Another waiting room, this one for an art class, at which I am bad. Sad.
Yes, I know. Everyone's an artist. Each of us bears the mark of a distant Van Gogh or a recent Georgia O'Keeffe, however faint, however tiny.
But all 'umility aside, art is something as which I suck. And it doesn't matter what kind: acrylic, oil, water colour, pastel, pencil, crayon, stick. I'm bad at them all. In fact, if you asked me -- and even if you didn't -- I can't draw so much as the shape of an orange.
Once, years ago, someone showed me how to draw a lion using only hearts. If I could illustrate anything, I would show you here. Instead, I shall describe:
You draw a big heart for the head/face, two smaller hearts for the eyes, two more for the ears, one for the mouth -- are you with me? -- one medium upside down one for the nose, one large upside down one for the body, and two smaller upside down ones for the feet. Then, if you want, you can stick on a tail -- straight up and down with some fringe on the end.
This art class has themes, and today's theme is courage -- which is funny when you think about it, because of the cowardly lion and c...c...c...courage. (We've been here before--remember?)
Somehow -- no, I ought to say for various reasons -- I don't think a heart-shaped lion will do. I am afraid they will point at it and laugh. "A heart-shaped lion?" they'll say. ""Who does that?" And someone will shout, "A three-year-old, that's who!!"
Last week in art class, I was accused, in a pleasantly suggestive way, of false 'umility when I created a plasticine braid of DNA and stuck it to some cardboard. (Cam' on! Who couldn't do that?) As it was, the braid kept splitting (that's DNA for you) and crumbling (genetic overtones abound), and the coloured bands that I was trying to roll out with my fingers kept sticking to my hands. Wait. I mean 'ands. The thing was a mess, and frankly, my half-whispered apology was warranted.
And that's where false 'umility comes in.
It might have been all the childhood beatings or the dozen families I grew up with, or the hypercritical father I had or the mocking stepmother, or even all of the drunks.
Any of those things might stop someone in her artistic tracks and render her creatively challenged. And even if they didn't -- even if it didn't -- it sometimes takes courage to say that a thing (in this case, a lime green DNA braid) has gone wrong and thank you for your positive comments but you can see why I'm laughing sort of thing. It might even require the stamina and stammer of the cowardly lion. C...c...c...courage.
Which is pretty much where I came in.
Wednesday, October 28
Tuesday, October 27
Today's Freezing is Tomorrow's High
I came bounding up the front stairs today, high on dental anaesthetic -- which reminds me that, yesterday, I ought to have put my dentist down as the Best Dentist in the east end of the city: Kathryn Shields, 330 Kingston Road, 416-694-8144 -- skipping over red and yellow leaves, soaking in the wind and marvelling at the balmy temperatures, when I came to a halt.
At the very edge of my toe and just about to be run over by my size ten boot, spun a little ladybug, dancing around and around in what looked like flights of imaginative fancy. (I have no idea what ladybugs daydream about, but whatever it is, I think it must be pretty wonderful.) About three inches from her, in fact, sat a small green spider, delicate and quite lovely against the darker green of the porch paint. The spider was just sitting there, probably watching the lady bug with the same wonder that I felt, wishing that he could find a way to manoeuvre his legs half as gracefully.
Another step up, a grasshopper leapt high into the air, colliding with a newly bloomed dahlia -- it's almost November -- bouncing up overtop of the flower and landing next to a yellow biden that was glowing in the sun. Around my head swarmed tiny fruit flies and an autumn wasp, who I thought would have long gone hibernating home for winter.
How can it be that what I remember as the snow-laden skies of Halloween have turned into the weatherman's "highs of 16" tomorrow? Since when did all the garden flowers hang on until the time when heavy frost was due in town? What happened to the chill of pre-Remembrance Day, when nothing struck the air but the sound of sixty-year-old cannons and a crispy leaf straying down from an over-burdened eave?
I know I'm supposed to hate it; to rail against what could be and likely are the dire effects of global warming. But there's something truly wonderful -- powerful, even -- in coming face to face with nature's bounties in late October.
Either that, or the anaesthetic hasn't worn off yet.
At the very edge of my toe and just about to be run over by my size ten boot, spun a little ladybug, dancing around and around in what looked like flights of imaginative fancy. (I have no idea what ladybugs daydream about, but whatever it is, I think it must be pretty wonderful.) About three inches from her, in fact, sat a small green spider, delicate and quite lovely against the darker green of the porch paint. The spider was just sitting there, probably watching the lady bug with the same wonder that I felt, wishing that he could find a way to manoeuvre his legs half as gracefully.
Another step up, a grasshopper leapt high into the air, colliding with a newly bloomed dahlia -- it's almost November -- bouncing up overtop of the flower and landing next to a yellow biden that was glowing in the sun. Around my head swarmed tiny fruit flies and an autumn wasp, who I thought would have long gone hibernating home for winter.
How can it be that what I remember as the snow-laden skies of Halloween have turned into the weatherman's "highs of 16" tomorrow? Since when did all the garden flowers hang on until the time when heavy frost was due in town? What happened to the chill of pre-Remembrance Day, when nothing struck the air but the sound of sixty-year-old cannons and a crispy leaf straying down from an over-burdened eave?
I know I'm supposed to hate it; to rail against what could be and likely are the dire effects of global warming. But there's something truly wonderful -- powerful, even -- in coming face to face with nature's bounties in late October.
Either that, or the anaesthetic hasn't worn off yet.
Sunday, October 25
This Week in Toronto: Highlights and Lowlifes
Coco Avant Chanel: Audrey Tautou is winning as the young Coco Chanel, capturing my ideal of the fashion designer in a setting that feels evocatively true. AMC wins my comfortable seat and popcorn votes, as well.
September Issue: Anna Wintour does more justice to her character than Meryl Streep (playing Anna Wintour), and aptly-named Grace Coddington is my new American icon. The film flew by, giving its largely fashion-week couture audience a fabulous look at the pragmatic, serious business inside Vogue and the world of fashion.
Fringe Salon: at 1336 Queen Street West, highly-rated, friendly, and once again donating cut, highlights (speaking of) and product to our (3rd) annual Fowl Supper. Thank you, Ben!
Terroni Restaurant: apart from my cold rigatoni, fabulous food; nevertheless, over-priced; poor service; poor excuses, but fascinating views, especially of a woman who works in the west end, and who met up with a married man (I know, because he gave me his card and spent a long time chatting me up a few months ago), the two of them leaving separately, surreptitiously, like characters in a bad '60s movie.
7th Annual Toronto Zombie Walk: beginning in Trinity Bellwoods Park and ending behind the Bloor Cinema, a parade that we happened to pass, witnessing hundreds of fabulous costumes -- oh, you youngens -- my favourite the Siamese ghoul twins with the shared hair.
Volunteers: Thank you to the fifteen or so volunteers who so quickly offered and generously donated an evening to come out and be a part of our fundraising planning for November 14. In this age of cynicism -- and the Village takes that cake this year -- it was a welcomed and sweet relief.
Hollywood Gelato: 1640 Bayview Avenue, still open until 11 PM on these chilly nights, for providing us with delicious pumpkin gelato and three-scoop-sorbet served up in a waffle cone, all at good prices and with pretty, cushy stools.
Alan Turing: the Enigma: Andrew Hodges' remarkably well-researched, absorbing and compassionate biography of mathematician, scientist, logician and cryptanalyst Alan Turing, who broke the Enigma code and who submitted himself to chemical castration in lieu of a prison sentence on account of being homosexual. ISBN 0-09-911641-3
Canada Catering, Food Service Professionals: and especially to Terry Chong, whose easy-going manner and quick replies have made my life a lot less frantic.
Six Shooter Records: at 1118 Queen Street East, for (also) providing the funniest greeting cards ever, offered up by the sweetest staff. Good luck to you in your new endeavours.
Lainey Louise: for figuring out what a message is and how to leave one, and for knowing how many sleeps until her birthday.
September Issue: Anna Wintour does more justice to her character than Meryl Streep (playing Anna Wintour), and aptly-named Grace Coddington is my new American icon. The film flew by, giving its largely fashion-week couture audience a fabulous look at the pragmatic, serious business inside Vogue and the world of fashion.
Fringe Salon: at 1336 Queen Street West, highly-rated, friendly, and once again donating cut, highlights (speaking of) and product to our (3rd) annual Fowl Supper. Thank you, Ben!
Terroni Restaurant: apart from my cold rigatoni, fabulous food; nevertheless, over-priced; poor service; poor excuses, but fascinating views, especially of a woman who works in the west end, and who met up with a married man (I know, because he gave me his card and spent a long time chatting me up a few months ago), the two of them leaving separately, surreptitiously, like characters in a bad '60s movie.
7th Annual Toronto Zombie Walk: beginning in Trinity Bellwoods Park and ending behind the Bloor Cinema, a parade that we happened to pass, witnessing hundreds of fabulous costumes -- oh, you youngens -- my favourite the Siamese ghoul twins with the shared hair.
Volunteers: Thank you to the fifteen or so volunteers who so quickly offered and generously donated an evening to come out and be a part of our fundraising planning for November 14. In this age of cynicism -- and the Village takes that cake this year -- it was a welcomed and sweet relief.
Hollywood Gelato: 1640 Bayview Avenue, still open until 11 PM on these chilly nights, for providing us with delicious pumpkin gelato and three-scoop-sorbet served up in a waffle cone, all at good prices and with pretty, cushy stools.
