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: 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.

Re: Segue

I’m glad it’s not considered cultural appropriation if you use a word from another language when you are talking or writing. To give credit where credit is due then I must say thanks to the Italians for inventing the word segue, which translates into English as ‘to follow’. Segue is a beautiful word I tend to use often in conversation when I want to steer the dialogue in a different direction.

The first time this word came to my attention I was an adult at a youth symphony orchestra performance in my community. During the introduction to the second piece of music in the programme, the conductor said that he wanted to lighten the mood by inviting us to segue our thoughts to our favourite natural environment as we listened. He was making a joke that I didn’t figure out until I learned that segue is also a musical term directing instrumentalists to follow on with the music and turn the page without a pause in the beat. So there I sat in the auditorium, lost in my thoughts of languages intersecting while the music flowed about me like a lazy river.

Words flow, rivers flow, and segue sounds poetic, romantic, and utilitarian all at once. If I think about it, almost every essay I’ve ever written could be described as a segue to the next one. I like it when I am in a lateral thinking mode. My son once gave the comment that he thought a single blog posting of mine was as far ranging as the plot of an episode of The Simpsons on television. At the keyboard, as I type the letters collect into words, and I find a zone of clarity (at least to me) when converging and diverging thoughts seem part of the same stream of consciousness. I am a communicator! have segued, therefore I am.

Come to think of it, Segue would be a great name for a human. Or at least a pet––Segue the cat! How about that? Some folk might like its nickname; Seggy. Which really isn’t a short form since it has the same number of letters. But while I’m segueing let me tell you about one of my best birthday surprises ever! When I turned 65, my bride advised me to get in the car as she was taking me to lunch. That’s fun, I thought to myself, thinking that was going to be my birthday gift. Well I had to guess again as we took off, after our meal, down some roads I had not travelled before. We eventually pulled into a driveway beside this truck that had an adventuring type word on the side. Still puzzled, and with my wife leading me to the door of a suburban house, she knocked.

A lady came out with helmets, opened a side door on the truck and pulled out two Segways. I had seen one in operation months ago and my loving partner had remembered how I had exclaimed in excitement. I learned a new skill that happy day. A new way to be in the now, and go with the flow.

Re: Half

I pondered the ‘Glass half full/half empty’ idiom as I woke yesterday. I usually awake feeling optimistic and this day was no exception. I scanned my memory for all the things that fill my spirit. My thoughts warmed my heart. And ‘warmed’ was key here: The situation was neither hot nor cold. My feeling was neither elation nor dreary. I concluded that I like my proverbial glass always at the halfway mark. Most of the time, I find satisfaction living without the stress of extremes.

Come to think of it, when I’m in my car, if the gas tank needle indicates HALF, I’m good with that too. Running on empty is stressful and being full-up means the vehicle is carrying more weight than it needs to carry. Besides I’m never more than half a world away from the important people or places in my life. In my memory I recall my mom advising me before going on a teenage adventure in my used Volkswagen Beetle, “Don’t go off half-cocked” which made me shudder over the sexual implications. I didn’t help if she added as I was backing out of the driveway, “And what ever you do, don’t do it half-assed.”

Contrarily, half of an idea can suggest a conflict. I could be jealous of someone and have the thought, “I’m not half the man he is.” Or I can have a debate in my head over what I might say, thinking, “I’ve got half a mind to tell her she’s wrong.” The halfway point of anything is betwixt and between, and that can be confusing. When my sons were smaller treats were portioned so that each of us felt satisfied with their share. To avoid squabbles, the son showing the greatest desire was given the job of cutting the cake/pie/chocolate bar into equal pieces. It became a math lesson of fractions requiring a good eye and a steady hand on the knife. When something is split in half, we say it’s been halved. I find the verb form hard to pronounce since I want to put too much emphasis on the letter L. Try saying, “You may have a half portion but you must have halved the cookie accurately.” This could be a fun kid’s party phrase in the manner of the tongue twister, ‘She sells sea shells…’

My 96 year old special mom is hard of sight so she appreciates being handed a cup half full of her favourite coffee. Less spillage that way. I’m learning about other things related to eldercare as I tend to her needs. She’s not shy about sharing her preferences; Half and half cream is best in her hot chocolate for example. Perhaps more than me, she enjoys routine because it helps her ‘keep on top of things’. But I can relate to her desire to avoid the hills and valleys that can occur unexpectedly. Keeping things half-way there, means you can still look back when you want, while keeping an eye on what might be just up ahead.

