to adapt to each specific worldview. What I think is worst about that is a direct challenge to the current social climate of acceptance of other colours, of other genders, of otherness than the straight, white, historically powerful. On another side, folks are trying to bury the past and restrict art, literature, culture, government to assuage particular offended groups. That isn’t good, either but has (In My Opinion) a more noble, misguided aim. In the so-called democratic societies, all sides are attempting to redefine free speech by stretching the bounds of what is free and what should be quashed. Which statues should go up, which be thrown away.

The smell surrounding Trump and his followers/mimics world-wide is a thick cloud. They argue at every attempt to educate about the abuse ‘heroes’ inflicted on their cultures, at every attempt to take down a statue. The rainbow crowd smells a little sweeter but is trying to tear down and remove history in a perhaps overzealous attempt to educate. All of these folks have abused freedom of speech in outrageous fashion. We are forced to deal with: When is a statement hateful and inciting to violence, when is just an opinion? When is a statue a symbol of hate, when does it honour useful achievement?

There is a Canadian stand-up comic who was sued by a young man (I believe he was 13 at the time of the incident at question) for ‘jokes’ that were definitely a harm to dignity and hurtful. The young lad had a chronic condition that left him deaf and disfigured. There was a procedure done that implanted a hearing aid and the fellow was able to speak and to learn to sing. Apparently, he doesn’t sing so well but in spite of that became something of a celebrity in Quebec. The comedian tore the kid apart in a most vicious manner, making jokes by calling him “…the kid with the subwoofer on his head.” Wow. Now, the comedian has been sued by the kid. The comedian lost in the lower courts and has taken the matter up with the Supreme Court of Canada. He is calling it an issue of ‘free speech’. Free speech? Really? Now, we have to draw a line. I hope the courts are able to do this well by not restricting speech but protecting human dignity at the same time. Maybe they will chicken out and refuse to hear the case?

In London, an actress was hired to play ‘Celie’ in a stage production of ‘The Colour Purple’. Celie is of course, a person with ambiguous sexuality that is at times homosexual, at times heterosexual. The character, as written, finds love and sensuality in a lesbian relationship with the singer, Shug Avery. The actress hired to play Celie spoke strongly against homosexuality on Facebook, in part saying she would not play Celie as gay at all. There was an uproar, of course…everyone weighing in. The theatre company fired the actress and she is suing with a focus on denial of ‘free speech’, denial of ‘freedom of religion’. Hmmm

So, If I am hearing this right, both the comedian and the actress are suing for damages or counter-suing because they believe their right to speak was restricted. They believe they have a right to speak, to say anything they like and not be sued or fired. You know what? I think both of them are way off base. You have to wonder when ‘freedom of speech’ became ‘freedom to speak without consequences? Would Mom let you call a kid a wicked name? If you bring infamy on your employer and refuse to perform your duties, usually…you get fired. Isn’t that perfectly correct? Mom would tell you to go say sorry and you would accept that, she is the moral authority, right? Your employer is correct to let you go if you don’t fulfill the contract and become more expensive than was agreed, right? That could be the easy discussion, the easy resolution. The hard discussion follows.

My Funny Valentine and ‘Baby, it’s cold outside’ always did bother me, lyrically. I couldn’t get away from the idea of the fella trying to persuade the young lady not to follow her better judgement. Also, I couldn’t understand how a back-handed compliment that denigrates, belittles a person could be considered a message for a ‘Valentine’. Further, you have Wagner’s magnificent music and abysmal anti-semitism. Woody Allen pulled a despicable trick by engaging in a romantic relationship with his spouse’s adopted daughter. I have to consider that when I see his films. What is a fella to do about separating art from the creator of, separating art from it’s content?

When does and when should speech stop being free?
The statues we put up as a society are to honour persons who performed well in some way for society in the time they lived. The music we revere reflects the times it was created. Are we to destroy those works when we change our mind about social mores? I am sorta thinking yes but leaning hard toward no. Maybe it’s best to just let things stand as they are. Go ahead, play My Funny Valentine, Baby, it’s Cold Outside, Mammy and Gotterdammerung. Leave Robert E. Lee’s statue up… If you do that, you gonna have to clean up the red paint (which is protected free speech) and try to press through the protestors outside the theatre (who don’t like the themes of certain songs – that is protected, too). If you viciously attack a kid and are paid for doing that, then you have to go to court and pay the kid. If you diss and refuse to create the character you are paid to play, then expect to get fired. Simple, but not simple.