Alan Turing: the Enigma: Andrew Hodges' remarkably well-researched, absorbing and compassionate biography of mathematician, scientist, logician and cryptanalyst Alan Turing, who broke the Enigma code and who submitted himself to chemical castration in lieu of a prison sentence on account of being homosexual. ISBN 0-09-911641-3
Canada Catering, Food Service Professionals: and especially to Terry Chong, whose easy-going manner and quick replies have made my life a lot less frantic.
Six Shooter Records: at 1118 Queen Street East, for (also) providing the funniest greeting cards ever, offered up by the sweetest staff. Good luck to you in your new endeavours.
Lainey Louise: for figuring out what a message is and how to leave one, and for knowing how many sleeps until her birthday.
Friday, October 23
Conflict Resolution
Everyone I am close to or love is sad in some way.
I have a friend who was widowed several years ago when her husband died, in his early forties, from cancer. They had what seems to me to have been a rare marriage --tremendous fun and energy and excitement without the commonplace jealousy and irritability that befalls so many couples.
I have another friend who suffers from debilitating depression, despite all the people and events she sees and feels as wonderful in her life. Just when she thinks she is going to be psychologically well forever, she is surprised by a sudden downturn, a sense of impending and unalterable hopelessness, a joylessness that practically kills her.
I have another friend whose husband is abusive. He doesn't hit her (as far as I know), but he calls her names and ridicules her. He is also an addict. They are constantly jabbing at one another, and this has always been true, and they do this in front of their children. They do not know what it means to feel safe with one another -- she least of all with him -- and this will inevitably (I say inevitably because sometimes, as was once said to me, there really is too much water under the bridge) remain true.
I have a friend who is lonely, even and especially within her marriage to a man she deeply loves. She and her partner found one another in the aftermath of strenuous childhoods, and they have since clung to one another as one who is about to drown clings to flotsam and jetsam.
I have a friend who is bitter in divorce; who will not remarry; who will not find love because he feels that love has passed him by. He spends his days working long hours and tending to his dogs.
I have a friend whose children abandoned her when her husband remarried. He is manipulative -- I know this absolutely -- and he is very clever at having his way. Her daughter does not speak to her, and her son calls her only when necessary.
I have a friend who was deeply damaged in love. She is not bitter like my other friend, but she is bereft of a kind of crucial self-confidence. Her only child blames her for everything.
I have a friend who is an alcoholic. He does not understand how betrayed and cheated he feels by life, and he walks through his days in a hangover haze of loneliness and fear.
~
Everyone I am close to or love is happy in some way.
I have a friend who was widowed young, and yet she loves her job and her home and her friends. She says she is seldom lonely and that life, for her, has always been an adventure. She says -- and I believe her -- that she regrets nothing except what her husband lost so young. She looks ten years younger than she is, and everybody loves her.
I have a friend who suffers from depression but can make people laugh (even herself) harder and longer than anyone I know. She is as close to her partner and parents and sister and friends as a person can be. She is rejuvenating and fun and honest and generous, and she is aware and movingly grateful for her loveliness.
I have a friend whose ex-husband was abusive, but who counts herself among the luckiest because she survived a rare form of cancer three years ago. She has found a new career as well, and is living her days with a gusto that is enviable and remarkable.
I have a friend who is lonely in her marriage, but has discovered another kind of profound love in the ways that she goes about helping people. She is unusually intelligent, and her insights keep her safe in ways I can only dream about. In her spare time, which is growing with age, she is able to travel the whole world wide, which seems to thoroughly quench and delight her.
I have a friend who is bitter in divorce, and who spends most of his life working as a legal aid lawyer -- a career he finds enriching, rewarding, enthralling and fully satisfying. I think if you asked him if he would exchange his job for a romantic partner, he would say no.
I have a friend whose adult children have abandoned her, and who spends her days writing, teaching yoga, riding her horses, and experiencing the beauty of nature. She lives in an enchanting house in the woods, and her horses have a hardwood barn with piped-in stereophonic music. Her life has been hard, but she is relaxed and fit and laughs as much as anyone I know.
I have a friend who was deeply damaged in love. She has an exquisite career, a partner who thinks she's spectacular, and an energy that is unparalleled. She owns a house, a cabin, and a motorcycle, and she is incredibly healthy.
I have a friend who is an alcoholic. He has a beautiful daughter and a wife who love him and think him the dearest father and husband on earth. He has his own home, and a job where everyone adores him. At heart, he is sunny and smart and jocular, and he knows that millions of chronic drinkers have recovered from alcoholism.
The reason I am close to or love every one of these people is because that, in some ways, they are sad. They know what it means to struggle, to be alone, to feel pain, to make mistakes, to mistrust, to be forgiven. They don't see themselves as superior, and they understand that what is valuable can have great emotional cost but no wholesale price. I am also close to these people because in some ways they are happy. They know what it means to be generous, to try, to feel joy, to hope, to trust, to have faith, to forgive.
In some ways, I am sad. Don is dead of course, and I cannot even begin to describe what the world is like without him. Mostly, too, I do not know where my son is or, more important, how he is. I am getting to a place where I don't want to know, and that is worse. I miss my brother. I struggle with other things too -- my weight, intermittent feelings of depression, my inability (or lack of desire) to finish the novel, an unhealthy and lowered sense of self-worth.
In some ways I am happy. Mary is kind, generous, joyful, hopeful, trusting of her universe, smart, funny and forgiving. When I have none, she has faith. I know that my daughter loves me. I think I am a good parent for her and perhaps an even better grandparent for her daughter. I have remarkable friends and relationships. I am able to read and write almost every day. I live in my own home. I know how to laugh at myself. I have five cats who love me. And I have a blog in which I am able to say that everyone I love or am close to is in some ways sad, in some ways happy.
I have a friend who was widowed several years ago when her husband died, in his early forties, from cancer. They had what seems to me to have been a rare marriage --tremendous fun and energy and excitement without the commonplace jealousy and irritability that befalls so many couples.
I have another friend who suffers from debilitating depression, despite all the people and events she sees and feels as wonderful in her life. Just when she thinks she is going to be psychologically well forever, she is surprised by a sudden downturn, a sense of impending and unalterable hopelessness, a joylessness that practically kills her.
I have another friend whose husband is abusive. He doesn't hit her (as far as I know), but he calls her names and ridicules her. He is also an addict. They are constantly jabbing at one another, and this has always been true, and they do this in front of their children. They do not know what it means to feel safe with one another -- she least of all with him -- and this will inevitably (I say inevitably because sometimes, as was once said to me, there really is too much water under the bridge) remain true.
I have a friend who is lonely, even and especially within her marriage to a man she deeply loves. She and her partner found one another in the aftermath of strenuous childhoods, and they have since clung to one another as one who is about to drown clings to flotsam and jetsam.
I have a friend who is bitter in divorce; who will not remarry; who will not find love because he feels that love has passed him by. He spends his days working long hours and tending to his dogs.
I have a friend whose children abandoned her when her husband remarried. He is manipulative -- I know this absolutely -- and he is very clever at having his way. Her daughter does not speak to her, and her son calls her only when necessary.
I have a friend who was deeply damaged in love. She is not bitter like my other friend, but she is bereft of a kind of crucial self-confidence. Her only child blames her for everything.
I have a friend who is an alcoholic. He does not understand how betrayed and cheated he feels by life, and he walks through his days in a hangover haze of loneliness and fear.
~
Everyone I am close to or love is happy in some way.
I have a friend who was widowed young, and yet she loves her job and her home and her friends. She says she is seldom lonely and that life, for her, has always been an adventure. She says -- and I believe her -- that she regrets nothing except what her husband lost so young. She looks ten years younger than she is, and everybody loves her.
I have a friend who suffers from depression but can make people laugh (even herself) harder and longer than anyone I know. She is as close to her partner and parents and sister and friends as a person can be. She is rejuvenating and fun and honest and generous, and she is aware and movingly grateful for her loveliness.
I have a friend whose ex-husband was abusive, but who counts herself among the luckiest because she survived a rare form of cancer three years ago. She has found a new career as well, and is living her days with a gusto that is enviable and remarkable.
I have a friend who is lonely in her marriage, but has discovered another kind of profound love in the ways that she goes about helping people. She is unusually intelligent, and her insights keep her safe in ways I can only dream about. In her spare time, which is growing with age, she is able to travel the whole world wide, which seems to thoroughly quench and delight her.
I have a friend who is bitter in divorce, and who spends most of his life working as a legal aid lawyer -- a career he finds enriching, rewarding, enthralling and fully satisfying. I think if you asked him if he would exchange his job for a romantic partner, he would say no.
I have a friend whose adult children have abandoned her, and who spends her days writing, teaching yoga, riding her horses, and experiencing the beauty of nature. She lives in an enchanting house in the woods, and her horses have a hardwood barn with piped-in stereophonic music. Her life has been hard, but she is relaxed and fit and laughs as much as anyone I know.
I have a friend who was deeply damaged in love. She has an exquisite career, a partner who thinks she's spectacular, and an energy that is unparalleled. She owns a house, a cabin, and a motorcycle, and she is incredibly healthy.
I have a friend who is an alcoholic. He has a beautiful daughter and a wife who love him and think him the dearest father and husband on earth. He has his own home, and a job where everyone adores him. At heart, he is sunny and smart and jocular, and he knows that millions of chronic drinkers have recovered from alcoholism.
The reason I am close to or love every one of these people is because that, in some ways, they are sad. They know what it means to struggle, to be alone, to feel pain, to make mistakes, to mistrust, to be forgiven. They don't see themselves as superior, and they understand that what is valuable can have great emotional cost but no wholesale price. I am also close to these people because in some ways they are happy. They know what it means to be generous, to try, to feel joy, to hope, to trust, to have faith, to forgive.
