Author: catchmydrift.blog

I've had a career as an elementary school teacher. During that time I wrote for newspapers and magazines. Writing is a part of my daily life: It's a way to understand my thoughts, reach out to the world, offer an opinion and record my passage. I take joy in words as other artists express themselves through dance, acting, sculpture or paint. A single word can evoke powerful visions. I see life as a celebration. Like all humans I am complex and curious even while some have called me conventional. I follow my father's belief that everything can be awesome, if you choose it to be. I'm a work in progress, just like this blog, now with 300 postings of thought and ideas. Social media, like pen palling or ham radio connections of yore, can be a positive way to build that great, vast realm that is human consciousness. Leave me a comment if you are so moved or Substack https://mrrobertthompson.substack.com/ or on Bluesky @wh0n0z.bsky.social

Re: Dent

Going to a dentist can put a dent in your bank account, especially if you don’t have insurance. I’ve never understood why teeth, eyes, and feet are not considered body parts worthy of Canada’s excellent health care system. I arranged a meeting with my Member of Parliament regarding the fact that my pension was considered too high for me to be included in the new free-access dental plan. Nothing was done about my complaint. That put a dent in my ego.

A teen-aged friend of mine once shocked me by purposefully kicking his car’s body, creating a noticeable dent on the surface. He had just brought it home from a used-car lot. I was congratulating him for being able to afford wheels. He explained that he didn’t want to drive around feeling worried all the time about that inevitable first fender-bender. This way he could make his mark before someone else did. Maybe in his mind he felt one good dent did not deserve another. He drove that car for a long time. It collected lots of scars. He called it a ‘Beater’, claiming it still worked, wouldn’t get stolen, and was easy to spot in a parking lot. A car with character!

Dents don’t need to be viewed as negative, or so I learned from that friend. A mar on something doesn’t means the object is close to being discarded. Taken to the extreme, we may look at others, spot their imperfections, and pass them off as abnormal. This fact of human nature makes me applaud plastic surgeons who enable children born with cleft pallets to appear normal. I would normally see these procedures as an act of vanity when it comes to rich folk maintaining their youthful looks (to me that’s a dent in character). But judgement is a slippery slope when it comes to defining Need, or Perfection. That’s why there are Art critics.

Sometimes aberrations in the flow while looking at an object can be pleasing to the eye. Furniture can be purposefully distressed to add to its design features. Raw edge shelving is hot right now, because I think it speaks to the variety found in nature; a smooth shoreline can be eroded by tidal action, wave action can make dents of all shapes and sizes in sandstone, just as the drip-drip-drip of raindrops in a temperate rain forest can sculpt the hardest rock. My definition of Beauty is not Perfection. Age creates its own sort of beauty; wrinkles can be the most intriguing make-up in my opinion. 

Growing older creates dents in our physical selves. The other day I scratched off a hard denticle-like thing on my skin, which resolved into a small crater. I wondered if I was moving into a shark-like phase of development. Mentally, I like beginning a project, or making a dent in it, before I run out of energy or motivation. There are increasing dents in my memory, but I think that just makes me a funny old grandpa. Hopefully not one who needs dentures.

Re: Skin

A quick wikipedia search reveals that the skin on our bodies is the largest human organ; about 15% of the total boy weight. That fact is amazing considering the lack of attention it gets in campaigns for better health. Most likely we consider the heart first. Perhaps this is valid since, once it stops beating, we are dead. But other organs come before skin in discussions too: “Did you hear, she’s got lung cancer!” “He drank so much and his liver is shot.” “I told you over and over that smoking pot would addle your brain.”

Of course we are warned to cover-up in the summer time. I’ve always loved the freedom I feel on a sandy beach. I can lay for hours basking on a towel and absorbing all that beautiful sunny warmth. The last time I went to my dermatologist for a check-up he asked if I would consider using sunscreen. He just smiled when I said, “Nah.” I have my reasons, none of them satisfactory excuses: I don’t like the feel of the SPF cream on my skin. I’ve heard that all those doses, washing off in the water, are killing the coral reefs. It’s just another cosmetic industry scam to make us buy product to line shareholders’ pockets. Anyway, I love sporting a tanned body.

