Category: character

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: 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: 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: 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.

Re: Account

To have an account is one thing. To hold yourself or others to account is another. Like many words in the English language, a single word can have multiple meanings. This is what this word means to me. It may evoke different thoughts or even have different meanings for you. The fun is in the interpretation, not necessarily the dictionary’s standard.

Last week I was sitting in a parking space waiting for my bride to return with a bag of yummies from the grocery store. A car pulled up in the space beside me, a woman got out of the driver’s side leaving the car running. A man was sitting in the passenger seat with his window open. I was too far away to suggest he turn off the car without shouting and sounding aggressive. The fumes from the exhaust came through my open window. The woman returned a few minutes later and, to my surprise, stooped to look at the tire of her car which was just opposite my window. I quietly asked, “Why did you leave your car running?” Well, I was bombarded with all sorts of answers/excuses from both of the car’s occupants. In summary, they thought I was choosing something minor to “bitch” about.

The incident made me think of times when I try to be accountable for my choices. Holding myself to account is not easy in a complicated world. I am aware of making daily decisions about what is best for myself, my partner, my situation, and the world in general. Sometimes priorities are made that seem inconsistent with my own needs or the greater good. Small things, like leaving a car running, can add to larger things, like global warming. When and how we decide to practise our principles is not easy. I wonder to what degree do we have a responsibility to remind others to be accountable. Shouting at a politician seems easy but when our neighbour appears to be doing harm we might fear coming across as The Accountability Police.

When my sons were small I advised them on ways to be financially accountable. I taught them about bank accounts, credit dangers, and saving for a rainy day. My wife kept a monthly ledger to show how money comes in and money flows out. As banking technology changed they taught me about ATMs, bank cards, email transfers, and other online services. I was once a slave to doubt about whether I would ever have enough money for my needs or wants. But by taking things all into account, I slowly learned to balance the fears of loss with the reality of my good fortune.

Holding myself to account means I must judge my choices based on a variety of factors. Commenting on other’s behaviour is a potential minefield of explosive consequences. Everyone has had moments where they have wished they had said something. Who hasn’t glared at a parent of crying/misbehaving kids! Like it or not we are all accountants of our life experiences. No one can judge us better than ourselves.

Re: Gracious

Grace is the highest form of being human. If I were tasked with choosing a single goal for living I would select the act of being gracious. I believe graciousness to be a key element of societal connection. Seeing an act of grace, and being gracious ourselves, creates a peaceful worldview.

Being kind to another is an act of grace. My 96 year old special mom recently required professional emergency service. When ambulance crew came to our door I witnessed first responders providing healthcare concurrently with abundant grace. In an intense situation, if you are the caregiver, it’s an expectation that you put yourself last. In a selfish world that can be seen as saintly, but it is very human to give and very rewarding too.

I went downtown to do some errands. My first stop was at the licensing bureau so I could renew my health card and driver’s ID. The line-up at the agency was a long one. As I waited my turn, I heard a service clerk make one customer after another feel heard and valued. When my number was called and I was shown the same respect and attention, I complimented the employee for his gracious manner under pressure. He smiled in gratitude and said, “When I help people I feel better about myself.” The old axiom that a customer is always right is not lost on this fellow. On hearing this awesome response, I wanted to exclaim, “Goodness gracious!”

Art in all its forms can remind us of our humanity. In the television series The Tattooist of Auschwitz many acts of grace under fire are depicted. In one profound scene a prisoner takes the place of another in full knowledge that the gas chambers will be the consequence of their gesture. On the spectrum of unselfish-ness, this type of self-sacrifice is the ultimate expression of graciousness. “You live while I die”

I can only imagine what strength of character this moment would require. I may come close when I say; “Here, you go first.” Or “You take this last seat.” Or “I will wait.” Showing or telling someone that they matter more than you, may be an anomaly in our time. In the 21st century selfishness is sexy: We get told in advertising that we are worth it. That we count. That we’ve earned it. After that messaging we can conclude that being gracious is for suckers, losers, or saints. Showing grace isn’t carrying a cross. It isn’t a burden at all—merely an offering of help.

If grace is the highest level of being human, then by acting gracefully you have found a way to connect with your own soul. The body is then secondary and you fully recognize the infinite within all humans. Helping to provide eldercare has taught me much about letting myself be a smaller part of the Big Equation. I can feel of value, by giving value. As in childcare, the needs of an elder may never be quenched yet I’ve come to know that giving has a higher priority than getting.