In some ways, I am sad. Don is dead of course, and I cannot even begin to describe what the world is like without him. Mostly, too, I do not know where my son is or, more important, how he is. I am getting to a place where I don't want to know, and that is worse. I miss my brother. I struggle with other things too -- my weight, intermittent feelings of depression, my inability (or lack of desire) to finish the novel, an unhealthy and lowered sense of self-worth.
In some ways I am happy. Mary is kind, generous, joyful, hopeful, trusting of her universe, smart, funny and forgiving. When I have none, she has faith. I know that my daughter loves me. I think I am a good parent for her and perhaps an even better grandparent for her daughter. I have remarkable friends and relationships. I am able to read and write almost every day. I live in my own home. I know how to laugh at myself. I have five cats who love me. And I have a blog in which I am able to say that everyone I love or am close to is in some ways sad, in some ways happy.
Wednesday, October 21
Mr. Lonelyhearts
I was scouring the Internet for serving scoops (don't ask), when I thought I'd try craigslist. Lo and behold, as I searched the various categories wondering where I would find smallwares (as they are apparently called), I came upon a selection where people can air their beefs.
The beef I am reprinting here caught my eye -- perhaps not exactly for all of the reasons the writer intended, but nevertheless...
After wading through the blue language, the rage, and the grammar and spelling mistakes, I thought...there might be several good reasons -- reasons other than rude women and traffic jams -- that cause this man his loneliness.
Anyway, apart from minor interpretation and commentary, I will let you be the judge of that. I have highlighted catchy language in blue; sentences that struck me -- for whatever reasons -- in bold, and highlighted interesting spelling and punctuation choices in pink.
Prepare yourselves.
From craigslist:
WHAT THE F*** ever happened to common courtesy?
I have no idea what its is with people these days. Cutting you off in traffic, cutting in front of you in line, lack of manners at a restaurant table and the list goes on and on... The one thing that really pisses me off though today is some women's lack of respect for some males feelings or just straight up being a complete b**** without realizing it. Take this for example, I met this girl a while ago through a friend at a party. Thing seemed great in my opinion; I had her laughing at my jokes, we would fill in each other sentences..._all the cute shit that you would normally get a conversation thats going well. So at the end of the night I have to take off, things seem good. I give her a hug goodnight and ask if she wants to meet up some time for drinks or for coffee some time. She replies quickly with a "yes definately!" We exchange numbers and we part our separate ways. A couple of day later I make a phone call to her, we arrange to meet at a local coffee shop at a specified time. I got there and waited 45 min before arriving at the conclusion that she wasn't coming. I received a phone call later that evening from her with some b*** sh*** story about a family emergency. I figured since I don't know her that well and she had the decency to call me; that she was being honest. We rescheduled for a different day. This continued a couple times; something came up at the last minute or how "she was busy at work" when she previously told me at the party she's unemployed. After 3 [you know the rule: if it's under ten, write it out...] tries I gave up that girl, a month or two later I saw her with this f***ing d*****-bag i knew which she said quote: " is a total p***k"... I said nothing. Sadly this isn't the first time this has happened to me; I had another incident with a girl I met through work. Same old story with the laughing etc. I ask her if she wanted to grab drinks after work on saturday, she said "yes for sure." I gave her my number and when i asked for hers this as the response I got: "Um, i don't like; have my cell with me right now." So i figured F*** THAT B****, I MEAN HOW THE F*** DO YOU NOT KNOW YOUR OWN F***ING CELL PHONE NUMBER? [He hasn't met me.] Eh? I mean i don't know what it is, are you women trying to be polite? Are you trying to not hurt peoples feelings? Are you intimidated? F***!!! I MEAN I CAN TAKE REJECTION, I'M PROUD TO SAY THAT I CAN TAKE REJECTION WELL, I'M PROBABLY ONE OF THE ONLY GUYS OUT THERE WHO THINK ITS A CONFIDENCE BOOST. IT HELP BUILD CHARACTER FOR C***ST SAKE!!! AND LADIES_ BY ALL MEANS IF YOU DON'T WANT TO DATE MYSELF OR SOME OTHER GUY, TELL HIM FLAT OUT "NO!!!" I CAN GET OVER IT_ AND I'M SURE 93% OF MOST GUYS OUT THERE CAN GET OVER IT_ TOO!!! F***, THINK ABOUT IT; YOU'D BE DOIN SOCIETY A FAVOR BY: BEING POLITE ABOUT IT (ITS MORE POLITE IN THE FIRST PLACE), BEING DIRECT WITH THE PESRON, AND YOU HAVE THE SATISFACTION THAT THE PERSON WILL NOT BUG YOU AGAIN... If there's one thing I can do to leave my mark, I hope that this was it...
~
A person hardly knows where to begin -- the comma splices; possessives; contractions; spelling errors; reflexives; subject/verb disagreement; tense -- and I mean tense -- problems; redundancies; saturated hyperbole; the hurling epithets; the profanity; the illogic; the rage, the rage, the rage.
Although the leaving off part isn't difficult at all.
Blue moon, you saw me standing alone...
<:^)
The beef I am reprinting here caught my eye -- perhaps not exactly for all of the reasons the writer intended, but nevertheless...
After wading through the blue language, the rage, and the grammar and spelling mistakes, I thought...there might be several good reasons -- reasons other than rude women and traffic jams -- that cause this man his loneliness.
Anyway, apart from minor interpretation and commentary, I will let you be the judge of that. I have highlighted catchy language in blue; sentences that struck me -- for whatever reasons -- in bold, and highlighted interesting spelling and punctuation choices in pink.
Prepare yourselves.
From craigslist:
WHAT THE F*** ever happened to common courtesy?
I have no idea what its is with people these days. Cutting you off in traffic, cutting in front of you in line, lack of manners at a restaurant table and the list goes on and on... The one thing that really pisses me off though today is some women's lack of respect for some males feelings or just straight up being a complete b**** without realizing it. Take this for example, I met this girl a while ago through a friend at a party. Thing seemed great in my opinion; I had her laughing at my jokes, we would fill in each other sentences..._all the cute shit that you would normally get a conversation thats going well. So at the end of the night I have to take off, things seem good. I give her a hug goodnight and ask if she wants to meet up some time for drinks or for coffee some time. She replies quickly with a "yes definately!" We exchange numbers and we part our separate ways. A couple of day later I make a phone call to her, we arrange to meet at a local coffee shop at a specified time. I got there and waited 45 min before arriving at the conclusion that she wasn't coming. I received a phone call later that evening from her with some b*** sh*** story about a family emergency. I figured since I don't know her that well and she had the decency to call me; that she was being honest. We rescheduled for a different day. This continued a couple times; something came up at the last minute or how "she was busy at work" when she previously told me at the party she's unemployed. After 3 [you know the rule: if it's under ten, write it out...] tries I gave up that girl, a month or two later I saw her with this f***ing d*****-bag i knew which she said quote: " is a total p***k"... I said nothing. Sadly this isn't the first time this has happened to me; I had another incident with a girl I met through work. Same old story with the laughing etc. I ask her if she wanted to grab drinks after work on saturday, she said "yes for sure." I gave her my number and when i asked for hers this as the response I got: "Um, i don't like; have my cell with me right now." So i figured F*** THAT B****, I MEAN HOW THE F*** DO YOU NOT KNOW YOUR OWN F***ING CELL PHONE NUMBER? [He hasn't met me.] Eh? I mean i don't know what it is, are you women trying to be polite? Are you trying to not hurt peoples feelings? Are you intimidated? F***!!! I MEAN I CAN TAKE REJECTION, I'M PROUD TO SAY THAT I CAN TAKE REJECTION WELL, I'M PROBABLY ONE OF THE ONLY GUYS OUT THERE WHO THINK ITS A CONFIDENCE BOOST. IT HELP BUILD CHARACTER FOR C***ST SAKE!!! AND LADIES_ BY ALL MEANS IF YOU DON'T WANT TO DATE MYSELF OR SOME OTHER GUY, TELL HIM FLAT OUT "NO!!!" I CAN GET OVER IT_ AND I'M SURE 93% OF MOST GUYS OUT THERE CAN GET OVER IT_ TOO!!! F***, THINK ABOUT IT; YOU'D BE DOIN SOCIETY A FAVOR BY: BEING POLITE ABOUT IT (ITS MORE POLITE IN THE FIRST PLACE), BEING DIRECT WITH THE PESRON, AND YOU HAVE THE SATISFACTION THAT THE PERSON WILL NOT BUG YOU AGAIN... If there's one thing I can do to leave my mark, I hope that this was it...
~
A person hardly knows where to begin -- the comma splices; possessives; contractions; spelling errors; reflexives; subject/verb disagreement; tense -- and I mean tense -- problems; redundancies; saturated hyperbole; the hurling epithets; the profanity; the illogic; the rage, the rage, the rage.
Although the leaving off part isn't difficult at all.
Blue moon, you saw me standing alone...
<:^)
Monday, October 19
Foot Worn
I'm sitting in the X-Ray Clinic & St. Martin (I don't know who St. Martin is) Center in St. Mike's (oh, I guess that ought to be St. Michael's) Hospital. I have waited so long for this appointment, I barely remember why it was made.
Most of the staff look cranky. Too early in the day (7:30 AM), I suppose. Not enough coffee. I hate coffee, actually. It gives me diarrhea. I'd wonder if this were a Freudian anomaly, except that I have reacted this way since my teens, long before I met the Coffey that I wed. Hey, maybe I'm psychic!
The hallway in the X-Ray Clinic is long, and the floors are shiny. People clatter up and down in various forms of footwear, a heel worn down here and there, the front of the shoe creased according to its wearer. Some people struggle moderately well with leg braces, others walk with canes. I have seen two people in wheelchairs.
