Category: behaviour

Re: Manners

What might be considered offensive to some is quite acceptable to others. Simply put; that is what the word Manners means to me. I don’t need a dictionary to soften the edges of my definition so please don’t be offended by my bluntness. Words can offend, behaviour can offend, one’s choice of hair style may offend. All this because a culture is defined by its manner of existence.

Societies are built on acceptable performance. Etiquette is taught early, and often by shaming. Parents dole out these initial nuggets of advice/discipline. Junior will be admonished for picking his nose, or pulling down his pants. The little one must learn that certain gaseous noises will not be tolerated. Kids learn that we are not amused when children make too much noise or run too fast. There is always a measure of respectability that must be adhered to or an elder will make us blush with regret. Youth are not off the hook outside the home either. School and church confirm or contradict the comportment required while a person is functioning as a member of the community. Adults can get quick tutorials too: Government officials are coached in proper manners when they assume an ambassador’s responsibilities. Those of lower socioeconomic status or non white skin colour often end up in jail.

I’ve never been impressed by high society. Ann Landers, Dear Abby or Martha Stewart types aren’t about to change my mind if they think something is a ‘good thing’. I shall not follow that lead. I have low tolerance for self appointed protocol police. If something is publicly regulated I will consider the reasoning behind the statute before I buy into it. If conduct is judged just because it’s considered ‘Proper’ then I’ll give it the royal wave or the middle finger salute, in a manner of speaking.

Those touting good manners are often guilty of pointing the finger: ‘How could you!’ quickly becomes, ‘How dare you!’ which then degrades to, ‘Shame on you!’ Artists and entertainers are often unfairly judged by those who look down their noses. A recent documentary about Sinead O’Connor was a case in point. Her talent and valid protests became secondary considerations in the face of impolite demeanour. Here was a beautiful singer and sexual activist, unfairly beaten down, shunned even, by those holier than thou elements of the music industry and the religious community. She dared to be different.

Manners are a human construct. Modern civilizations don’t tend to embrace differences. We are wary of the odd man out. We worry what’s behind a questioner of authority. That may be why politicians so rarely suggest outside the box solutions, because any non-conformity to traditional mannerly thinking is threatening to order and good government.

Isn’t it a wonder then, how we can ever get to addressing the big issues without making offence. It’s easier to say, ‘But that’s not how we do things here!’ Revolutionary thinking is bad manners. So there! Let’s just accept it, then let’s get on with the important stuff in life.

Re: Play

A friend of mine asked the other day, “What do you do for fun?” I had to think, and I’m still thinking. In days gone by I might have made a list which included; playing street hockey, snow castle building, pick-up baseball, fishing or splashing around in a creek. Now, at age 71, my definition of fun is very different. I wonder if my ability to even have fun is still in play.

In the video playback in my brain, my first thoughts around playing are of the sandbox. My dad built my sister and me one of those playthings when we were toddlers. We were sad to leave it behind but we found one came with the courtyard of the apartment when we moved to Scarborough. This one had triangular corner wooden seats where mothers sat to watch over their children playing with strangers. Much later I built a deluxe rectangular sandbox so that my three sons could play safely in the backyard of our duplex in Timmins. I crafted a cover to prevent other animals from peeing and pooping in it, since awareness of intestinal worms brought fear to the hearts of parents at that time in history.

Playgrounds come in many configurations. I had a summer job one year creating modular climbing stuff for kids to enable them to build muscle and expand their imaginations. It’s amazing how designs of wood, metal, plastic and rope can foster team building, giggles galore, the sharing of secrets and playful expressions of friendship. Whenever I pass one in my neighbourhood I feel triggered by childhood memories. I love the happy sounds of children playing freely yet I don’t linger by the fencing since I’m sensitive about my maleness. We can’t play innocent when it comes to ignorance of society’s current insecurities.

The world of imagination is not limited to youth. The push and pull of good and evil is often played out in the theatre. Truth be told, the play’s the thing I’m most attracted to when it comes to thoughts of fun at my stage of life. I’ve never been involved in a theatrical production but I sure have felt my emotional response as an audience member watching the plot unfold on the stage. I’m envious of Playwrights for being able to use their way with words, and then on completion, creating an opportunity for so many other artists to interpret and extend their work. 

I can delight in watching others have fun. I feel lucky to be a grandfather so I can get a chance to relive some of my infancy vicariously. Sometimes, the toddler I’m being silly with might look at me like I’m an alien from another planet: I’m handed a bit of Play-Doh and I start to mold a goofy face and I’m told, ‘Not THAT way!’ Or I’m given a balloon and I start to punch it crazily and my granddaughter runs crying to her mommy.