Re: John

My first memory of a person named John is regarding my dad’s brother. When I was six he took me to a typical British children’s park. There he pushed me around and around on a circular spinning thing. I learned later this was called a ‘Round-a-bout’ and according to an old expression what you gain on them you lose on the swings. My Uncle John was a philosophical guy, a dreamer really. He didn’t have a regular job that I was ever told about but he was my favourite family relative. My mom told me that he had a number of life tragedies, including finding his wife dead in the bathtub, electrocuted by a toaster.

Growing up I knew another ‘Uncle’ John (a family friend unrelated but deemed worthy of the title as was the custom of the time). I liked to hear tales of Long John Silver because he was a pirate, and I loved pirates more than dinosaurs when I was a kid of small age. Strangely to me, now that I type this, is my curiosity about John the Baptist. I think I like the fact that he was secondary in the Jesus story but he had a role to play in bringing salvation to the masses (sort of pirate-ish, if you think about it). When I read about Robin Hood I discovered his band of merry men, of which Little John was a member. Alan Hale Sr. played that fictional character so well in the 1938 film with Errol Flynn. I couldn’t tell you how many times I re-enacted that famous crossing the creek scene with my fellow Boy Scouts whenever we were out in the woods.

On those scouting trips we learned how important it was to keep our body systems functioning so daily evacuations in the ‘John’ were de rigueur. We actually called these poop pits the KYBO (as in Keep Your Bowels Open). Of course now-a-days it’s common to look for a Johnny-on-the-Spot when you are at an outdoor concert venue. That term strikes me as more grown-up sounding than Porta-Potty.

I wouldn’t name my child John in this age because of its association with toilets but also because John is a generic term for a guy that hangs with prostitutes (not that I have anything against sex workers) or is the recipient of a John Doe letter, poor fellow. Next to guys named Dick, I’m betting Johns get lots of teasing or abuse. There are some famous folk with this common name. The first bloke that comes to my mind because of my age is of course that Beatle, John Lennon.

Eclipsing all Johns of fame in a spiritual sense has to be John Denver. My feelings about John Denver ripple out to inform my desire to be creative. His work as a song writer, humanitarian, and fellow explorer of wondrous things have provided me with examples on how to live. He wanted to be the first citizen in space. I miss that country boy. He died flying high, like an eagle in the sky.

Re: Perfect

Pronouncing this meaningful word can produce a wonderful shift in perspective. For example, when I write this essay I reread, edit and change many parts of its structure to perfect the final result. I am active in my pursuit of a readable piece of writing. Meanwhile, if I’m being honest, there are only a few times when I can say the result of this writing process could be called perfect.

I enjoy the act of perfecting something to a point. I admire those who have the discipline to achieve a top score in their fields. For example in the sport of gymnastics, I remember Nadia Comăneci achieving the impossible in the Montreal Olympics of 1976. It was such an unusual feat that the scoreboard wasn’t enabled to display a Perfect Ten. Her achievement still generates debate about athletic scoring to this day. There are philosophical arguments suggesting that if you remove the goal, by saying the highest level can actually be achieved, then you have done a disservice to the human impulse to strive. When I was a teacher, I liked to advise my young friends to; “Have a go!”, “Give it your best shot.”, or “Reach for the stars!” The beauty is in the attempt. The outcome will take care of itself.

Seeking perfection is a noble goal, sometimes achieved, but requires a devotion to daily practise. The fictional character Mary Poppins may pronounce that she is, “Practically perfect in every way.” Whereas most of us characters are mere mortals and prone to error. We wish to have a perfect life, a perfect body, a perfect performance report at work, or a perfect partner. I have agency for the first three in that list but the latter is more a matter of luck, which I have, praise be!

My life is not perfect, except if I say it is. Others might see that my standing in the world is to be envied. In this same way, I can get a rise in my heart when I hear someone describe their life with high notes of glee. I sometimes can create a perfect day, other times I just have the planets in my favour. Joy comes when I recognize that near-perfection is achievable, even when it occurs through a series of mysterious connections. Consider for a moment how we sometimes say, “This is perfect timing.” We are excited when things go our way. I used to think, after a run of bad luck, that I was somehow more deserving of a treat. I guess that might be how gamblers fool themselves when they consider the odds of winning.

If practise makes perfect then after much effort I trust we can tell ourselves that we shined for a moment, however brief. Each feeling of satisfaction over a job well done, is a moment in the sun, so I feel we are allowed to bask for a while. We don’t need someone to caution us about getting a swelled head, nor do we need applause. Just a healthy dose of self-satisfaction.