The few minutes I have been here I have not spied one pair of high heels, thank God, and I wonder how many of these clinicians have foot trials of their own (...which is why I'm here: a three-year-old foot problem/appointment). Anyway, you know how that goes -- dentists' children: bad teeth (although in this age of vastly improved dental care, this is probably no more than an outmoded cliché).
Nothing like post-dawn digression, yes?
It occurs to me now as I wait for the foot specialist that a) I am lucky, especially next to the feet I am looking at here, and b) I write everywhere: in bedrooms, libraries, restaurants, doctors' offices, bus shelters, trains, streetcars, subways, sitting on the toilet -- even here, on this gurney. It's not as if I have a choice, either. The whole thing happens automatically. Kind of like Kathryn Kuhlman. Do you remember her? She was a particularly scaaaaaary woman, channelling through her hands to her pen and paper, from the dead, she claimed, her pinny eyes fluttering like a summer moth.
This all reminds me of when I first knew Don and he said to me (in my ripe twenties), "Little lamb of God, you have more miles on your tongue than most people in their eighties," and then he laughed. And now I wonder: if I had to compare tongue, fingers, and feet, which would win? Which would I want to win?
Anyway, it's now 8:15, and I have been interrupted by x-rays, a second waiting room, a consulting room, a lovely intern, and an orthopaedic surgeon who seems to have about as much compassion for the foot owner as I have for, say, drywall. In fact, he is just about to draw on the bottoms of my feet -- it's some kind of nerve test -- which might save him a whole lot of time having to explain anything to me.
Until tomorrow, then -- here's to all the lost and lonely soles.
And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God on England's pleasant pastures seen?
Most of the staff look cranky. Too early in the day (7:30 AM), I suppose. Not enough coffee. I hate coffee, actually. It gives me diarrhea. I'd wonder if this were a Freudian anomaly, except that I have reacted this way since my teens, long before I met the Coffey that I wed. Hey, maybe I'm psychic!
The hallway in the X-Ray Clinic is long, and the floors are shiny. People clatter up and down in various forms of footwear, a heel worn down here and there, the front of the shoe creased according to its wearer. Some people struggle moderately well with leg braces, others walk with canes. I have seen two people in wheelchairs.
The few minutes I have been here I have not spied one pair of high heels, thank God, and I wonder how many of these clinicians have foot trials of their own (...which is why I'm here: a three-year-old foot problem/appointment). Anyway, you know how that goes -- dentists' children: bad teeth (although in this age of vastly improved dental care, this is probably no more than an outmoded cliché).
Nothing like post-dawn digression, yes?
It occurs to me now as I wait for the foot specialist that a) I am lucky, especially next to the feet I am looking at here, and b) I write everywhere: in bedrooms, libraries, restaurants, doctors' offices, bus shelters, trains, streetcars, subways, sitting on the toilet -- even here, on this gurney. It's not as if I have a choice, either. The whole thing happens automatically. Kind of like Kathryn Kuhlman. Do you remember her? She was a particularly scaaaaaary woman, channelling through her hands to her pen and paper, from the dead, she claimed, her pinny eyes fluttering like a summer moth.
This all reminds me of when I first knew Don and he said to me (in my ripe twenties), "Little lamb of God, you have more miles on your tongue than most people in their eighties," and then he laughed. And now I wonder: if I had to compare tongue, fingers, and feet, which would win? Which would I want to win?
Anyway, it's now 8:15, and I have been interrupted by x-rays, a second waiting room, a consulting room, a lovely intern, and an orthopaedic surgeon who seems to have about as much compassion for the foot owner as I have for, say, drywall. In fact, he is just about to draw on the bottoms of my feet -- it's some kind of nerve test -- which might save him a whole lot of time having to explain anything to me.
Until tomorrow, then -- here's to all the lost and lonely soles.
And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God on England's pleasant pastures seen?
Thursday, October 15
You Born Today
Greg’s Grandmother Writes Affectingly Concerning Her Life in Death
I find I like Heaven, the verbs have no tenses;
The neighbours are friendly; not high or almighty.
The neighbours are charming, and we don’t need fences.
They practice mixed farming; their cattle are tidy.
I find I like Heaven more than all other places,
Though I guess that in Heaven you feel that you have to.
The angels are blonde; there are no other races.
It’s been misheard on Earth: it’s all Swede hereafter.
I tell you, in Heaven, we all talk politely,
And everyone counts, and we all have a say.
Here, nakeder angels don’t seem so unsightly;
You get used to a lot in perpetual day.
I find that in Heaven a dollar goes farther;
That prices are stable when supply meets demand;
That you’re able to plan and keep up the larder;
Where nothing goes bad, you’ve more fresh fruit than canned.
It’s true that my Father’s house has many mansions,
Though plumbing in Heaven is not that abundant.
I don’t think we need it, or nobody mentions;
Here we’ve all we want, but there’s nothing redundant.
There are luncheons in Heaven, but no heavy cooking,
Just cute little sandwiches and angel food cake.
I recommend Heaven; why not make a booking?
There’s no need of packing; there’s nothing to take.
Don Ives
October 15, 1952 - January 19, 2004
I find I like Heaven, the verbs have no tenses;
The neighbours are friendly; not high or almighty.
The neighbours are charming, and we don’t need fences.
They practice mixed farming; their cattle are tidy.
I find I like Heaven more than all other places,
Though I guess that in Heaven you feel that you have to.
The angels are blonde; there are no other races.
It’s been misheard on Earth: it’s all Swede hereafter.
I tell you, in Heaven, we all talk politely,
And everyone counts, and we all have a say.
Here, nakeder angels don’t seem so unsightly;
You get used to a lot in perpetual day.
I find that in Heaven a dollar goes farther;
That prices are stable when supply meets demand;
That you’re able to plan and keep up the larder;
Where nothing goes bad, you’ve more fresh fruit than canned.
It’s true that my Father’s house has many mansions,
Though plumbing in Heaven is not that abundant.
I don’t think we need it, or nobody mentions;
Here we’ve all we want, but there’s nothing redundant.
There are luncheons in Heaven, but no heavy cooking,
Just cute little sandwiches and angel food cake.
I recommend Heaven; why not make a booking?
There’s no need of packing; there’s nothing to take.
Don Ives
October 15, 1952 - January 19, 2004
Wednesday, October 14
Everything Old Is New Again: Greening Heritage Preservation
Blog Action Day guest entry by Mary L. MacDonald
Recently I attended a conference called The Heritage Imperative: Old Buildings in an Age of Environmental Crisis. I was excited to hear how the heritage work that I do could benefit from -- and give benefit to -- the Green movement. There is a natural synergy between saving older buildings and saving the planet (reduce! recycle! re-use!) and a natural tension, too, as energy efficiencies are sold in ways that decry the drafty, the outmoded and the outdated. All too often wood windowed souls are blinded by upstart thermal pane systems whose relatively brief lives are designed to ensure short term energy gain and a never-ending cycle of land filling and replacement. Away too with the heavy textured plaster of an honourable trade, hauled off and replaced by smooth, characterless sheets of gypsum. In our modern twittering techno-world even insulation, it seems, is the domain of the young.
Nevertheless, for me the green world still held the promise of a renewed, embodied energy that could be used to support long-standing preservationist goals. Casting off charges of old world sentimentality, we could learn to quantify the environmental cost of demolition and thus convince the land developer to save buildings, not destroy them. Look at the numbers, we'd say. It's all in the chart. After watching truly frightening presentations on the statistical ravages of climate change (it used to be that I worked to mediate the past and the present, now the future demands equal consideration), repeating the preservationist's mantra (the greenest building is the one already built -- thank you, Carl Elefante), considering the relative merits of energy modeling, building life-cycle analysis and the principles of avoided environmental impacts, I was left with an added uneasy feeling. I realized that in this desperation to adopt the language of environmental impacts, to stand with the progressives and not the luddites, we were moving away from the heart and hearth of the matter and allowing the debate to be hijacked yet again.
If adaptation is what allows for the survival of any species, it is without question that we must learn to appropriately adapt our heritage buildings to meet the needs of the future. By embracing new strategies without question, however, and by playing the numbers game, we are in danger of acquiescing to the proposition that only quantity matters. We are abandoning the concept of intangible value (i.e., what is the right thing to do; what makes something valuable beyond the marketplace). In other words, we are not doing our part to shift the very paradigm that continues to allow environmentally negative approaches to the earth and its inhabitants to proliferate, even in the face of environmental catastrophe. Economic arguments will ultimately fail because we will always lose the battle between land value and building value, between short term profit and long term contribution. What we need to do, as environmentalists, as preservationists, as Darwinists and survivalists, is challenge dominant (economic) definitions of value wherever and however we can. We work to save buildings, souls, the planet because it is important. We do it because people matter. Because history matters. Because the future matters. We do it because we care.
Fall Festivities
Kids are setting themselves on fire. On purpose. So says an article in today's on-line Globe and Mail, with all kinds of subsequent commentary. Seems that a lot of subscribers think that purchasing Axe Body Spray and lighting yourself up with a match is mere "horseplay" -- something we all did in our untroubled youth. Well, that and choking ourselves half to death, which is also high on the fun-time to-do activities list. I'm picturing that list now, in fact, hanging in the kitchen on the reminder blackboard:
Rake leaves
Hockey practice begins
Get Dad a birthday card
Inflate bicycle tires
Sort through Hallowe'en candy
Axe Body Spray and lighter (ask Mom for money)
When I was a kid and living in my father's house (and therefore in a justifiable fire-starting setting) the most exciting pyromaniac trick I could muster was putting a match to the discarded tin foil from my father's cigarette package and watching it burn in the sink under the dripping faucet. Mind you, I used to have violent dreams about fire, the searing flames licking up the wall, and me having to rescue my brother. And once, in my twenties, I set Don aflame, but that was an accident. (It's what happens when you're lying around and you flick a Bick lighter under your boyfriend's beard. Who knew that his entire chest would go up?)