In another lifetime, I must have been starved of touch, because there are days when I yearn for physical contact. In university, I learned about a study done on baby monkeys, involving two fake monkey mothers, one made of wire and holding a baby bottle of liquid nourishment, and another model without the bottle but covered in soft cloth. The study showed that the babies would prefer time on the cloth model, even at the expense of growing hungry. Modern maternity nurses are well aware of the value of skin-to-skin contact from the moment of birth. Skin hunger is a real, documented phenomenon. To crave skin is not a sin, but society has made it suggestively sexual, or perverted, no thanks to stories of flaying, like in Silence of the Lambs.

I would not describe myself as a ‘touchy-feely’ sort of guy. I’m too private a person for inclusion in a Naturist Resort, although I respect the idea that we can be free to be in our Birthday Suit. I don’t walk around with a sign printed, ‘Free Hugs’ at street corners. But I do like to hold hands, shake hands, and other wise use my hands to make contact with another. I’m happy to have found this sort of skin-ship with my life-mate. I still remember the first time she touched me, after asking permission, on my thigh. I’ve talked to others who recall their first hand-hold while walking, which awakened their longing to belong. 

Skin can be a barrier, a germ protector, or a first line of defence against disease. Skin also allows us to feel a oneness with others, even with another species. There’s a reason why pet ownership is so popular. Stroking is part of a healthy lifestyle.

Re: Monster

We are in a period of history where monsters appear around every corner. I like reading the newspaper to my blind 97 year old special mom but lately I’m finding myself censoring the content because the reports trouble her so much. Even mild-mannered folks like me are peppering our conversations with tales of monstrous behaviour. A recent New York Times crossword had a single word clue: Boogeyman. The correct answer was a four letter word: Fear.

There are monsters that reside within us and monsters we fear from without. A powerful new film of the fictional character Frankenstein focuses on The Bride! (his). The director skillfully helped me think of Franky resulting from the cruelty of humanity: A product of society patching together the pieces that create deviant behaviour. Therefore there is no blaming him when he seeks some companionship after 100 years alone. Being a fan of film, I’ve watched many representations of the evil that lies within. One of my regrets is calling my sister, in a moment of rage, a Bad Seed, after the movie of the same name. Who’s the monster now eh?

News media tends to label killers, ‘monsters’. I wonder how that human got to the place where committing murder is a valid option. I don’t believe in Damien-like individuals being born evil. Somewhere along the maturity spectrum the individual has morphed into a manipulator of horrid proportions. Obsession may lie at the root of anti-social behaviours. We’ve given The Donald a chance to be in charge of the world’s most powerful nation. How? He’s not a quietly calculating Norman Bates, yet he is just as creepy, and more deadly. 

As far as I know, there isn’t a DNA marker for evil. Despite all the work from psychologists there isn’t a definitive profile, or stereotypical pattern that would help a civilization unmask a monster, before an awful event. Parents often get blamed for abhorrent behaviour in their children. A mass shooting, by a late-adolescent in British Columbia, created a demand for a political enquiry into how such a thing could happen in peaceful, gun-regulated Canada. Government neglect, miscommunication, internet abuse, an intolerant community, and even Artificially Intelligent programming are being labelled as the monsters of the day in quiet Tumbler Ridge.

People like to watch horror movies to feel a fear reaction. Halloween continues to be a popular North American holiday for children to dress up as monsters (or their do-good adversaries). A current costume favourite for my granddaughter is to dress-up as one of the Kpop Demon Hunters, an update from my niece’s favourite Buffy the Vampire Slayer. My long dead mother used to love greasing her hair back, donning a cape, and placing fake fangs in her mouth, to scare children knocking on our door for treats. I never saw the attraction of fear and pleasure coinciding.

Monsters continue to be an imaginary fascination for young and old alike, so it puzzles me why we are so surprised when real monsters show up at our doorstep.