Re: Owl

The owl has several attributes that show up in my personality. Firstly, the animal’s patience is astounding. I’ve seen one in a tree, shoulders hunched up, barely moving, perched on a branch waiting, waiting, and waiting some more. Their feathers are so soft looking, almost furry, and patterned to make themselves blend into their surroundings. Owls are the quietest birds, with wings specially designed to make almost no sound so that wary mice don’t even know they’re around until it’s too late. Owls seem secretive to me. All knowing! They aren’t for show. They mean business, have places to go, and a need to survive.

When I was an elementary school teacher, I would often discuss animals to start the children on a creative train of thought. A simple question like, “If you could be another creature, which would you be?” might occupy an entire afternoon of discussion, art, and even environmental studies. In those days I refused to choose my own kinship animal, because I felt connected to so many interesting species who share the planet with me. Disney films and author A.A. Milne probably directed my lasting amusement with owls. I can relate to Winnie the Pooh’s friend Owl when he pontificates and, also, when he goofs by spelling his own name as Wol!

I chose a coded version of the word Owl for my social media avatar name, wh0n0z, which graphically shows two owl-like eyes. I like the immediate reference to intelligence (folks can be know-it-alls and still err in judgement). Also implied with this pseudonym is the shrugging attitude of ‘Who really knows eh?’ (an introvert’s go-to). Or, more aggressively, “I’m slightly bored so leave me alone.” Owl people may get a bad rep for being picky, having their head in the clouds or appearing seriously snobbish. I think of my owl persona as though it were a horoscope sign. Owls are curious. Ergo, my favourite question is How, which is a delightful anagram of Who, which is the sound that owls in cartoons make.

Even a wise old owl like me can show contradictions. When I served on several organizational Boards I used to be called a stealth director because I preferred to be quietly working behind the scenes, making contacts and connections that may have been considered controversial. You see I didn’t want to draw early attention to myself until the cat was in the bag (or the mouse was in my beak, so to speak).

The cliché for the owl archetype was probably set in ancient Grecian times since the goddess Athena advertised the Value of Wisdom. She even had a pet owl. In the 1981 film Clash of the Titans, Perseus is assisted by a mechanized version of Athena’s owl named Bubo. This FX creature was actually an animatron that didn’t always work convincingly in its scenes with the real life actors. And its name suggests something clownish, which is great if you consider that no one’s character can be one dimensional. In other words; A bird is more than just feathers.

Re: Follow

I had a Following on Twitter. My Followers viewed my writing with enough interest or affection to become my online tribe. It was as easy as clicking on a digital button. Likewise, I followed a group of authors, journalists, thinkers and prophets on that social media site. I left to find a more hospitable climate. My principles prevented me from supporting the marketplace Twitter had become when billionaire Elon Musk bought the company and renamed it X.

Lemmings supposedly follow so blindly that they herd together and jump off cliffs. It’s a myth. I hear my mom’s voice asking me if I’d do something awful just because everyone else was doing it. For whatever reason, someplace along my timeline, I decided not to be a follower of fashion. I became a loner, since group dynamics invoked a fear reaction, I avoided clusters. If I see that someone has gained a certain popularity, my first response will be repulsion. That magnetic contrariness might indicate a psychological recognition, perhaps a certain jealousy even. I’ll say to a bossy person, “You can’t tell me where to go! I’ll tell you where to go!”

When I have a need to decide something I like my thoughts to flow along a logical path without interruption. I want to be led to a conclusion by my own choosing. This doesn’t mean I’m averse to recognizing leadership, only that my criteria for the position of Leader is pretty demanding. I look for these values/skills/attributes: Innovation, Clarity, Intelligence, Compassion, Individuality and Creativity. We all manifest a leadership figure at points in our lives. The leader you have in your mind, your conscience say, is constructed out of all the people you have ever allowed to have influence over you. Before deciding something we might ask ourselves, “What would so and so do?” To follow, we must have a guide we can trust, even if the guide is a figment of our imagination.

We love it when someone follows-up on a request or suggestion we’ve made. We feel validated. If we feel like someone has paid attention, we are more likely to consider a proposal they make in turn. Loyalty can make us sheep, easily herded. Some will pursue others to get what they want. I sometimes think computer bots are set up that way. Our capitalist society needs data. Company algorithms will stalk (like a wolf) following the path left by our buying habits to ‘help’ us make our next purchase based on our shopping/internet history.

I was ten years on the Twitter site. I know this because the robots in charge of the algorithm sent me balloons on each anniversary date. I felt special in a way. I felt connected, like someone in the old days might have felt if they had a pen pal. The virtual connection helped during the isolating days of Covid. Now we have other matters of worldly importance to comment on or stew over. I’ve followed a flock to Bluesky. Time will tell how long I’ll inhabit this virtual space.