I have also lived through (no kidding, Jennifer) three house fires: one when my young cousin burnt down the family home in St. Mary's, New Brunswick, after playing with matches; the second when my mother, a little bit tipsy, dropped a lit cigarette into the overstuffed wing back chair (we were saved quite miraculously by a young couple who happened to be driving up Wilmot Street at 3:00 a.m. and saw smoke rising from the third storey [ours] of the apartment building). I recall, vividly, hanging out through the window the following morning and peering down at the chesterfield springs and the once-beautiful once-red chair; and the third incident when our apartment building in Charlottetown went up because of a friend of a tenant, also a smoker and a bit of a drinker
The most stunning recollections from that last fire are these: the poor white cat emerging -- he walked in a zigzag pattern -- from the building, his fur smoldering...and dying a day later; the fact that we lived next to a gas station; our upstairs neighbour passing out several of his leather coats in the freezing post-dawn cold of winter, and returning for them five minutes after we were permitted back into the building; the clock across the hall charred for eternity at 6:08; Michael going back into his apartment through the intensifying combustion to retrieve $500.00; Pabby and I exiting through the front of the building (instead of the back), slamming the door behind us, the very thing, said the fireman, that saved our apartment from burning down (or up); Danny Bernard thinking that the ringing fire alarm was his bedside clock, at which he kept hammering off off off; the dozens of balloon impressions left on his living room wall from the surprise birthday party we had thrown for him the night before; Judy I-forget-her-last-name asking us later that night why she hadn't been invited to our housewarming party, and how gaspingly sick a few of us became a day later, likely from the burning lead and asbestos and God knows what else long-planted in the walls of that 1867 building.
I don't know. It seems to me there are better ways to get your kicks (on route 66?) than by buying a canful of spray and setting yourself on fire. You could go to hockey practice, fill your bicycle tires, buy dad a birthday card, rake the leaves, sort through (and eat) your Hallowe'en candy, go to the movies, read a great book, play cards (I especially like Hearts), take photographs, talk to your dog, go swimming (or skating) with your friends, help with the housework, jack up your stereo, take music lessons, comb your cat, play street hockey, strum your guitar, think about your future, write a short story, surf the Internet, tell your mother why you love her (that just slipped in, kind of like osmosis), volunteer, work at a part-time job, buy clothing, do your homework, play board games, make a video...anything but set yourself on fire. I mean, that just can't be a good way to spend Saturday afternoon. Then again, what do I know? I thought we got rid of aerosol sprays twenty years ago.
Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire, yeah...
<:^)
Archived September 28, 2007
Rake leaves
Hockey practice begins
Get Dad a birthday card
Inflate bicycle tires
Sort through Hallowe'en candy
Axe Body Spray and lighter (ask Mom for money)
When I was a kid and living in my father's house (and therefore in a justifiable fire-starting setting) the most exciting pyromaniac trick I could muster was putting a match to the discarded tin foil from my father's cigarette package and watching it burn in the sink under the dripping faucet. Mind you, I used to have violent dreams about fire, the searing flames licking up the wall, and me having to rescue my brother. And once, in my twenties, I set Don aflame, but that was an accident. (It's what happens when you're lying around and you flick a Bick lighter under your boyfriend's beard. Who knew that his entire chest would go up?)
I have also lived through (no kidding, Jennifer) three house fires: one when my young cousin burnt down the family home in St. Mary's, New Brunswick, after playing with matches; the second when my mother, a little bit tipsy, dropped a lit cigarette into the overstuffed wing back chair (we were saved quite miraculously by a young couple who happened to be driving up Wilmot Street at 3:00 a.m. and saw smoke rising from the third storey [ours] of the apartment building). I recall, vividly, hanging out through the window the following morning and peering down at the chesterfield springs and the once-beautiful once-red chair; and the third incident when our apartment building in Charlottetown went up because of a friend of a tenant, also a smoker and a bit of a drinker
The most stunning recollections from that last fire are these: the poor white cat emerging -- he walked in a zigzag pattern -- from the building, his fur smoldering...and dying a day later; the fact that we lived next to a gas station; our upstairs neighbour passing out several of his leather coats in the freezing post-dawn cold of winter, and returning for them five minutes after we were permitted back into the building; the clock across the hall charred for eternity at 6:08; Michael going back into his apartment through the intensifying combustion to retrieve $500.00; Pabby and I exiting through the front of the building (instead of the back), slamming the door behind us, the very thing, said the fireman, that saved our apartment from burning down (or up); Danny Bernard thinking that the ringing fire alarm was his bedside clock, at which he kept hammering off off off; the dozens of balloon impressions left on his living room wall from the surprise birthday party we had thrown for him the night before; Judy I-forget-her-last-name asking us later that night why she hadn't been invited to our housewarming party, and how gaspingly sick a few of us became a day later, likely from the burning lead and asbestos and God knows what else long-planted in the walls of that 1867 building.
I don't know. It seems to me there are better ways to get your kicks (on route 66?) than by buying a canful of spray and setting yourself on fire. You could go to hockey practice, fill your bicycle tires, buy dad a birthday card, rake the leaves, sort through (and eat) your Hallowe'en candy, go to the movies, read a great book, play cards (I especially like Hearts), take photographs, talk to your dog, go swimming (or skating) with your friends, help with the housework, jack up your stereo, take music lessons, comb your cat, play street hockey, strum your guitar, think about your future, write a short story, surf the Internet, tell your mother why you love her (that just slipped in, kind of like osmosis), volunteer, work at a part-time job, buy clothing, do your homework, play board games, make a video...anything but set yourself on fire. I mean, that just can't be a good way to spend Saturday afternoon. Then again, what do I know? I thought we got rid of aerosol sprays twenty years ago.
Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire, yeah...
<:^)
Archived September 28, 2007
Monday, October 12
To The Manor Borne
I missed my kids. I missed their kids. I missed the three-year run of dinners based on the many conversations my friend and I had had...about how it was our favourite holiday -- the happiest holiday, in fact -- the one that carried us well past impoverished childhoods and our lamented dead.
Instead, Mary and I chose St. Jacob's, traveling beneath burgeoning clouds alongside the harried drivers and past the poor dead kitty lying across the dividing line out in Mennonite country.
Out in Mennonite country...that sounds rather glib, doesn't it? -- like a cigarette commercial or an ad for a 1950's B movie. But it wasn't like that at all. If you take the preciousness out of Niagara-on-the-Lake and add the hilarity of Little Britain (Mary is right about this -- you have neither lived nor laughed until you have had Thanksgiving buffet at the Stone Crock Restaurant, the oddness and ordinariness blending in the most memorable way) you have St. Jacob's.
In and among the low end/high end stores, several specializing in antique and retro items, we managed an $8.00 mint condition hard cover copy of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, one cast iron mouse-embossed door stopper, and (what I think is) one exquisite gift for Mary's sister, Eva.
As for the turkey buffet, that's not all that the restaurant offered, of course. I tried the cole slaw, cucumber, green beans, mashed potatoes, shepherd's pie, cranberry sauce, turkey (just a mouthful), white bread, a sliver of pumpkin pie, and a lemon tart. (Oh yes -- I stole a forkful of vegetarian stuffing from the vegetarian, admiring at the same time her butternut squash soup, shrimp, trout, green beans, mashed potatoes, cheese pasta, potato salad, macaroni salad, white bread, coconut cream pie [just a mouthful] and clump of Black Forest cake.)
We even had a table by the window, in the corner of the large room where I could surreptitiously snap my digital camera (once toward the sky) and revel in our Thanksgiving companions, many of whom turned up in groups of four or six or eight, forks poised high for pie.
In all, it was a memorable day, capped off by a leisurely evening drive adjacent pristine Mennonite farmland, and an eventual wending down to Lakeshore Road and on through the town of my high school youth, where I called out (as I always do), "Look! Nick Horuzi's store was there! And that was an IGA. That's where I fell in front of David Jenkins and tore my brand new pants. Oh look...it's Sandy's apartment building -- but they've ripped up the Volkswagen dealership. Sandy and I were going..." on and on and on.
Of all the tender moments that I will take away with me today, however, one will remain outstanding.
We were walking in the wind in St. Jacob's (I saw a lot of blowing laundry today, which was heartening) along an upper street of houses -- magnificent houses -- one of them transformed into a manor for retirees. (And manor is an apt description.) Glancing up at one of the many windows in this meandering brick home, I saw two people -- each over eighty years of age, there is no doubt -- one, sitting at a table consuming a midday meal, the other leaning on a walker, facing me, staring out, regarding, penetrating in fact, not moving, curious but holding her own.
I smiled back shyly, looked away, glanced again, then walked on, pulling my coat around me in the blustery cold, happy, feeling suddenly younger, grateful, understood, valued, lucky (not fortunate as much as lucky, although I'd be hard-pressed to name the nuanced difference). Maybe the way that sweet curly-haired twenty-something man felt yesterday, the one who let -- encouraged -- me to take a picture of his British bulldog, Gus, the dog hanging out of the quickly-opened back window -- a ham for any camera, said his owner -- all of this exchange taking place at a stoplight, one car to the other, on Saturday afternoon.