Re: Tray

About three years ago I looked in a bathroom mirror and shrieked like a deranged lemur. For some reason, and apparently almost overnight, my lower middle incisors had crowded together like those crossed cement barriers on WWII’s Juno Beach. That moment was a decisive turning point in my dithering campaign to solve my peg-tooth issue. This ‘dental action’ rivals some military ops and will involve modern prosthetics at some point, so brace yourself.

A tray was once, only something I would get at a cafeteria to load plates onto as I selected my food in high school. A trey in cards doesn’t count because of spelling. I had considered no other use for the word until I discovered trays are the new braces used to realign teeth. When he was barely a teenager, my eldest son had such a painful experience with those old-timey metal devices he actually tried to cut them off with kitchen scissors. The poor lad also had something called a Neo-blastoma that is still being talked about at dental conferences throughout North America. His history was my history so I was a bit squeamish about ‘braces’. But hooray for technology! I was glad when I saw these clear plastic form-fitting trays so I relaxed a bit. But first I had to get an extraction (cue ominous music).

I had never visited a dentist until I was 18. I learned two things back then: I had a strangeIy angled molar which the dentist at the time wanted to pull-out. I said no thanks, but was grateful he had pointed out I had strong enamel. So time passed and I found myself a career as a teacher, which came with a dandy dental plan. With my champion enamel (I kept being told), I have had only three cavities, so I never viewed going to the dental offices with trepidation. 

But now I had to sacrifice one of my pearly-whites so the rest of my teeth could stand at attention properly. I had a 360 degree head scan that captured an amazing view of my jaw, making me look like my head had been found in an archeological dig, and carbon dated to sometime in the BC years. These neanderthal features showed the tooth-that-must-be-pulled, along with my tipping over band of soldiers. I chose to be anesthetized to minimize the trauma. It was done in a second! My bride drove me home while I floated beside her on roads made of marshmallows. 

Why was I making such a fuss, I had to ask myself when I came back to full consciousness. Weeks later I had a better attitude when I was fitted for my trays which would continue the realignment of my smile. I was pumped for the novelty of being in my seventies and wearing invisible braces. Wearing them 22 hours a day made for a readjusted eating schedule. Each time I graduate to a new set of trays I suffer growing-pains but it’s bearable. I like the thought that I have some control over my body as it returns to dust. After all, we’re just part of a celestial wind.

Re: Canvas

Lovely are the days when the sky is like canvas: It can be milky white, soft grey, or baby blue, as any base colour will do. It’s the expectancy that’s magical. You might be thinking specifics (ex. visual art) but I am going to explore all of life as a canvas, where the individual can make a uniquely authoritative impression. 

We have the ultimate authority to decide once the accident of our birth has passed. Some have advantage. Some are squelched. Some are burdened by culture. Some must push against obstacles while others leap over them. The world is not fair and restrictions exist, but our personal authority is what matters. This is freedom: we get to decide. I wish that all humanity had the same opportunities to decide that I have felt through my existence. Freedom means choice, and I have had a lot of free choice when it has come to painting my canvas. 

While you are canvassing your thoughts about this idea of personal authority, consider how we do that during an election. I’ve volunteered to canvas my neighbourhood for various political parties. Anyone who has done this knows it can be risky. You are making yourself vulnerable to another person’s opinion. We may not all reside under the same canvas tent. Some of my favourite interactions have been when I’ve been allowed as a canvasser to respectfully present my view while the canvas-ee shows how they’ve painted their life in a pleasing way. We can agree to disagree because I believe Politics is like Art: It’s subjective.

My dad was a visual artist. He would get excited over a fresh square of canvas. The placement of the equipment was deliberate. He needed time to see his work before he had even begun to outline it. Inspiration and planning; all rolled into a single musical thought. I would watch him humming as he made his first brushstroke, much like a sailor might raise his canvas sail hoping that the wind would blow, just right, to send his craft onward. A baby must feel this same sensation on rising onto two legs for the first time. With new height comes an expanded view, with unknown possibilities. “Wait!” thinks the tot, “I’d better sit down for a minute to process.” Parents, anxiously watching, may have their own designs on this blank canvas they’ve recently birthed, but their authority won’t last long.

