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: Secret

Hooray for me! I kept a secret while being a painfully honest person. That’s hard to do because with secrets come lies. To preserve the secret, a fib can feel inevitable. And I told several white lies. That’s how it went for me anyway, when I tried to surprise my bride of almost twenty years.

The story of this secret starts with me being pulled into a gallery by my wife to see, “The most amazing painting for our wall!” It was colourful and big, the original painting that is, but the lie became that size too. I went back to the gallery privately a total of six times to arrange the acquisition of my lover’s desire. Gallery staff became quickly amused by my instructions to keep everything Top Secret (at first it seemed like fun but I realized later that I was putting a lot on their shoulders). One employee actually offered to make up a story if ever she encountered my wife on a subsequent visit. Spies are needed in the secrecy business I guess. I insisted that all receipts and communication came to me through a selected email. Even with these well-laid plans I tried not to wince whenever it looked like I may have been discovered by the birthday girl. Long story short; the secret survived until the reveal of the gift. I was a hero but somewhat dazed and confused.

I read once that a secret was like carrying a fresh egg in the palm of your hand for days. My birthday secret was joyous but after months of deception I wondered about secrets that may cause injury. Secrets aren’t always a happy thing. For example we may see someone, a friend of a friend perhaps, in a compromising position. We may wonder if we should tell others involved about the secret being displayed. We may wonder if it’s our business to do so. There was a Jumbotron video capture at a Coldplay concert recently that led to someone being fired. What happened in Boston, didn’t stay in Boston.

Gossip is like a confidence that a friend has shared with us in the way that we must decide to be part of the secret or not. I wouldn’t trust a friend who told me never to share what he/she/they just told me. I don’t want that responsibility. I don’t want to be a confidante. If the secret is that precious I don’t know if I could be trustworthy enough to carry that fragile thing around with me. Being Cis, I can only imagine the turmoil that is a daily part of life for someone with gender dysphoria. What does one do with feeling constantly apart while trying to understand oneself? Society and its rules are responsible for making confidentiality ok sometimes, or a matter for public consumption depending on circumstance.

When my mom had to keep a secret she would confide that she wasn’t sure if her deodorant would hold up. I’m wondering now if that’s why antiperspirants were originally marketed to women. Sexist! My brand is Mennen. Don’t tell anyone.

Re: Poetry

I believe that Art (the essential practise, not the person) saves the world. From what, you might ask. Well, some may deny it, but the world would be a darker place without Art in its many forms. And I’m not talking about the art only accessed through galleries, theatres, or museums. I’m referring to the art that comes from within us; that creative process that can drive our imaginations. Art is found in nature, is replicated by human, and is a particle of the soul. By definition, Art was present at the moment of creation, and will remain to be witnessed long after humans have become extinct.

Poetry is an art form; an item on a page to be read, an expressive line to be spoken, an incantation to soothe, or a melody to be sung. Poetry is a practise, a methodology, and a natural response to our environment. A poem is often the first piece of writing read aloud to young children. When a mother sings a lullaby to her child, she is evoking a rhythmic talisman of love that was born centuries before and will light up lives for centuries to come. Blessed are the children who are encouraged to find the Art within.

Having said all this grand stuff I don’t wish to be imagined as this poetry-reading exclusionist. I don’t believe that a poem a day will keep the boogey-man away. However, I have been calmed by coming across a poem in a magazine, written on a subway wall, or copied onto a social media posting. I have written, mailed, or sung poetry for my lovers, relatives, friends, and once for an enemy. The latter poem –– scribbled in a rage of hateful words on a scrap of paper, spat on, torn into tiny pieces, buried in a muddy stream bank and stomped on –– was never delivered. Poems can relief stress. Poems can heal. Practising poetry can be a form of meditation. Poetry helps us to become our best selves.

I could list poets who have inspired me to recognize that I contain multitudes. Poets, who suggest that we have value because we are unique, need to be heard. Shel Silverstein comes to mind: My skin is sort of brownish/Pinkish yellowish white/My eyes are greyish blueish green/But I’m told they look orange in the night/My hair is reddish blondish brown/But it’s silver when it’s wet/And all the colours I am inside/Have not been invented yet.

During my teaching career, I scheduled poetry time as part of each day. Regardless of the age of my students, joy was found during these periods of word fun. No poem was judged better or worse. Nothin had to rhyme. We all laughed or sighed at the combinations of noun, verb, adjective, adverb, or nonsensical words. Playing with words using pen on paper can be like scribbling on a sketch pad. The outcome is not as important as the process. All you need is your imagination, a few moments, and the encouragement to begin.