There is no doubt that life is rich and wonderful when we can sit with family and friends and celebrate Thanksgiving. But, when weighed against the unexpected, the delightful, the touching interchanges and exchanges that occur when I am made to wander further afield, when I can share a knowing, momentary glance (I imagine now a baton being passed in a relay race), I realize that there is so much more for which I should be thankful, and that sometimes I have to leave the comforts, and the confines, of my home, to know exactly what that is.
Instead, Mary and I chose St. Jacob's, traveling beneath burgeoning clouds alongside the harried drivers and past the poor dead kitty lying across the dividing line out in Mennonite country.
Out in Mennonite country...that sounds rather glib, doesn't it? -- like a cigarette commercial or an ad for a 1950's B movie. But it wasn't like that at all. If you take the preciousness out of Niagara-on-the-Lake and add the hilarity of Little Britain (Mary is right about this -- you have neither lived nor laughed until you have had Thanksgiving buffet at the Stone Crock Restaurant, the oddness and ordinariness blending in the most memorable way) you have St. Jacob's.
In and among the low end/high end stores, several specializing in antique and retro items, we managed an $8.00 mint condition hard cover copy of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, one cast iron mouse-embossed door stopper, and (what I think is) one exquisite gift for Mary's sister, Eva.
As for the turkey buffet, that's not all that the restaurant offered, of course. I tried the cole slaw, cucumber, green beans, mashed potatoes, shepherd's pie, cranberry sauce, turkey (just a mouthful), white bread, a sliver of pumpkin pie, and a lemon tart. (Oh yes -- I stole a forkful of vegetarian stuffing from the vegetarian, admiring at the same time her butternut squash soup, shrimp, trout, green beans, mashed potatoes, cheese pasta, potato salad, macaroni salad, white bread, coconut cream pie [just a mouthful] and clump of Black Forest cake.)
We even had a table by the window, in the corner of the large room where I could surreptitiously snap my digital camera (once toward the sky) and revel in our Thanksgiving companions, many of whom turned up in groups of four or six or eight, forks poised high for pie.
In all, it was a memorable day, capped off by a leisurely evening drive adjacent pristine Mennonite farmland, and an eventual wending down to Lakeshore Road and on through the town of my high school youth, where I called out (as I always do), "Look! Nick Horuzi's store was there! And that was an IGA. That's where I fell in front of David Jenkins and tore my brand new pants. Oh look...it's Sandy's apartment building -- but they've ripped up the Volkswagen dealership. Sandy and I were going..." on and on and on.
Of all the tender moments that I will take away with me today, however, one will remain outstanding.
We were walking in the wind in St. Jacob's (I saw a lot of blowing laundry today, which was heartening) along an upper street of houses -- magnificent houses -- one of them transformed into a manor for retirees. (And manor is an apt description.) Glancing up at one of the many windows in this meandering brick home, I saw two people -- each over eighty years of age, there is no doubt -- one, sitting at a table consuming a midday meal, the other leaning on a walker, facing me, staring out, regarding, penetrating in fact, not moving, curious but holding her own.
I smiled back shyly, looked away, glanced again, then walked on, pulling my coat around me in the blustery cold, happy, feeling suddenly younger, grateful, understood, valued, lucky (not fortunate as much as lucky, although I'd be hard-pressed to name the nuanced difference). Maybe the way that sweet curly-haired twenty-something man felt yesterday, the one who let -- encouraged -- me to take a picture of his British bulldog, Gus, the dog hanging out of the quickly-opened back window -- a ham for any camera, said his owner -- all of this exchange taking place at a stoplight, one car to the other, on Saturday afternoon.
There is no doubt that life is rich and wonderful when we can sit with family and friends and celebrate Thanksgiving. But, when weighed against the unexpected, the delightful, the touching interchanges and exchanges that occur when I am made to wander further afield, when I can share a knowing, momentary glance (I imagine now a baton being passed in a relay race), I realize that there is so much more for which I should be thankful, and that sometimes I have to leave the comforts, and the confines, of my home, to know exactly what that is.
Friday, October 9
In Honour of Matthew Shepard
I was in tears even before his mother sat down. I can't imagine anyone who knows what happened to Matthew Shepard not having the same response, although I know I am wrong in that assumption.
Robbed, pistol whipped, and tied to a fence in a remote area near Laramie, Wyoming on October 7, 1998, Matthew Shepard ultimately died from multiple injuries that included a fracture to the back of his head, resulting in severe brain stem damage and, ultimately, death. He was attacked because he was gay (although I can't imagine anyone living in this hemisphere who is unaware of this fact or his fate).
Matthew's mother, Judith Shepard, reported that during his high school trip to Morocco, Matthew had been beaten and raped, causing him bouts of depression and panic attacks and subsequent periods of withdrawal. His mother also revealed today on the Ellen Degeneres Show that her son was not alone the night he died. A doe, nesting close by, was discovered next to Shepard by Aaron Kreifels (who initially mistook Matthew for a scarecrow and) who found the young man 18 hours after the slaughter.
According to the Los Angeles Times, Capitol Hill today approved a long-debated bill that would strengthen the federal hate-crime law designed to cover violence against gays. "The measure, expected to come before the Senate within days, faced a veto threat from President George W. Bush, but enjoys the support of President Obama." The full article is here:
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/washington/2009/10/gay-rights-hate-bill-matthew-shephard.html
There can be no recompense made to this boy who is dead. But it is heartening, at least, to know that Matthew Shepard has likely helped more people find their way home, so to speak, and has helped them do so with confidence and pride.
For more information on ways to help, see the Matthew Shepard Foundation.
Robbed, pistol whipped, and tied to a fence in a remote area near Laramie, Wyoming on October 7, 1998, Matthew Shepard ultimately died from multiple injuries that included a fracture to the back of his head, resulting in severe brain stem damage and, ultimately, death. He was attacked because he was gay (although I can't imagine anyone living in this hemisphere who is unaware of this fact or his fate).
Matthew's mother, Judith Shepard, reported that during his high school trip to Morocco, Matthew had been beaten and raped, causing him bouts of depression and panic attacks and subsequent periods of withdrawal. His mother also revealed today on the Ellen Degeneres Show that her son was not alone the night he died. A doe, nesting close by, was discovered next to Shepard by Aaron Kreifels (who initially mistook Matthew for a scarecrow and) who found the young man 18 hours after the slaughter.
According to the Los Angeles Times, Capitol Hill today approved a long-debated bill that would strengthen the federal hate-crime law designed to cover violence against gays. "The measure, expected to come before the Senate within days, faced a veto threat from President George W. Bush, but enjoys the support of President Obama." The full article is here:
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/washington/2009/10/gay-rights-hate-bill-matthew-shephard.html
There can be no recompense made to this boy who is dead. But it is heartening, at least, to know that Matthew Shepard has likely helped more people find their way home, so to speak, and has helped them do so with confidence and pride.
For more information on ways to help, see the Matthew Shepard Foundation.
Thursday, October 8
Fish Tales
For Mary, who is having an especially hard week. Remember what Sarah said: "Just ginore them -- right, Daddy?
Pollock
Hamlet
Jane Herring
As You Pike It
Kingfish Lear
Bettantil Dark
Harlequin Bass
Tom and Geryi
Charlotte GRAY
The ChangeLING
A Starfish Is Born
Grimm Fairy Scales
Tail of Two Cities
Green Salmon Eggs
A Shot in the Shark
Eel Take You There
Crawdaddy Daycare
Sailfin in the Sunset
The Grapes of Wrasse
To Keel a Mockingbird
The Moray the Merrier
The Day of the Mackerel
For Whom the Shell Tolls
The Picture of Dorian Cray
Sardine Grows in Brooklyn
Rohu Rohu Rohu Your Boat
James and the Giant Perch
Anchovy Grows in Brooklyn?
Little Red Sea Mimic Blenny
The Hake-ing of Ned Devine
The Shoal Man and the Sea
In the GARden of Good and Evil
The Poetry of Plankton Hughes
The Old Man and the Sea Horse
When Pandra Cory Came to Town
Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamprey
How Green Was My Half-Gallon Tank
Oh Cod, You Devil! (sequel to Oh Cod, You Devilfish)
Cat on a Hot Tuna Roof (sequel to Catfish on...)
Five Little Pepper Tetras and How They Grew
Gone With the Twin Spot Flag Cichlid
The Old Man and the Sebae Clownfish
CHARlie and the Chocolate Factory
Wahoo Has Seen the Wind?
Figure Eight Puffer Cousins
Under the Tuscan Sunfish
Troilius and Crustacean
Snapper, Crackle, Pop!
Flowers for Algaenon
The Stone Angel Fish
Loki and the Bandit
Never Cry Wolf Eel
A Plaice in the Sun
The Rudd Balloon
Sandusky Piranha
A Christmas Dory
Gilliver's Travels
Mrs. Minnowver
Gill on the Floss
Porgy and Bass
Huckleberry Fin
The Grass Carp
Trout of Africa
Cape Codfish
Chard Times
Macbetheral
Goby Dick
Flounder
Pollock
Hamlet
Jane Herring
As You Pike It
Kingfish Lear
Bettantil Dark
Harlequin Bass
Tom and Geryi
Charlotte GRAY
The ChangeLING
A Starfish Is Born
Grimm Fairy Scales
Tail of Two Cities
Green Salmon Eggs
A Shot in the Shark
Eel Take You There
Crawdaddy Daycare
Sailfin in the Sunset
The Grapes of Wrasse
To Keel a Mockingbird
The Moray the Merrier
The Day of the Mackerel
For Whom the Shell Tolls
The Picture of Dorian Cray
Sardine Grows in Brooklyn
Rohu Rohu Rohu Your Boat
James and the Giant Perch
Anchovy Grows in Brooklyn?