Ultimately the decisions will be ours to make. Some of our choices will depend on current fashion. What we display on our conscious canvas may be at odds with current trends or we may wish to seek a common thread. Likely, who we are will be a work-in-progress. Some may have their canvas damaged like a storm distorts the peaceful blue of the sky. But most things can be mended with time. We may choose to cover-over what came before, so we can make a space for what is yet-to-be. Or we can quilt the fragments of our past to blend with what is now. It’s up to us.

Re: Ego

If having a fragile ego means you’re sensitive to criticism then I guess that is one of my many maladies. My exploration of this word is sort of relating to The Donald who is riding a wave of ‘Make Narcissism Respectable Again’ (nazism, consumerism, and sexism also). My whole psyche is fragile since Trumpet’s Team took over amurca. The white house of horrors holds egotists all, so I’m perplexed how my healthy self-esteem fits into this puzzle that’s so Mar-a-la-go-first.

I was taught to be humble, and also to be proud of my achievements. I learned in Kindergarten that it’s better not to budge into line. In high school I saw value in advocating for myself. In a competition I feel better if I’ve won yet I want to acknowledge, with sincerity, the efforts of my opponent. Joining self with others is a complicated maneuver. It would be nice if a trusted AI could pose in a Freud persona so I could grill the robot questions about Ego, Id, and Super-Ego (I still can’t sort them out). I suppose that makes me a failure (or conversely I could  just blame the whole school-of-psychology movement for not making things clearer). It’s all their fault, because I’m perfect just the way I am!

Being a self-published author, I question whether my writing is good, since I haven’t been assessed by the literati. Of course my ego gets boosted when someone compliments me. Don’t we all? My mom used to warn me not to inflate my self-image lest my head get too fat to fit through the door. The big theme right now suggests that a person shouldn’t need others to validate them, yet even loners like me are connected somehow.

There is a decent film called Freud’s Last Session where the titular character and C.S. Lewis debate the existence/relevance of God. It is a contrived meeting yet beautifully imagined. Both actors get their egos stroked as they spar over the consequences of their conclusions. Lines from the script are illuminated to show weakness, fears, bravado, and compulsion. The conclusion I drew while watching this duet was that humans are fragile yet resilient. We must be patient enough to discover our own value while acknowledging the value of others.

Which leads me to the vintage television show that depicts this human conundrum expertly, ‘Cheers’. Bartenders are stereotyped to be expert at counselling, but amusingly, in this show if Sam Malone can’t help you then there is always Dr. Frazier Crane. Over the course of the series the characters learn from, and about, each other. The braggarts get their comeuppance and the meek get their moment in the sun. Tangentially, amidst the laughter, the mindful viewer gets to analyze their own self-esteem, self concept, self-loathing, and self deprecation without the heavy financial cost of psychoanalysis. Seek and ye shall find! Just don’t let the beer get in your way.

A healthy sense of self-respect is warranted when it comes to making your way in the world. You don’t need to be a braggadocio, just love others as you would like to be loved.

Re: Help

In the television series Abbot Elementary we are confronted with scenes of children streaming into a primary-school classroom full of energy for learning. The creators of this excellent show are also helping the viewer to understand maybe he/she/they didn’t learn all the lessons to be discovered when they were young. After the first season I realized I was being taught; that help comes in different packages, you can’t judge a book by its cover, and yes, you can teach old dogs new tricks.

Helpfulness is a wondrous value that can be taught, just ask any Kindergarten teacher. It starts with filtering our language so that helpful comments emerge rather than sarcasm. We grow as we extend helping hands to those in need. We can be curious in new situations rather than jumping to conclusions, then saying something discourteous. We don’t need to gain superiority by putdowns: It’s better to Boost than Boast. Anyone who has felt helpless (and that must be all of us at one time or another), knows how great it feels to be given assistance.

I believe that when you ask, you shall receive. I’m not bent in a religious manner, yet I understand the power behind prayer, even though I wouldn’t call a request for help a prayer, but you may think differently after I tell you the story of the lost glove. This particular glove had personal meaning, so when it went missing during a shopping trip with my wife, a search was initiated. The parking lot was scanned, the interior of our car searched, then my wife went back to the store to see what help might be found. As I stood leaning against the back of the car, I relaxed into wishful thinking. I honestly asked the forces-that-be to direct my thoughts and my senses. My eyes fell upon some early crocus bursting through the edge of the pavement by the sidewalk nearby. As I celebrated the wonder of spring –– the glove! There it was, just lying inches away from that flower, yet far away from any transit my wife or I had taken, as though it had been purposefully placed as a gift.