Re: Garden

There was a side garden at the home I named Spindrift in Timmins, Ontario. It started out as a strip of lawn I hated to mow, running down the east side of the building. When we first moved there, my wife Claudia suggested it might make a pretty garden path. Over the ensuing years I built a fence & a gate to define its borders. I tore up the sod, then added fresh loam and mulch to the topsoil. My sons helped collect some slate-like stepping stones from an old mine-site nearby. Their mother found bleeding heart, forget-me-not, clover and creeping thyme to plant along the pathway. My father found this secret garden enchanting and sketched it before he died while holidaying in Portugal. His sketch was framed and hung in the front room of Spindrift, where palliative care was provided for my ailing wife. My teacher colleagues volunteered to weed & tend this special garden as Claudia’s death neared. I wonder now, having moved so far away, if this sanctuary garden still provides the delights of spring blossoms.

Currently my special mom is receiving eldercare from her only child and me in a small townhouse in Victoria. My wife Susan likes to call this narrow, three story home Treehouse Towers. A large Douglas Fir, at the west side of our house drops needles onto our small north-facing backyard garden. Black-hooded warblers love to peck and toss these needles looking for tiny forage. Inside the sliding doors leading out on this scene my 96 year old mother-in-law may eat lunch while listening to her audio books. John Steinbeck is one of her favourite authors. When she finished East of Eden she concluded that the story alluded to that first biblical garden, “Only now,” she said, “Eden is surrounded by dark clouds from an easterly wind.” 

I believe life is a garden of earthly delights even though I have never been much of a gardener, of things floral or vegetable. As a former teacher I like to think I helped nourish children in the manner of the original idea behind the Kinder-Garten. My birth mother told stories of how she and her teen girlfriends would create Victory Gardens, which were being promoted as a way of providing much needed food during WWII in England. Amidst the bombing raids she said that working on the land with shovel and hoe provided a sense of hope. Not having a green thumb doesn’t stop me from planting seeds of other sorts to keep my feelings optimistic.

The original story, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett has been visioned in many art forms. In all versions, The Garden is depicted as a transformative place where fears can be overcome and confidence restored. The needs of the plants become metaphor for human basic needs: warmth, sustenance, order, health, and community. There is loss along with new growth found in any garden. Life is discovered here, even amongst tangled weeds. A garden may have a wall, or fence, yet a gate can be found through which joyous secrets can be explored.

Re: Refuge

My uncle is aghast that in his country, refugees who travel across the English Channel are “put up in hotels”. I’ve long since given up on his rants about the injustices of the immigration system. The reality of finding a place of refuge for millions throughout the world is a reminder of global inequity. Privileged folks, like my relative in the UK, just don’t see past their own need to protect their borders with walls or fences.

Poets like Robert Frost would disagree. From Mending Walls: “Before I built a wall I’d ask to know/What I was walling in or walling out/ And to whom I was like to give offense.” Perhaps artists are the first to lend sympathy to those forced from their home environments by war, persecution, climate change, or lack of employment opportunities. No one who wasn’t suffering hardship of any sort would make a choice to go to a foreign land. When I read of refugee camps, I consider my mustard seed of related experience and feel great empathy for these wandering nomads.

“Are there no workhouses…” is a line spoken by the miserly fictional character Ebenezer Scrooge, as he brushes off a plea for Christmas charity. Those humans who seek refuge from the pains of the world are of no concern to this wealthy man. The billionaires continue to profit from playing with their money while the 99% struggle on with the results of bottom-line focussed corporations and ostrich politicians. Mother Nature has no voice yet the signs of her woe are everywhere.

We had a storm in our spot by the sea yesterday. Trees swayed in the gusts and heavy autumn rain fell. I revelled today as I looked up to see flocks of birds appear out of some mysterious hidden location further up our street. I walked gingerly, stepping over branches and mounds of leaves, and wondered where they had found a place of refuge. Reading the newspaper later I discovered ferries had been cancelled, power lines downed, and op/eds were shrieking over the lack of attention being paid to climate change.

Where is refuge to be found from the onslaught of depressing news. From my perspective as a media consumer, I often feel myself to be a refugee trying to stay balanced in this modern era of deliberately manufactured discord. I feel history will look back on the 2020s as an equivalent to the horrors of the two previous world wars. The idea of a current definition of WWIII would include; cyber insecurity, polarization of states, economic irregularity, resource misuse, widespread inequity, global human migration, climate instability, religious intolerance, military expansion, and pandemic unpreparedness. The list reads like the side-effects, in fine print, found on the package for the latest cure-all medication.

Some sort of prescription is certainly needed if humanity is to make it out of this century alive. Veterans of past wars sought shelter where they could and helped their neighbour when they could. Time for us to do the same.