Re: Tale

A tale can be like a story, but perhaps it will contain deeper sentiment, as in the great work of Charles Dickins, A Tale of Two Cities. A tale can be as old as time or it can be something you tattle. In the spectrum of fiction, a tale can sit safely beside a yarn, which is something a sailor may spin about an adventure at sea. Fable, legend, and myth will also be found on this imaginary language spectral line.

The telling of a tale requires picturesque language allowing us to suspend any disbelief we may have with the narrator. Unlike non-fiction stories that must rely on facts to communicate an account, fans of tales want to be convinced that what happened, actually could have happened. This manufacturing, to me, is not lying but colouring by using what we know with what-might-be. I like revisiting the Sarah Conner story in the Terminator film series. She’s like a princess, but a princess with purpose: a tale of, and for, future times.

I loved reading fairy tales to my kids as I once loved being read Grimm-like fables when I was a child. Cinderella popped into my head recently as an example of the possibility of time travel. It was a Back to the Future mind spin where I rationalized the need for the glass slipper lady to return home by the time the clock struck twelve. H.G. Wells’s classic futuristic novel Time Machine is an early attempt to suggest that travelling through time could be achieved, with the appropriate clockwork technology. I wondered if perhaps Cinderella was a time warp artist, riding in that magical pumpkin-ish looking coach. Her only fault might have been she didn’t coordinate the return-time better with her fairy godmother/timekeeper.

In my version of Cinderella, she discovers a way to end her despair entirely by leaving her old world behind. I picture my Cinderella being trapped in long days at Walmart, greeting others who have interesting lives, while she is mired in the drudgery of retail. As I see it, time travel only gets messy when we actually come in contact with our own lineage. Maybe you could come and go through the ages as long as we kept it out of the path of your own timeline. For example you could see the court of Cleopatra but not visit your grannie when she was three. Perhaps my Cinderella wouldn’t lose a shoe but a watch, and this is why she forgot the time paradox: you can’t be in two places at once. Marty McFly discovered that timing was everything or else the future would not exist as only he alone could tell it.

Dreaming, like what I’ve been writing here, is tale-telling. There must never be punishment for it, unless it’s intended to deceive or hurt another. We can believe in old-wive’s tales to the point where their value continues to inspire new discoveries in STEM research. The truth must always remain the goal, but I see no harm in embellishing the facts, for story’s sake.

Re: Sanity

I took a break from media for three days and found that I could translate the world news with a bit more detachment. I wanted to find out how to be sane in an insane world. Making sense of things for me is mathematical. I take my experience, add the ideas of trusted experts, blend in what feels like intuitive common sense, and I might end up with some clarity. Actually that reads more like a recipe, so go ahead and take a bite out of ‘Clarity’, and let me know how it tastes.

Freud comes to mind when I think of the search for sanity. Most people attach his genius to sexual things, especially motivations. He certainly has been maligned by that one aspect of his research. I consult Freud, in my imagination (WWFD?), when I’ve had a dream. In that subconscious state I am more relaxed and that is often key to embracing sanity. I can’t think well when I’m in an emotion state of craziness. During the softness of a dream, in day or night, I can fit puzzle pieces together in a more caretaking way. It’s no mystery to me that I can do better at a New York Times crossword when I am just a little tired. Performance anxiety is not a good partner when I can’t get that darn three letter answer to the clue.

Insanity has long been an excuse for bad behaviour. Sometimes an aggressor can get off in court for a ‘crime of passion’. We want to explain away a mass murderer because he couldn’t possibly be in his right mind. Wars are justified because the other side is mad, or worse still, not-human. In my book, any act of violence is an act of insanity because in moments of anger we have truly lost connection with ourselves. Insanity is a sign that we must check to see if we are still plugged in to our psyche. As far as punishment goes then maybe, in computer terms, we need a re-boot (not a boot in the butt, as violence begets more of the same).

I’ve been insanely in love. During those almost panic moments I have been of such singular mind that I’ve been a danger to myself. I once manically peddled my bike along unlit country roads, to deliver a rose, dark rain splashing around my clinging clothes. I was in a mental fever. Losing one’s sanity is not funny, but it does contribute to artistic expression. We have all had moments where we have snapped. Hopefully there has been someone around to safely guide us back to finding reason where we thought there was none to be found.

Admittance to an insane asylum used to be an answer to the fear that folks had of letting lost souls run amok in society. Visions of torture-like treatments, padded rooms, and straight jackets can still be found as reality in some parts of the world. Compassionate care remains a hallmark of a healthy society’s approach to times when citizens lose their way.