Silly is something I do for fun. It may not play well with others.

Re: Plan

At one point in my sister’s life she was offered a job as an assistant city planner. I was surprised until I realized it was part of my mother’s plans for her. My sister and I were opposites in the ways of organizing one’s life: she was ever the spontaneous type, while I was very careful about every step I took. My mother, on the other hand, loved to create objectives for others. When my sis declined the offer of the city job my mom behaved like the Big Bang had just occurred. I watched the fireworks and vowed never to organize another soul’s life.

Perhaps it is a sign of the times when we let professionals plan our life events. Travel Advisors, Tour Guides, Fitness Trainers, Personal Shoppers and Menu Planners are some of the helping professions that suggest many are opting away from self care. Wedding planners have been around for a while but the occupation Life Coach suggests some of us have lost the skill to manage our own lives. My sister may have benefitted from a Personal Manager. She associated setting goals with a lack of freedom. I am amazed when others don’t prepare for their own future. My recently deceased father-in-law had no notion of planning for his declining years. At 94, on his deathbed, he said, “I didn’t see this coming.” Leaving his daughter and wife to sort out what he had left behind.

To plan is a part of my DNA so I like to be the one having a plan of action. I don’t want to be some piece of krill or bit of biota floating on the breeze or drifting in the sea spray. I may not always know where I want to go, but I like having a system that tells me I’m headed somewhere with purpose. Recently I was flustered by a friend who came to spend time with my wife. The visit had a next door neighbour drop-in feel but she came with her husband and flew across three provinces. With flimsy aspirations for a whole week, they had left it up to us to create a game plan. My lover rose to their expectations in spectacular fashion, leaving me feeling like a caught fish helplessly gasping for air in the bottom of a boat.

I like to be ready for a rainy day, yet I won’t go so far as to have an earthquake/tsunami emergency kit in my pantry. I feel comfort when my savings account is at a certain self-imposed amount. I don’t jump in the car and head off without an idea of my itinerary and an old fashioned foldable road map is in my glove box. To plan is to have peace of mind, it’s a way to corral the unknowables of time and place. Planning is the guide book of life. A character in the book Shark Heart by Emily Habeck used this logic when describing the value of making plans: A Plan leads to Control which leads to Peace.

Re: Crush

The emotion of love has many synonyms but crush is my favourite. I’ve been in love with the female gender for all my life. I sat in the grade two row of a one room school house in rural Ontario when I was so overcome with infatuation that I blew a loud kiss to a beautiful girl in the sixth row. The much older girl had helped me make awesome structures out of piles of fragrant leaves during recess. I was smitten by her giggles. The teacher caught my love gesture and made me come to the front of the class where I was made to kiss the length of the blackboard. I sat back in my place, lips all chalky and feeling the blush of shame.

Later, now a student in a suburban school, I chose to share brown bag lunches with a gorgeous brunette. She was in my grade but in the class across the hall. We both sat at the back of our room so when the doors were open we could wave to each other. She was my one and only valentine. When my mother expressed alarm at a Parent/Teacher meeting about my crush, she was told not to worry as it was only puppy love. I think she thought I was obsessed for a while but it was really, singularly, merely a friendship. We liked teaching each other card games. I cheered her on at hopscotch or while she dazzled me with double dutch skipping. When I stepped up to the plate in baseball I could hear her calls of encouragement. I went to her house on fireworks day but felt regret later for missing our family’s traditional balcony extravaganza. I remember the pang of ending our relationship, whatever it was. My heart wasn’t broken. I felt relief that summer’s freedom was within reach. A shrug seems cruel.

Interesting how the word Crush seems apt for the unexplainable emotions connected to the first blossoming of romantic feelings. When we are older we may get a crusher of a headache or feel the crushing weight of responsibilities. In our youth holding hands can be enough to send our thoughts to the moon and back, smashing all thoughts of school projects/tests or parents’ demands to clean our rooms. I can see why some cultures are afraid of the notion of adolescent crushes. Kids are still kids in many ways, yet the maturation process is an uneven thing.

I don’t recall any connection to my sexuality with my crushes. One gal broke up with me because I didn’t want to take things “to the next level”. Phewff, she was aggressive. I was a late bloomer that way and was likely naive to any girl who showed physical attraction towards me. When I look back through grade school my connections were about friendships, first and primarily. In adulthood too the intensity of my love for another is of the steady beating kind; not necessarily measured by explosive fireworks but like the consistent lap of waves upon a shore.