Re: Door

I had a dream about an elevator last night. It was one of those freight elevators with a large sliding outer door, plus an expandable screen door. When I approached, the two doors were open and the elevator space was jammed with people as in a sardine can. There was no room for me, and there was no desire on the faces of the folks crammed together to make room either. I pondered that dream all day as I ventured through one type of portal after another.

In our city we have an old-fashioned elevator like the one in my dream. It was part of a marine museum that has closed down. A door on a travelling closet, what an idea! I think of Dr. Who’s Tardis or C.S.Lewis’s children’s series, The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. In stage plays, the indoor scenes have doors leading our imaginations elsewhere: Walk through and the performers might find themselves out-of-doors. The original Wizard of Oz movie, had a scene that once made viewers gasp in delight as they were transported from black&white cinematography to full technicolour. Actress Gwenyth Paltrow, in the film Sliding Doors, plays a character who is confronted with the consequences of choosing (or not) to step into a subway car. Actors Robbie & Farrell go on A Big Bold Beautiful Journey through doors to their past, while taking us along for the ride.

They say the eyes are the doorway to a person’s soul. Cliché-wise that may be an open-and-shut case but I wonder if that makes the eyelids into doors of skin. Ewww! Scarier still, our eyes, held wide open, can suggest a vacancy as in, “You’re dead to me!” My favourite door is a castle’s portcullis, more like a vertical closing gate, but one which keeps out marauders while still giving a view of the countryside. Doorways are metaphorically about choices: We can hold a door for someone who follows, put our foot out to stop it from closing, or place a welcome mat at the doorstep as an invitation to all who have travelled thus far. It’s doubtful that anyone still carries their bride/groom/partner over the threshold of their abode after getting hitched. Although some still might mark their front door with symbols of protection or guidance. A boss may say his/her/their door is “always open.” But that begs the question of why there is even a door there in the first place.

I’ve always thought it would be cool to be an elevator doorman. I can imagine myself assisting folks as they navigate the vertical highway, “What floor please?”. Most folks want the elevator experience to be over as quickly as possible. They’ll engage with their cell phones or stare intently at the floor indicator over the door. When I was a condo superintendent I enjoyed the reaction I got when I asked fellow Otis riding travellers a few questions or made astute observations while on the way to the lobby. That’s me, always trying to open the door to conversation.

Re: Suspect

A new Superman movie came to theatres recently. I went to see it with my bride because I’m fond of the fictional character and wondered how a current director might envision his place in this threatened world we live in today. The usual suspects were present, bringing me comfort, humour, and a symbolical resolve. I concluded that all might be well with the world. I had a suspicion that the new director was trying to show modern relevance. It was a weak attempt, but my hope remains.

My mom could always catch me in a lie saying “You look suspicious.” Modern research involving children under the age of one suggests that suspicion is innate and responsible for keeping us safe as a species. Apparently we are wired to pick out The Other from a line-up of random strangers. This discovery is comforting and frightening at the same time. It’s a nature/nurture debate. I always thought we were wary of strangers by being taught through scary fairy tales. I always believed that other cultures became fearful of other cultures because of their biased programming. As a result when I became a parent and a teacher I was always careful that I wasn’t sharing my own prejudices with my youngsters. And yet; there’s DNA!

Films about aliens implant the idea that we must look for the difference that identifies the stranger among us. Sometimes this is obviously comical. I’ve been watching the television series Resident Alien and this question of human difference is in every episode. Quite often the obvious human characters are more freakish in their behaviour than the actual guy from outer space. Early on in season one, we laugh as the police are trying to find a culprit for a murder, and their search leads them down one wrong path after another. The finger pointing is endless.

In the real world news we are exposed to political suspects in an endless parade of good-cop/bad-cop antics as leaders try to expose or twist the truth to their advantage. The classic strategy is to use fear to divide us into sides, then once we are yelling at each other reason goes out the window. I’ve never enjoyed mystery or crime novels for the simple reason I don’t want to spend my leisure time (let alone any time) trying to figure out who-done-it. Trumpism (fascism with a new name) quickly recognized that Power must find Suspects in order to buy into people’s desire to see that government has control over the situation.

I had a period in my life where I devoured the tales of Sherlock Holmes as told by Sir Author Conan Doyle. Holmes was a detective who took an exacting, measured approach to his detective work. He was sceptical of the usual suspects. His methodical work was based on physical evidence and he refused to jump to conclusions (that was Dr. Watson’s department). In a similar way I respected the real life director Alfred Hitchcock whose suspense films involved carefully crafted clues to amuse the armchair detective.

