Re: Art

Re: Label

Things can be labelled but people must not. I don’t like to label others anymore than I enjoy having a tag placed on me. Humans are varied as a species and as individuals. Each single soul has multiple characteristics. I am not one thing: I am retired, male, Canadian, married, a writer, a dreamer, an adventurer, a grandfather. All those things and more. To label me would be an insult to all I was, and will be. Freedom is being unlabelled.

In my workshop I once had a labeller thingy: one of those devices you could punch embossed letters or numbers onto a plastic adhesive tape. The tape came in a variety of colours and was useful to denote things that begged to be sorted. It was a fun gizmo that I used to fashion labels for my sons’ belongings. I organized their shelves, their toys, their dresser drawers. I taught them how to read using the coded labelling as a practical way to put things into groups.  I organized their life because when my life was organized I felt a certain measure of peace.

Labels are often inefficient even though they are used to inform. The label on the can of baked beans on a shelf in a grocery store tells us its ingredients, even how beneficial it might be to our health. Yet it cannot tell us how it will taste. Companies pay huge sums of money to marketing firms to advertise their products. Labels are helpful to making money on products that people are told they must have for happiness or success. Labels sometimes rise to the status of brands and logos when they have become personified. Consumers become conditioned to believing that the labels they choose to buy will enhance the person they want to be in the global marketplace of our corporate world.

AI is raising the bar on labelling practises. Our personal phone devices are programmable to the point that they can scan codes. Under the guise of making life easier, we are folding ourselves into the capitalist matrix every time we use a QR label. In an insidious way we become a label to the machine of commerce because our personal data gets fed into AI systems that analyze our preferences and performance as a customer. In this scenario we risk our role as citizens when our civilization puts greater value on transactional bytes.

As a career elementary school teacher I was involved in many meetings where children were classified. Criteria for selection into groups varied. Many of us resisted the use of distinguishing labels. Our intent was for our students to be their fullest selves. During the horror of Nazi Germany a precedent was set for identifying humans considered to be of lesser value. We must resist being labelled in the name of profit, protocol or politics. Using scanning devices to assign us to a strata of consumer culture, to make us mere cogs in the wheel of Consumerism, or any ‘ism’, is a corruption of what it means to be Human.

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: Trust

What do I trust, that the sun will come up, that tomorrow will come, that ‘the cheque will be in the mail’? Trust has been on my mind lately, as I listen to war news, trusting that the people we have entrusted to run our governments do the right thing by finding a road to peace.

I remember moralistic school lessons when I was a student. Values were not explicitly outlined when I became a teacher. I found ways to fold philosophical concepts into the classrooms of my primary grade children. Values are still preached in churches but carry a ‘must do’ condescending tone. I search for examples in society where values are exhibited and commented on, in a community context. Personally, I strive to behave in a consistent manner. I live far from my grandchildren. When I talk to them through digital means I trust that they will learn that I am lovable, kind and have a multitude of values they may wish to emulate. To be a trustworthy individual is a great asset to oneself and to the world. Earning a person’s trust is my primary goal when seeking friendship.

When I lose trust in someone or something it is a large step towards losing all hope. The United States of America puts great store in religion using, “In God We Trust” as a motto for their belief in government, its constitution, their almighty currency and their very way of life. I don’t accept that gods of any shape or form have input into human existence. Truth be told, I don’t trust easily. When I put faith in someone’s actions I have reached a level of trust which is not common to me. I reserve that for my wife alone whom I depend upon for my daily companionship and happiness. I put ultimate trust in myself; I am a naive soul in that way. A friend, who had gone through a rocky break-up and found a new relationship after depressed times, said of her recovery, “I’ve learned to trust again.” I believe the truth in that declaration is that trust must come before love.

There is a trend for companies to advertise themselves as trusted brands. I got a survey request recently that asked me to rate various products using human qualities like trustworthiness, friendliness, honesty and loyalty. A local financial institution sent fliers in the mail suggesting they could handle my money better because they were, after all, a Trust Company not a bank. This is further anthropomorphizing of a corporation! I don’t care for this manufactured consent approach in the marketplace. And a product is a product no matter how organic it might be!