Re: Joy

My mom was Joy to her mother, for a period of time anyway. Perhaps that’s what joy is; a small glimpse of what might be, a flash of sunlight, something to squint into and smile over so we can continue to look for a more lasting happiness based on a mutually assured place in the sunshine of our thoughts. My mother Joy rarely shared the temperament her name suggests. Joyous she was not. She despised her own mother and barely got along with her own daughter. As a teenager I would ponder that name and wonder what the opposite might be, because surely that would be a better moniker for my mom’s contrarian spirit.

If joy is a notch above happiness then it stands to reason that it is hard to come by. A good mood does not come naturally to most people. I’d like to discover the country where it is common currency. To smile or not to smile; that should have been the Shakespearean question. For it is nobler to soldier-on than to reveal the general humdrum nature of one’s existence. There is a fellow named Gurdeep Pandher who posts regularly on social media encouraging the pursuit of Joy, Hope and Positivity. Along with this wonderful message he dances bhangra which, when joining in, somehow allows the oxygen to blend with the optimism in the bloodstream to metaphorically warm the chambers of even the Scroogiest heart.

I wake to feelings of joy each morning, even if I am kidding myself a little. The euphoria sputters and falls quickly to happy, then with a small breath in I am content, and before touching down on the floor with my cold feet I am convinced I am satisfied. If it is Christmas time I will hum ‘Joy to the World’ as I am shaving. My intention is to make a joyful noise unto the world, even if it sounds like I’m trying too hard. At other times of the year I might think thoughts of tulips, summer picnics, or an autumn romance just to keep embers of hope alive. I believe hope, joy, and faith all come as a combo from some spiritual warehouse but usually something goes wrong with my order and when I open the shipping container a part is missing.

Being in the season of darkness can leave us searching for the sun. At such times as these in a war torn, self-centred world it is hard to find solace or solidarity. When I think about my times of trouble I can recall mysterious moments of clarity. Like a lift in my being, a little leap grows from my heart and I suspect it might be joy. I can’t pin it down. The feeling flutters by. It doesn’t alight long enough for me to examine its structure, weight, colour or dimensions. Its transitory nature makes it difficult to classify yet I know the troubles that had been mine moments before were lightened by this different perspective. Joy to the world.

Re: Man

I am a man. I think I am a man because of my biology and my training. I was taught that I could pee standing up, that I could help make a family by being a provider, that women and children must be saved first in a disaster. Some of that, perhaps all, is outdated thinking. But still, I know within my being, that I am a man.

This man: Me. I am taking small steps to learn that not all men, not all human beings, are created alike. By our very nature we are formed from the same flesh and blood and so must be treated, collectively with the same respectful humanity. However, I have come to learn that I am a Privileged Man by virtue of my whiteness and wealth. This troubles me. The equal rights declaration, “I am a Man!” is not lost on me. I learned of my manhood by example, as all men do. My father taught me there can be gentleness in a man. He spoke of femaleness and maleness as characteristics that men and women can share. For a while I was confused about these juxtapositions. I saw violence in my mother so I knew that hatred was not the purview of a man, alone. I learned that it was alright to cry, and yet tears may let others in on your secrets.

What it means to be a man has been a topic of discussion since the times of the wise Greeks. Most often, in my interpretation, these definitions have been restrictions to mankind’s full potential. Robert Bly made an attempt at defining the need for a men’s movement. His book, ‘Iron John’ was a great read using an old folk tale as a guide. The flaw in the text was the assumption that Man must be thought of as opposed to Woman. Our physiology must not predetermine our preferences, attitudes or behaviour. I believe there is more harm than good in concluding that the sexes think and act in a standardized pattern.

There is no manual on how to become fully human just as there is no series of steps to raising a child. Cultures may provide clues that help us to nurture nature. But nature will usually prevail. Societies may fear gender dysphoria to the extent of enacting laws that do more harm. Resolving issues of sexuality and gender identity will require love, not restrictive laws. It is clear to me that neither manipulation nor manhandling will be effective strategies when resolving these issues. I was recently moved by the role that Ben Whishaw played in the film Women Talking. He reminded me of my father in the way he showed respect for members of the opposite sex. His performance, proved there can be fluidity between the feminine and masculine ways of thinking. This quote from Psalms comes to mind: “O Yahweh, how manifold are thy works”

By virtue of my manhood I’m a member of the Patriarchy yet I am a man who does not want Power to rest in my maleness alone.