Little Red Sea Mimic Blenny
The Hake-ing of Ned Devine
The Shoal Man and the Sea
In the GARden of Good and Evil
The Poetry of Plankton Hughes
The Old Man and the Sea Horse
When Pandra Cory Came to Town
Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamprey
How Green Was My Half-Gallon Tank
Oh Cod, You Devil! (sequel to Oh Cod, You Devilfish)
Cat on a Hot Tuna Roof (sequel to Catfish on...)
Five Little Pepper Tetras and How They Grew
Gone With the Twin Spot Flag Cichlid
The Old Man and the Sebae Clownfish
CHARlie and the Chocolate Factory
Wahoo Has Seen the Wind?
Figure Eight Puffer Cousins
Under the Tuscan Sunfish
Troilius and Crustacean
Snapper, Crackle, Pop!
Flowers for Algaenon
The Stone Angel Fish
Loki and the Bandit
Never Cry Wolf Eel
A Plaice in the Sun
The Rudd Balloon
Sandusky Piranha
A Christmas Dory
Gilliver's Travels
Mrs. Minnowver
Gill on the Floss
Porgy and Bass
Huckleberry Fin
The Grass Carp
Trout of Africa
Cape Codfish
Chard Times
Macbetheral
Goby Dick
Flounder
Wednesday, October 7
Email Alert
And if anyone wonders why I often put up other people's poems and not a 'real' entry (although the quality of the poetry speaks for its eloquent self), my friend Mark just reminded me that I am something of an avid emailer...which prompted me to dash through my files and do a quick count for today: 113 email, all sent by me (those aren't the ones I received, a number likely almost as high...because of the fundraiser, not because I'm popular...although I almost wrote 'poplar' as in the tree) -- and all before suppertime. Yikes. That's a little bit scary (which, for those of you who watch Little Britain, know is less scary than being a little bit on fire).
I wonder sometimes what I did before email, and how any of us got anything done. Mind you, when I add up the hours I spend typing, it's a wonder I accomplish anything outside of this room.
In the meantime, I have to haul out that old Thanksgiving tune and send it 'round. It's time to remind family and friends of that favourite holiday standard. And how many emails will that be?
Gobble gobble.
I wonder sometimes what I did before email, and how any of us got anything done. Mind you, when I add up the hours I spend typing, it's a wonder I accomplish anything outside of this room.
In the meantime, I have to haul out that old Thanksgiving tune and send it 'round. It's time to remind family and friends of that favourite holiday standard. And how many emails will that be?
Gobble gobble.
To the City of Fire
If I forget you let my sleep dwindle
and vanish in the dark early mornings
Let sleep forget me until I learn
to keep you near and not stray and not rest
in my wanderings over your rutted face
How can you think it can ever be finished
between us Do you understand
how the jostlings and marketplaces
of any other city how any
meadow or china cup will summon you
dying my provenance eyes closed trailing
blood from the severed leg left in the trap
you made Do you think you will dance that dance
forever Listen There will be a night
when the steel din of your heartbeat will fall
almost silent when I will ask your clamor
from you and it will be given I mean
to stay I mean to last your rebuffs
betrayals trials of stamina and trust
I mean to part your smoke to sleep
my mindful sleep and with that strength hold you
and say the parting words over you
and listen to the manifold voices
of those you crushed struggle into speech
to give myself to help make what will come
Suzanne Gardinier
and vanish in the dark early mornings
Let sleep forget me until I learn
to keep you near and not stray and not rest
in my wanderings over your rutted face
How can you think it can ever be finished
between us Do you understand
how the jostlings and marketplaces
of any other city how any
meadow or china cup will summon you
dying my provenance eyes closed trailing
blood from the severed leg left in the trap
you made Do you think you will dance that dance
forever Listen There will be a night
when the steel din of your heartbeat will fall
almost silent when I will ask your clamor
from you and it will be given I mean
to stay I mean to last your rebuffs
betrayals trials of stamina and trust
I mean to part your smoke to sleep
my mindful sleep and with that strength hold you
and say the parting words over you
and listen to the manifold voices
of those you crushed struggle into speech
to give myself to help make what will come
Suzanne Gardinier
Tuesday, October 6
David Letterman Finds Courage
You know how you have those days when you keep telling yourself you shouldn't feel as bad as you do or as bad as you told yourself you wouldn't let yourself feel (and it doesn't help when [your typically ebullient] partner feels the same way, and perhaps even worse), and how you look for things to make the day brighter (an image of Rudyard Kipling's poem If [my mother had it hanging from the refrigerator for years, which I seemed to have replaced with that loving verse from Corinthians] just flew into my head)...well, I have to say that the bulk of my outside concentration this week has gone to David Letterman.
I am always fascinated by moral and philosophical conundrums, even when the conundrum is really more of an internal dilemma that has become external, rather than the other way around. (I am not sure that makes any sense, although I know what I mean.)
For years, I have been sitting in my small corner annoyed by the fact that David Letterman always seems to have on his show luscious, excitable actresses. He paws and moons over these young starlets as if he is about to frantically ask for a date. Many times I have turned to channel 4 at 11:35 PM and lamented, vociferously, "Look...there's another one! He's behaving like a thirteen-year-old."
But I have to tell you, I have been more impressed with him this past week than I have since I was twenty-eight, and I mean that in a good way.
It takes courage ("C-c-c-courage!") to stand up and say what went -- how you went -- wrong.
It takes courage to point out your blackmailers, knowing that you will have to inadvertently confess and risk everything, and everyone, that you love.
It takes courage to state your own culpability, and not try sloughing things off onto everyone, or even someone, else.
It takes courage to acknowledge your wife's pain in front of millions; to confess that you have wronged her egregiously, and to state the obvious (that she might not be by your side in the future). It takes courage to say that you are sorry to and for the young women who have been hurt by you and who are now being hurt by the media.
It takes courage to not let the moments pass while pretending that this hasn't happened.
It takes courage to shoulder your responsibility and to try and make wrong things right.
C-c-c-courage.
We could all learn a lesson from David Letterman -- about honesty and responsibility and grace. We could all learn what we need to do in our own lives to make wrong things right.
I remember an anecdote I heard many years ago about the poet Robert Frost. A taxi driver was asking Frost the meaning of a poem, and the writer said something to the effect that a poem means many things, not all of them what the writer consciously (or even unconsciously) intended. Frost added that a poem can mean whatever you think it means, however it applies to your circumstances.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies...
I hope that David Letterman comes out the other side, his life in tact. I hope that people forgive him, that he forgives himself. And I hope that whenever I am having another really hard day I will remember that everyone makes mistakes and sometimes they actually stand up and say so.
I am always fascinated by moral and philosophical conundrums, even when the conundrum is really more of an internal dilemma that has become external, rather than the other way around. (I am not sure that makes any sense, although I know what I mean.)
For years, I have been sitting in my small corner annoyed by the fact that David Letterman always seems to have on his show luscious, excitable actresses. He paws and moons over these young starlets as if he is about to frantically ask for a date. Many times I have turned to channel 4 at 11:35 PM and lamented, vociferously, "Look...there's another one! He's behaving like a thirteen-year-old."
But I have to tell you, I have been more impressed with him this past week than I have since I was twenty-eight, and I mean that in a good way.
It takes courage ("C-c-c-courage!") to stand up and say what went -- how you went -- wrong.
It takes courage to point out your blackmailers, knowing that you will have to inadvertently confess and risk everything, and everyone, that you love.
It takes courage to state your own culpability, and not try sloughing things off onto everyone, or even someone, else.
It takes courage to acknowledge your wife's pain in front of millions; to confess that you have wronged her egregiously, and to state the obvious (that she might not be by your side in the future). It takes courage to say that you are sorry to and for the young women who have been hurt by you and who are now being hurt by the media.
It takes courage to not let the moments pass while pretending that this hasn't happened.
It takes courage to shoulder your responsibility and to try and make wrong things right.
C-c-c-courage.
We could all learn a lesson from David Letterman -- about honesty and responsibility and grace. We could all learn what we need to do in our own lives to make wrong things right.
I remember an anecdote I heard many years ago about the poet Robert Frost. A taxi driver was asking Frost the meaning of a poem, and the writer said something to the effect that a poem means many things, not all of them what the writer consciously (or even unconsciously) intended. Frost added that a poem can mean whatever you think it means, however it applies to your circumstances.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies...
I hope that David Letterman comes out the other side, his life in tact. I hope that people forgive him, that he forgives himself. And I hope that whenever I am having another really hard day I will remember that everyone makes mistakes and sometimes they actually stand up and say so.
Monday, October 5
Giving Thanks at Thanksgiving
I was considering lamenting that we had no bountiful plans for Thanksgiving this year. I had come to grow somewhat dependent on an annual invitation, taking almost for granted the fact that we would be welcome among this convivial group of people who are my age and of similar political leanings...whatever that means. It was lovely participating in a Walton family-sized celebration, anticipating the fabulous food and the festive mood, and feeling a part of the collective. I confess that several times throughout the summer I wondered if I would get a call back or a response to an email, and if on those occasions there would be mention of what felt like a growing holiday tradition. After all, you don't need a farm to celebrate Thanksgiving.
Given, too, that my daughter has had to work every Thanksgiving for the past umpteen years, including this one, and considering that my son had been living in BC and that this year will be in Quebec attending his close friend's wedding, it hasn't been practical to do the family thing.
So why, I keep asking myself, am I okay without having any definite plans?
It could be because this past weekend was spent having a sweet time with my daughter in Ottawa, right down to a home-cooked ham dinner with mashed potatoes and carrots.
It might be because more than any recent year I feel a kind of happier consolidation among my family, a slow coming together after the sudden upheaval and loss that occurred a few years ago. (The loss of Don is indelible, of course, but that's not what I mean.)