In real life, I’ve suspected that being suspicious about my suspicions is often a circular trap that inhibits me from finding the actual truth.

Re: Wing

I’ve been watching a pair of seagulls raise a pair of puffy looking offspring this past breeding season. I have a vantage point that makes me feel like a voyeur some days and an anxious grandparent on other occasions. When the parents seem in a panic as they defend their own privacy, their nest, and then their nestlings, I can’t help but believe that I’m witnessing the reason for the phrase, ‘Living on a Wing and a Prayer.’

In my home I have a folk-art sculpture of a single herring gull I made to scale out of wire, plaster casting material, and paint. I call him Webster. He reminds me that I share this planet with other sentient beings; capable of being parents, babies, teens, and ultimately road kill. Webster reminds me of the circle of life for all living things. Some times we are required to go-with-our-gut by winging it and hoping for the best outcome.

For soaring birds like gulls, it appears that the sky is virtually the limit. As I watched the repetitive runs by my neighbour avian parents, returning from a hunt, regurgitating, and flying off again, I wondered about my past role as a parent looking after the needs of my growing boys. When the emotional weather was stable and resources were in good supply the job of preparing my kids for flight seemed routinely easy. But on stormy, unpredicted days it seemed all I could do was find shelter for my trio in the nest that I had painstakingly built with my wife.

Immature gulls must be trained. Reaching the size of their parents doesn’t guarantee successful flight. I can’t imagine what that risky leap from 3 stories up must feel like. Presently I watch as they bob on the waves near shore hoping for a handout from the latest military-like feeding style of the local harbour seals. Those marine mammals hunt in pairs, laying a bubble trap for minnows then exploding through the centre of the curtain to gobble a mouthful. Gulls, young and old, wade nearby looking for scraps.

A common human dream, next to appearing in our underwear, is being in flight, soaring above our problems and having the advantage of the sky as our higher ground. From there, while on-the-wing, we observe our possibilities and potential from a more commanding perspective. I wonder if that is an advantage that my gull friends are aware of as they take wing each morning. Looking for an updraft to lessen their need to flap they squawk like they know the meaning of freedom, even boasting of their superpower.

I can only imagine that first flight feeling by engineers like the Wright Brothers. Or of poet/pilot John Gillespie Magee Jr. as he “slipped the surly bonds of earth” on “laughter- silvered wings.” When I daydream of joining my fine feathered friends in fantastical flight I soar through clouds that comfort me as a blanket might when my mood is blue. Up there I’m away from the perils of a human Earth.

Re: Concept

The question of how one conceives things is on my mind a lot these days. When I filter the daily news through my life experiences I find myself feeling very curious about how others reached a certain conclusion. It’s my teacher training at work here as I’ve tried in the past to find common ground with my students, but in this present-day case I’m searching for a way to conceptualize my internal struggle to understand myself.

Self-concept is the beginning. It’s not about ego. In architecture it’s important to have an initial design concept, which sets out the parameters for a project to grow. Imagine yourself as that project, and imagine how you want to build the best version of yourself. One’s self-concept is critical to fending off manipulation by others. I was once accused of being an island unto myself, but I don’t mean to suggest that our self-concept has to be a fortress set up to prevent invasion. Even if we intend to have a philosophical moat around us, we still need to design a drawbridge for the occasional interaction with roving troupes of minstrels and other artisans, thereby bringing joy into our cloistered lives. The walls do not a castle make.

I’m familiar with the concepts of life as espoused beautifully by the fictional coach Ted Lasso. Much has been said about the creative collection of characters in this award winning television series. Lasso seems a fish out of water as he navigates his job in a perpetual cultural clash with owners, players, and football fans. Amusingly, a goldfish is used as an example of winning behaviour as part of Coach Lasso’s concept of team solidarity. His intention is not to win, but to build. He wants the sportsmen in his charge to be better individuals first, only then can they become champions. I exulted in the revelation that a key to satisfaction in life is to be curious, rather than judgmental.

Concept is a forest-sized idea. Big picture views are my cup-of-tea. Whenever I’m planning something, it’s the outcome I wish to grasp. That may start with a question like, “Why am I doing this?” I believe if we can conceive something in its finished form then it can become a reality. Luck can factor into the final result but we must consider those initial conceptual ‘what ifs’. Some currently held concepts defeat me because they are not logic-driven but faith-driven. A manifestation board is cute, and even affirming, but it won’t work unless you find the keys to your dreams of a better life.

Religion is merely a concept, based on fear more than faith. I’ve been in congregations where action has been a way to fulfill the big concept. Bringing a healthy concept into reality is like conceiving of a child in your life and making that happen. The Idea of creating a new human is so awesome it deserves regular decision making, revisions, accounting, and celebrating of milestones along the way. Biology is only the beginning.