Re: Sex

I never had a birds and the bees discussion with my father, perhaps consequently I was averse to having ‘the talk’ with my three sons. To even write about sex makes my typing fingers go all jittery. Thank goodness for auto correct while I try to navigate the politically incorrect. I may be timid about the topic of sex but I champion its inclusion in classrooms.

Currently North Americans are getting all hot and bothered about how sexuality, sexual orientation, sexual preference, and sexual identity can be taught in schools. Children’s rights are being trampled as we claw at each other over who is the responsible distributor of sex information. When it comes to sex curricula we all share the book, even though there is no single definitive volume on the subject. Parents, teachers, administrators, politicians are all probably a bit shy when it comes right down to how to approach sex.

We rarely open up about our sexual body parts. In the art world, some dare to showcase those things that are obvious whenever we step from the shower. The penis rarely gets talked about or even seen unless it’s associated with a crime scene. It is taboo in film to show a penis unless it’s a rubber one. I remember seeing an ad for a bunch of male performers who would play with their organs like a puppet (originated in Australia called Puppetry of the Penis, I never went, too embarrassed, but very curious in an innocent way). I’ve been to a performance of Vagina Monologues and remember being stunned by the bravery of the cast to talk about such intimate things. As a lover of language, I am amused by the variety of descriptions for our sex bits: A hot dog bun, a mussel, an acorn, a mushroom, a zucchini, a kiwi. Funny how we use items in the grocery store to help define what lies unexposed in our underwear. The pseudonyms for penis and vagina, even breasts, can fill a book or at least the length of a comic’s stand-up routine. Over sexualizing our body parts is part of the communication problem. An abundance of puritanical privacy and secrecy makes any issue of sexuality ripe for problematic intercourse or discourse.

Sex is an activity, an orientation, an identity or a bad word depending who is doing the talking

Much of what I thought I learned as a child about sexiness came from Playboy magazines that my friend and I would find in our apartment building’s basement storage lockers. We’d show each other pictures, giggling nervously while wondering if we’d get caught. When I taught students of that same age in sexual health classes, I was professional enough to engage them seriously. Many parents sat in on my tutorials, telling me how discussion continued with their children after going home. The recent British television drama Sex Education does an excellent job breaking down stereotypes and common misconceptions.

Conquering our bashfulness will be a first step toward talking to each other about who we are meant to be.

Re: Menu

I have an aversion to menus. My feeling is not pathological, but some people might want to declare that I’m nuts after reading this blog page entry. In the book of phobias (there probably is one) fear of menus comes closest to Decidophobia: The irrational fear of making a decision. Anyway, I resent being called irrational.

I don’t like Drive-Thru restaurants but the other day I had a craving for KFC. My wife encouraged me to have the bucket handed to me through the car window. I nervously complied. But first I had to contend with an eight foot tall menu printed with more types of fried chicken than I thought existed. The voice on the speaker asked what I wanted. I froze. The voice asked again and I blurted out that I wanted a ten piece bucket, original recipe. I breathed while my bride coached me to be calm. The voice said, “It’ll be mostly dark meat.” I mumbled something about ‘I hope it’s not all drumsticks’ as I considered the logistics of aborting this mission. “Drive to the window,” commanded the tinny speaker voice. I meekly obeyed.

Confusion over, I merged with the highway stream of traffic. My wife cradled the warm container of ready-to-eat chicken in her lap as I concentrated on the job of driving home safely. I tried to laugh at myself about being rattled but it wasn’t the first time I’ve expressed a reluctance to deal with the ordinary task of ordering from a menu. I’m nervous enough, while on a date, to ask my partner to order for me. The big overhead boards at fast food restaurants are the worst, especially when I don’t have my glasses on. The food choices are arranged in weird categories too; like Breakfast, Lunch or Dinner and then you have Combo Meals or even Vegetarian. At a table service restaurant I get stressed by the multi-folded plasticized menu maps, like those offered at the diner in the award winning Canadian television series ‘Schitts Creek’.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JvRACORcR_I

The origin of word Menu is French for ‘detailed list’ and the Latin for ‘very small’. I prefer simplicity when it comes to menu choices. If it is beef stew I don’t need to know the details of how the beef was raised/braised or that there were three kinds of potatoes hand peeled and marinated in organic vegetable stock. A dining out option is a time to treat my guests to the social aspect of breaking bread, not to go overboard about the type of flour that might have been used for the loaf.

A large amount of choice brings me stress. If someone asks me where I like to eat out, I say I don’t. My preference being to look in my own refrigerator and picking something with minimal preparation time. That way I can spend more of my leisure writing reflections like this one. My writing program has a drop down menu of only six headings; That’s not scary at all!