‘How can I help?’ Is the best question I hear whenever I am out in the big wide world. It can diffuse a bad situation or help me find the right aisle when I’m wandering aimlessly around a mall. As a teacher I know the power of that question to release a student’s anxiety or suffering. I used to make parents laugh when I observed that if schools were factories we wouldn’t make widgets, but smiles: Smiles of joy found by learning in a safe environment. All Helping Professionals use skills of empathy to reconstruct souls damaged by life. The help provided may be quick like a band-aid, or the answer to a life-long personal conundrum. As individuals we have a similar natural talent to care for each other. 

To receive help, the first step is to ask for it. The gift will be there, waiting.

Re: Abuse

A friend showed surprise when she saw that I was reading Nobody’s Girl by Virginia Roberts Giuffre. I told her I wanted to know one person’s account of the daily sound track that is the Jeffrey Epstein File. She admitted that she had to create a boundary to protect herself from the bombardment of reports of abuse from the United States of America. I could see her point.

Abuse happens when our boundaries are violated. The Giuffre memoir records her sexual abuse starting at age 8 from the hands of her father and subsequently her father’s friend. Those opening pages reminded me of my 9 year old sister being sexually touched by a neighbour in our apartment block. There were tears, shrieks of anger, police were called and then the drama all seemed to vanish. The trauma remained as it does for all who have been trespassed. At age 11, while in Boy Scouts, a fellow troop member tried to fondle me. I felt fear but couldn’t bring myself to report the incident to our leader. There is guilt, shame, and other complex emotions connected to incidents like these. Society’s view doesn’t often help. 

The Epsteins&Maxwells of this world are fortunately not many. In Canada the names of Bernardo&Homolka (The Ken&Barbie Killers) are familiar for similar sexual abuses. Yet these extremely selfish individuals have many enablers. All it can take is an off-hand remark or a nudge-nudge, wink-wink attitude. Those who joke about victims of abuse can live right next door, or work in the next office cubical.

Society failed Giuffre for not responding to several reports of abuse. Communities often look the other way when it comes to something regarded as unpleasant. When it comes to a person making themselves more important than another, I title that abuse. The simplicity of that definition stops my mind from playing a game of ‘Just how bad was it?’ Fundamentally, abuse is about power over another. Intimidation is abuse. Taking more resources than you need is abuse. Lying is abuse. Denying someone a chance to speak is abuse. Crowding another’s space is abuse. “I didn’t know.” Or “I didn’t mean it” will never be an excuse to me. Simply put, if you took advantage of the situation you have been abusive. 

In this regard it doesn’t matter to me what type of abuse we are discussing; sexual, mental, physical, financial, social, or emotional. Abuse can be subtle manipulation, gas lighting, or ghosting someone by not texting. If the only way your needs can be met is by trashing another, then that’s abuse. I used to say to my sons when they became teens and were subjected to the horrors of peer pressure that they could count on me for support. We talked a lot in those days about fairness and justice. I told them if they were ever in a compromising situation they could invoke my presence in their lives to others with, “My dad would kill me!” They could use me that way and I would be happier for it, because they might gain a measure of safety.

Re: Lobby

I walked through a swanky hotel lobby today. I was passing through to make a reservation at their guest restaurant for my 97 year old special mom’s birthday surprise. Lobbies are among my favourite places because they are usually decorated in a welcoming fashion. This makes me feel chill, and when I’m actually staying in a hotel I need to feel soothed from my travel anxieties. 

The comforting old word vestibule comes to mind as getting close to the feeling I get while in a lobby. These gathering places can be found in railway stations, libraries, theatres, legislative buildings, and even court houses. When I’m standing in grand, high-ceilinged vestibules I want to whisper, for fear of waking any traveller-spirit who might have come through this portal before I arrived on the scene. One of my favourite spots is Union Station in Toronto. Even if I don’t have a ticket to go somewhere, I have often sat on a bench in that building filling myself with the many stories swirling ethereal all around me. 