Re: Theatre

“Don’t go into theatrics.” my mom would say when I tried to explain why I did something she had thought was outrageous. Both my parents had local community experience on stage, so references to theatre popped up often during my childhood. My mom and dad met in a Social Club (which was a popular institution in pre-WWII England). These clubs were run by youthful members who planned dance-nights, sports events, card parties, and cultural festivals. Much later, in Canada and the USA, my parents organized successful amateur productions of traditional drama, musicals, and participatory community theatre.

My mom had plans for her son and daughter to go into showbiz. My sister and I performed on union hall stages and auditioned for television amateur shows. We didn’t like the spotlight. We didn’t dedicate ourselves to honing our talents. We were content with the theatre of our own lives. What we extended into our adulthood was our love of musical theatre, particularly as produced for the cinema. I knew many songs from these shows enough to sing heartily in the shower, or someplace private. My sister, once drunk, belted the lyrics out with enough gusto to convince me she knew them by heart too. Theatrically, our own paths diverged only slightly: She acted out on the karaoke stage while I joined voices with others in church choirs. My mother always referred to us as the devil and the angel. Pity us both.

That symbol of theatre; those masks of joy and sadness, are evident in personal lives as well as behind the curtain. There is an element of pretending in our behaviour. Some might refer to it as, “Fake it ‘till you make it.” I have to say I have tried to be genuine in my approach to life. Others have expressed that I am a man of even keel. I suppose I have tried to act that part whenever I can, being the guy everyone can count on. However there was one time in my early forties where I forgot my lines. In fact I totally went off-script and let others take the responsibility for life’s big play. Those days lacked the lift found in a musical production.

I relate closely to films that examine the complexity of the human condition. Recently I was transfixed by the television series Mare of Easttown. The titular character played by Kate Winslet, was disturbingly close to my memories of my sister. Within the gentle comedy of Ted Lasso I found that title character, played by Jason Sudeikis, to be as close to what I would like to be in my world. Self perception is often inaccurate and we may wish to deny the associations we deem fit to define us. Within the theatres of our mind we have had directors, script writers, costume designers, and singing coaches all trying to make our performance be spectacular.

A life’s work is finding the song we can sing, or the part we can play that will bring us to the red carpet knowing we’ve earned the recognition.

Re: Invent

I’m not always convinced that ‘necessity is the mother of invention’. This is often a toss-off statement made by capitalists who want perpetual progress for financial gain. I admit I have a conflict with clichés of any sort. I am unconventional in that way. I prefer to be inventive, at least with my language, so I pondered away a rainy day trying to flesh out the imaginary family members responsible for inventive progress.

So if an invention (or even the basis of an idea) could be created by a metaphorical family member, then how might that look in a family tree sort of way, I wondered. This is complex and perhaps confusing thinking, I know, but welcome to my brain. So to review, and for the sake of the exercise, we’ll agree that Necessity is the mother of Invention. That would imply that no idea gets born w/o mommy dearest. I think there can be creation without a defined need for progress. Stay with me.

I believe some progress comes from pure inspiration: Out of the blue and unbidden. So let’s add the phrase that ‘inspiration is the grandparent of invention’. Now following that genealogical train of thought we could say that ‘desire is the teenager of invention’. Creative minds are everywhere in the human family. To seek innovation is a natural response to boredom and I can attest that my grandkids are always saying they are bored. Let’s make their creations come directly from their fresh cerebral capacity by saying that, ‘boredom is the grandchild of invention.’

In the world of inventions there is a great inventory of moments in human history when an idea has changed the cultures of the world. There has been talk lately of the great Industrial Revolutions (I prefer to refer to them as Evolutions since it tones down the violence, even though battles were fought over these great paradigms of change). The first IR was the invention of steam power, the second was the applications related to electricity, then came telephone/television as global communication, the fourth was the evolution of computers. Currently we are moving into a fifth realm where AI robotics are actually threatening our understanding of work.

If I were a kid again I would answer the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, with the answer, “An inventor.” I hope I would be a socially conscious inventor like Jonas Salk who refused to patent his polio vaccine believing that his discovery must not belong to any one person since it was for the good of humanity. Likewise the honourable Sir Alexander Fleming believed penicillin must be available to everyone. I believe our souls are ultimately responsible for innovation. If we believe that celestial beings created us then I conclude that ‘creativity is the god-parent of invention.’

Plato thought the greatest human need was to be a creator. I believe we have a daily desire to invent what happens in our day. We have personal authority to do just that. That’s freedom.