It's likely partly because I have new people in my life, and while I am careful about calling anyone friend, these women are warm and lively and inclusive and, for the most part, couldn't care less about my sexual leanings (something that has been hauled out and used as that devastatingly subtle final excuse more times than I can stand to look at).
I think, too, it has something to do with last Christmas, and our gypsy-like sojourn to Ottawa to visit my family. Of course, the fact of those remarkable babies is certainly key.
It might also tie in with this interminable cold and my head being stuffed right into oblivion.
Or it might be because when I look over my shoulder at the calendar, the days are so crowded with upcoming events (the Fowl Supper, art classes, volunteer reading, helping Mike at the craft fair, helping Michael with the conference, heritage awards, tending to Lainey, picking up the wine in Prince County...) (oh yes...and daily work) that I have learned to see the sense in that balance.
I am not sure what I am trying to say. Mostly, I think it is that I have much to be thankful for, and that what I am thankful for has to be shared with the right people at the right time; that we can't manage our lives, or other people's lives, because when we do that we often end up with something that isn't quite right for us; that it ought to be enough, and it is enough, to have children, and their children, and someone with whom to discuss what ought to be done for Thanksgiving.
This year, in fact, I think we are going to St. Jacob's Mennonite village...an idea we had simultaneously. The drive is always so beautiful (oh, those leaves), the storekeepers friendly, the fudge and maple syrup delectable, the cheese, bakery goods, handmade furniture, local crafts all enticing, and the mood and their restaurant meals absolutely perfect for any Thanksgiving Day.
But no matter where we go or we don't go, I am happy and grateful for all that has been given to me. I don't need a turkey dinner or a family-sized table -- as much as I have always been appreciative of that, too -- to remind me of all that I have.
Given, too, that my daughter has had to work every Thanksgiving for the past umpteen years, including this one, and considering that my son had been living in BC and that this year will be in Quebec attending his close friend's wedding, it hasn't been practical to do the family thing.
So why, I keep asking myself, am I okay without having any definite plans?
It could be because this past weekend was spent having a sweet time with my daughter in Ottawa, right down to a home-cooked ham dinner with mashed potatoes and carrots.
It might be because more than any recent year I feel a kind of happier consolidation among my family, a slow coming together after the sudden upheaval and loss that occurred a few years ago. (The loss of Don is indelible, of course, but that's not what I mean.)
It's likely partly because I have new people in my life, and while I am careful about calling anyone friend, these women are warm and lively and inclusive and, for the most part, couldn't care less about my sexual leanings (something that has been hauled out and used as that devastatingly subtle final excuse more times than I can stand to look at).
I think, too, it has something to do with last Christmas, and our gypsy-like sojourn to Ottawa to visit my family. Of course, the fact of those remarkable babies is certainly key.
It might also tie in with this interminable cold and my head being stuffed right into oblivion.
Or it might be because when I look over my shoulder at the calendar, the days are so crowded with upcoming events (the Fowl Supper, art classes, volunteer reading, helping Mike at the craft fair, helping Michael with the conference, heritage awards, tending to Lainey, picking up the wine in Prince County...) (oh yes...and daily work) that I have learned to see the sense in that balance.
I am not sure what I am trying to say. Mostly, I think it is that I have much to be thankful for, and that what I am thankful for has to be shared with the right people at the right time; that we can't manage our lives, or other people's lives, because when we do that we often end up with something that isn't quite right for us; that it ought to be enough, and it is enough, to have children, and their children, and someone with whom to discuss what ought to be done for Thanksgiving.
This year, in fact, I think we are going to St. Jacob's Mennonite village...an idea we had simultaneously. The drive is always so beautiful (oh, those leaves), the storekeepers friendly, the fudge and maple syrup delectable, the cheese, bakery goods, handmade furniture, local crafts all enticing, and the mood and their restaurant meals absolutely perfect for any Thanksgiving Day.
But no matter where we go or we don't go, I am happy and grateful for all that has been given to me. I don't need a turkey dinner or a family-sized table -- as much as I have always been appreciative of that, too -- to remind me of all that I have.
Thursday, October 1
Fact or Fiction?
It's no wonder so many people look at me as if I am crazy.
I just spent over an hour seeking out and adding to the 'factual' side of an email forward I received from my friend Sheila, entitled Proof That The World Is Nuts. Maybe it ought to have read The Proof Is In The Pudding.
But it does drive me toward a point of insanity when I read facts and have no way of knowing whether or not they have any validity. It isn't so much about the truthfulness, but about ferreting out the actual data. I really do want to know if bestiality in Lebanon is permitted -- or if it was permitted -- and if so, when, and why, and how did the change in laws come about...and so on.
The Internet is a marvellous cyberspace place, but how a person can ever know what is true or accurate is beyond me, and too often, I think, beyond it.
Some stories, of course, are easier to access -- perhaps because they are local or pervasive or easily proved. Take for example, Toronto's City Councillor, Speaker of the Assembly Sandra Bussin, who called into John Tory's CFRB radio phone-in show last Friday and called him a "three time loser" and then, when asked if she worked for the city, said, "No."
While I understand a moment of passion -- with me, it's more like years of passion -- and while I have lied over the phone as much as anyone I know, I think that a person should follow her intuition and either a) not call, or b) face the piper and answer the question honestly.
John Tory's response to her call reads, “When you look at city council, almost any day the standard of behaviour would not meet that required at any dinner table, would not meet that required in any classroom. It’s not healthy and it’s, I think, one of the main reasons why people are so fed up with politicians and with City Hall generally. They see people playing games all the time and issuing insults but not really producing any results.”
And speaking of honesty, I have seen the mayor in action -- I used to take groups of students to council days, for example -- and my past experience as a waitress and bartender, and even as a woman, has led me to ultimately believe that he is not a man I would like to break bread with. (OK, have it your way: He is a man with whom I would not like to break bread.)
I say this mostly because he strikes me as someone who is entirely clear about whom he deigns have sit at his table, and there is something of the Old Boys' Network that issues around his coattails -- an observation that stunned me when I first made it...of this man of whom I was initially so fond, even when he dismissed off-handedly the 7/11 employee in High Park. (Miller was buying orange juice and I, smitten, watched from the doorway. At that time I excused what, to me, was his rudeness by fantasizing that he had a cold and was in a Vitamin C emergency hurry.)
On top of that, I have also witnessed the aggressive, mocking, rude, childish, inept behaviour of many of the City Hall councillors as they banter, debate, disengage, deride and wander off topic. The students -- all of whom are adult, and many of whom have (what my mother used to refer to as) "responsible jobs" in their home countries -- were appalled, wondering why it was thus in this 'civilized' country.
Anyway, I am wandering off topic, which is that a person would be hard-pressed to tell how much of what passes across the Internet is true. The eyes and the ears tell a much clearer story, as does the heart, and in this, at least, I am not even close to crazy.
<:^)
I just spent over an hour seeking out and adding to the 'factual' side of an email forward I received from my friend Sheila, entitled Proof That The World Is Nuts. Maybe it ought to have read The Proof Is In The Pudding.
But it does drive me toward a point of insanity when I read facts and have no way of knowing whether or not they have any validity. It isn't so much about the truthfulness, but about ferreting out the actual data. I really do want to know if bestiality in Lebanon is permitted -- or if it was permitted -- and if so, when, and why, and how did the change in laws come about...and so on.
The Internet is a marvellous cyberspace place, but how a person can ever know what is true or accurate is beyond me, and too often, I think, beyond it.
Some stories, of course, are easier to access -- perhaps because they are local or pervasive or easily proved. Take for example, Toronto's City Councillor, Speaker of the Assembly Sandra Bussin, who called into John Tory's CFRB radio phone-in show last Friday and called him a "three time loser" and then, when asked if she worked for the city, said, "No."
While I understand a moment of passion -- with me, it's more like years of passion -- and while I have lied over the phone as much as anyone I know, I think that a person should follow her intuition and either a) not call, or b) face the piper and answer the question honestly.
John Tory's response to her call reads, “When you look at city council, almost any day the standard of behaviour would not meet that required at any dinner table, would not meet that required in any classroom. It’s not healthy and it’s, I think, one of the main reasons why people are so fed up with politicians and with City Hall generally. They see people playing games all the time and issuing insults but not really producing any results.”
And speaking of honesty, I have seen the mayor in action -- I used to take groups of students to council days, for example -- and my past experience as a waitress and bartender, and even as a woman, has led me to ultimately believe that he is not a man I would like to break bread with. (OK, have it your way: He is a man with whom I would not like to break bread.)
I say this mostly because he strikes me as someone who is entirely clear about whom he deigns have sit at his table, and there is something of the Old Boys' Network that issues around his coattails -- an observation that stunned me when I first made it...of this man of whom I was initially so fond, even when he dismissed off-handedly the 7/11 employee in High Park. (Miller was buying orange juice and I, smitten, watched from the doorway. At that time I excused what, to me, was his rudeness by fantasizing that he had a cold and was in a Vitamin C emergency hurry.)
On top of that, I have also witnessed the aggressive, mocking, rude, childish, inept behaviour of many of the City Hall councillors as they banter, debate, disengage, deride and wander off topic. The students -- all of whom are adult, and many of whom have (what my mother used to refer to as) "responsible jobs" in their home countries -- were appalled, wondering why it was thus in this 'civilized' country.
Anyway, I am wandering off topic, which is that a person would be hard-pressed to tell how much of what passes across the Internet is true. The eyes and the ears tell a much clearer story, as does the heart, and in this, at least, I am not even close to crazy.
<:^)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)