Re: This

My bride and I were sitting side by side one morning, nothing unusual there. We were talking quietly, sharing confidences and sipping coffee from our favourite mugs. When the conversation turned to plans for the day she asked me, “What do you want to do today?” I answered, “This.”

Retirement gives me the luxury of choosing things to do based on THIS right here, right now. I love the simplicity of making decisions based on my present needs, wants and realities. No longer do I factor in thoughts of advancing my career, or even whether or not I have to go to work the next day. I’m also old enough to be free from the demands of parenting. As a society we talk a lot about time; the absence of it or the management of it. I’m learning that being away from a working day means I can better appreciate this moment.

This is a simple word to describe the present moment. That, by comparison, is a word suggesting the space and time over there, out of reach. Those, Them or even ‘Them Thar’ describe stuff that is beyond the present. I can get to those places if I want to. I can attend to them later or when the mood strikes. Them thar chores (if I’m pretending to imitate stereotypic hillbilly talk) can wait until another day. When I ponder the idea of these things I’m reflecting on a current desire to be here. Just here. Not there.

‘And now this’ is a lovely side segment on John Oliver’s television show, Last Week Tonight

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjSgBGD0Zw4

I love the way this comic host skewers convention and mocks the status quo. Sarcasm is difficult for me but I love to watch it done well by others. Under his guidance I can laugh at absurdities while letting him be the judge of stupidity.

One of my favourite magazines is called THIS. I relish its currency: Topics are topical. Each issue encapsulates the importance of being current, edgy and relevant to the Now of Life. THIS Magazine explores in an uninhibited way the importance of our present reality. An article may make me want to look in another direction but the authors’ points of view keep my thoughts clearly on this, not that, so for the length of time I’m reading I’m clearly in the here and now, not somewhere else.

‘This is it’ (Make no mistake where you are.) is a great song by Kenny Loggins. The songwriter wants us to be aware, “It’s here, the moment is now, about to decide/No one can tell what the future holds.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VS52sEUqxMo

It’s a carpe diem sort of song. Make no mistake, the lyrics invite you to choose the current situation to electrify yourself. No time for second guessing. No time to search for the illusiveness of that. It may keep the menu of your life simple if you declare your choice for what is right beside you.

Re: Laughter

At one point during my first marriage, my wife and I looked at each other through tears saying simultaneously, “We’ve got to laugh more.” We’d just been laughing, belly aching hard, over something that is lost to my memory. It was fun to be breathless from humour rather than daily toil. We knew we had been missing something with our laser focus being trained on the responsibility of parenting three little boys. We were strung out on diapers, defiant temper tantrums and sibling squabbles. Laughter is the best medicine, at least that’s what Reader’s Digest said back then, and we realized in that hysterical moment that we had been laugh deprived.

I’m a serious guy by nature and I know I don’t laugh enough. I prefer topics of conversation that go deep. My shoulders seem adapted to carry the weight of the world. Some people hide from the dark side of life while I can be a bit intimidated by a room full of chortling people. For just an insane moment I’ll think that I am the butt of someone’s joke and it puts me off balance. My mom used to be a master of sarcasm, which I never learned to master. She would preach that her humour was an attempt to make a person laugh at themselves; “Come on I’m just kidding!” I think she had a twisted understanding of the phrase, ‘Laugh with me, not at me.’

There is probably a reason why late night talk shows are so popular. We do need to laugh at ourselves and the situations we find ourselves in when everything seems so grim. We need the news delivered with a dash of comedy; just a spoon full of sugar and all that miserable stuff is a tad easier to swallow. History is filled with examples of clowns and jesters presiding over a community spectacle while our fellow citizens were led to the gallows by the executioner’s hand. Slapstick comedy comes from such roots: Someone falling is irresistibly funny in spite of our desire to express empathy for a person’s plight. My favourite comedians are still The Three Stooges yet they are consistently mean to each other. Go figure.

Maybe laughter is a judgement on us and from us. My wise 94 year old mother-in-law asked me recently if I can I laugh at myself. I wondered what she was getting at. I gave her a philosophical answer along the lines of not enjoying being teased. I said I didn’t like it if I thought someone was laughing at my expense. She sort of went, “hmmm”. Which made me feel judged. I wanted to go all Popeye on her telling her to accept me as I am. In the end it wasn’t an issue, just a question, and there I go again being too serious.

Laughing out loud is an expression of our soul. Like showing any emotion, a laugh can connect us to our spirit. I’ll start with a chuckle and see if I can work my way up to a roar.