Re: Encounter

I enjoy the encounters I have when I am out and about in my community. A simple stroll to my village to renew my prescriptions, a stop for an ice cream cone, or finding a sale in a grocery store will bring a smile to my face especially when I have a moment with a real person.

Abraham is his name. We met at an afterparty at a local theatre. He acted in the play that night, and I was an audience member. I started the conversation as he was choosing some cheese and paté, from a tray on a pedestal. I gushed with enthusiasm over the dynamic representation of a fight scene involving athletic coordination that was the climax of the plot. On stage, Abraham and his acting partner had just parried in a violent dance, each thrusting a blade with death being the intended outcome. All this action happened in remarkable slo-motion choreography, while I watched a mere three metres from the stage apron. Now I was standing near Abraham, at the meet and greet, trying to speak without crackers spilling out of my mouth.

Encounters can be exhilarating, sometimes messy, and rarely planned. A chance encounter can stay with us for a long time, if not forever. I remember as a teen being brave enough to ask if I could have an old lobster pot that seemed discarded by a house near where I was camping with my parents. I was with a friend at the time, and as he waited a few yards back at the top of the driveway, I negotiated with the owner. I said I had long wanted a suitable keepsake for my many years as a child coming to this beachside campground in Maine. I was going off to university and imagined the rectangular lobster trap would make an excellent coffee table. The owner handed his artifact to me as a gift, the look on his face was one of pure benevolence. I still remember my friend appearing equally stunned by the exchange saying, “You got it just by talking to him!”

I’m still feeling the isolating effects of Covid19. Back then we were encouraged not to have encounters due to risk of exposure to the virus. Even though I tend to introversion on the social spectrum I missed those times when I regularly attended mass cultural events. During those covid years I got used to encountering others over social media where exchanges didn’t involve the risk of a stray sneeze. In the longer term, Covid19 made us all a bit insecure about approaching others.

Now that I’m back attending the arts events that I love, engaging other humans will return in fits and starts. My social muscle memory emboldens me to initiate confidently. The actor Abraham seemed pleased that I had dared to approach that night at the theatre. He said, “And what about you?” Which raised my praise to dialogue level. Oh my, what to say next!

I’m going to need more practise at this conversation game.

Re: Manage

Once I was responsible for the care of my dying partner. Over the course of nine months, from diagnosis to death, I attended to her medical, emotional, psychological, physical, and incidental needs. Folks who have had similar trials will tell you how hard it is, yet somehow we all manage, because we have to.

Manage is a brother to Cope; yet coping has a big sigh attached to it. Related words like supervise, oversee, or control can sound overly dramatic. The act of managing is not just a technical thing requiring lists, deadlines, deliverables, outcomes, and client satisfaction. A good management scheme recognizes the elements of emotion found in doing the task.

To manage our own life might be best if we could just rely on logical thinking. But thinking only of the reasons why you want to keep your life on a positive track precludes the examination of your emotional response.

My bride and I were once Resident Managers at a newly built downtown condo tower. We were at the beck-and-call of almost one hundred owners in this modern structure of 15 stories. And boy were there stories! Each owner had his/her/their unique reasons for buying into the property. Each had personalities that required personal attention or group instruction. My wife and I tried to build community, while managing the demands of the job. We had to respond to residents who had decided their problem had become unmanageable. Consequential incidents such as; robberies, fire, flooding, vehicle accidents, equipment failures, births, or escaped animals were a few of the managerial complications that were part of our five year commitment to this post-retirement, self-directed, and amusing vocation.

Then came eldercare, which is a whole different can of worms. Management stresses here centre around ensuring the elder is feeling valued, even while declining in their faculties. I find the hardest part of this responsibility is managing my own feelings around caring for another. As an elder loses ability to manage themselves it’s easy for the caregiver to feel resentment, fatigue, frustration, and isolation. I find responding to another’s dependency is a challenge. Respect is hard to maintain when a relationship loses its two-way-street understanding. Ideally, I would like to only manage myself. But that’s not a reality since I impact others, just as they have influence over my life.

All three of my grown sons are in career management positions. They also manage themselves and their relationships quite well. Like me, they have a strong desire to be independent. My employers sometimes told me that I was ‘management material’. I believe that to manage one’s life is, by itself, a measure of success. I have felt blessed by the times when governments, agencies, neighbours, friends, family, co-workers, and lovers have helped me to manage my affairs.

Back when I provided end-of-life care to my first great love, there were many times I felt overwhelmed. Near the end of my ordeal a friend named Jaakko visited the depressing scene and said, “I don’t know how you manage.” I gasped at the comfort these acknowledging words provided. Then and now, I carry on.