Years ago, my wife and I managed a condo building with a simple, yet elegant lobby. She took on the task of keeping it spotless, while I did the less-noticed backroom stuff. The building had security cameras located there so comings & goings were recorded. One early morning while mopping the slate floors, she witnessed a bold robbery of a Federal Postal Key. She challenged the thief, he tried to smooth talk his way out of the whole affair, eventually leaving. The entire moment was caught on tape, and eventually so was the perpetrator. My wife was a prime witness in court. It was a big deal! I remember the government lawyer (referring to the crook as the Lobby Lothario) telling my bride that she was made of tough stuff. Indeed she is.

Speaking of scenes on film, that song, “Let’s all go to the lobby…” is lodged in my childhood brain from numerous trips to the drive-in on a summer’s night. I wouldn’t call the soda fountain type, confection-stocked area, that is really a small shack in a parking lot, a lobby. But there we go playing around with words and muddling their meaning! Really!

Some people call themselves Lobbyists, which sounds more akin to an historical military division. While I think of it, there is a combat-style approach taken when lobbying the government for favours. Behind the glad-handing and off-side bribery there is a desire by Lobby Groups to circumvent the democratic process and seek special compensations for all manner of shady operations. The National Rifle Association is one of the darker operatives spending millions each year to persuade elected government officials to see things their way. Amidst all the swirling official papers, memoranda, and protocols the highly valued 2nd Amendment of their flawed Constitution lives on, thanks to the Gun Lobby. Meanwhile, the stories of many are lost to fixable violence (2025 statistics record over 40,000 deaths). 

This type of lobby is murderous and is going to require tougher stuff to bring justice.

Re: Routine

This month my wife and I will celebrate her mom’s 97th birthday. Since July of 2023 she has been part of our home-life. After her husband of 68 years died we couldn’t, in our hearts & minds, consign her to a nursing home so we brought her from Ontario, across the country to B.C. Since then I have been amazed at how similar the reality of her intimate presence has been to nurturing a child. There is wonder in this great responsibility. There is also struggle.

Because she is an intimate addition to our household, the routine of our lives must revolve around someone who relies on routine to give her a sense of place and pace. Like a child, anything out of the ordinary shakes her understanding. Complicating things is her poor vision, unpredictable hearing, and lapses in thinking. A regular routine of napping helps, as does keeping her appraised of appointments. We know things are working well when she sees her habits blending in with the daily household schedule.

This arrangement makes me question things like predictability, regimen, and system. I never did like rote-learning as a student, so I didn’t use it when I became a teacher. Drills, cycles, and patterns can soon become a treadmill existence. For some, like my special mom, there is comfort in customs: The usual formula brings a rhythm that is familiar to her. However, when I watch her eat a form of porridge, every single day, I cringe at the thought of ever being in such a rut. Mind you, I’m not so adventurous that I want to tread on every unbeaten path, but I like to think that my routines are flexible enough to be unafraid of novelty. 

I can be a creature of habit. It may seem ironic that in the midst of the methodical, sometimes ritual can be a chosen way-out of the mundane. For example, my wife and I love film so we carve-out time at the end of our busy day to watch a video. Our mom has to be set up with earphones that tap her into a much-loved audio book. The three of us can share the living room this way, without the constant demands of interaction. When I want to pursue ‘just me’ time I enjoy a book, a crossword, or writing an essay like this. My wife may take a solo walk on the breakwater near our home to recapture the extraordinariness of nature.

There is a daily grind to eldercare. My wife knows this fact all too well. From my somewhat removed perch I can more easily see a few upsides. I am getting to practise some values that I hold dear: Patience, Truth, Compassion, Empathy, Humour, Sacrifice. When my very dependent special mom ponders what I have read to her from the newspaper, then pauses to take a breath, and gives me a relatable story from her long-ago past, then, in that moment, I marvel at the value of Connection, and I am grateful for it in my life.