Two songs about these thoughts come from children’s cartoon classics: The Jungle Book and Toy Story. The former is sung by the Svengali-like snake Kai, using trust as a tool for manipulation. The latter song is a happy tune describing the roots of friendship. Our personal, societal and international existence must depend on our mutual desire to trust one another.

Re: Coat

My dad owned a heavy dark camel hair overcoat when I was a teenager. During those times of pride and prejudice, he cut an impressive figure. He once came to give me a message while I was in the school cafeteria. My friends murmured, as adolescents do, when he walked towards me looking very official. To this day, I regret feeling embarrassed by his presence; when I chose to exchange only the necessary few words of acknowledgement with a man deserving of the distinguished aura he created. 

Reality can’t be disguised with a metaphorical coat of paint. But we try don’t we, with the things we go into debt buying, with the ways we choose to adorn ourselves, with the people we fawn over while ignoring those who matter most. Charades. Facades. A bit of bunting might hide the pretence. What we wear is still considered an indicator of ascendence. The clothes still denote the wealth of the man/woman who wears them. We all strive for and feel we deserve our own coat of many colours.

There was a folky English tradition amongst my parent’s generation to acquire a family Coat of Arms. You would send your last name and any details you could remember of your ancestors to some company. Weeks later you would receive a fancy printing of a heraldic emblem befitting your royal station. We four Thompsons of Canada, newly immigrated from the mother country, were distinctly lower class. Any chance to raise our status, to coat us with a veneer of respectability, was a challenge to be accepted. My dad accomplished this by behaving in the ways of a kind British Gentleman. My mother sought to climb the social ladder in ways that made me doubt her sincerity and question her motivation. 

These two hosted many parties. When my sister and I were young we lived in a small two bedroom apartment where our folks found space to entertain hoards of scary adults in various states of revelry. The noise would keep us awake, so we would wander between the legs of dancers in the living room. We might venture onto the balcony to find people kissing or saluting the moon. We saw frowns, heard swears, and recognized tears from the serious ones talking dramatically in the kitchen. My sister had the ability to fall asleep curled between guests on the couch. I would venture wearily down the narrow hallway to find my parents’ bed, covered with a mound of coats. Predictably, in the absence of adequate closet space, coats were tossed here at the moment of greeting. Fur coats, trench coats, leather jackets, satiny shoulder wraps, knitted, woven, quilted and stitched items smelling of tobacco, perfume and sweat, all flung in a heap and mysteriously reclaimed at the end of a night’s celebrations. I would squirrel my way into this fragrant mass of fabric escaping the mayhem while finding comfort in the arms, collars, buttons, pockets and belts. I would wake in my bunk next morning wondering of the magic of adulthood.

Re: Reflect

Reflection requires a certain amount of stillness which is challenging my body’s circulatory system. I’ve got a case of chilblains in my toes as a result of too much idle thinking which is freaking me out. I’m of an age where parts go missing or malfunction. I have a personality that is suited to pondering and puzzling so I think that should ward off dementia but it seems my body is being sacrificed while I attend to intellectual matters. 

My current three common activities are like the classic educational three R’s adapted as: Reflect, Read, wRite (the last one is a cheat but makes for the alliteration, so what). Truth is I prefer to reflect, rather than deflect. Issues are important for me. I probably dwell on general news items too much for my own good. I’m a good muller. I like to share my reflections when anyone cares to listen. My 95 year old special mom likes my cerebral wanderings and we often have great dialogues. Reflecting on stuff has helped with her memory and gives me insight into my own aging process.

We both read a lot during the day. She likes to listen to her audio books while my wife and I catch a film on television. Since she has a headphone set, it’s a fine arrangement so that we can keep track of each other all in the same room. It provides an Upscale Nursing Home atmosphere: Complete with kitchen privileges. When I ruminate on the way my life has changed with the advent of Elder Care, I’m glad I can see the humour at most times because when I glance at myself in the mirror I notice the telltale signs of stress and fatigue. I figure getting these observations down on this website will help me laugh when I have time to review these seemingly endless days of routine.

In years gone by I used to see myself reflected in my kids. My eldest I thought carried my enquiring mind, my middle son knew how to look on the bright side of life, and my youngest exhibited my peace loving soul. I pictured them growing up happy and, by and large, they have. To gain a perspective one must reflect. Narcissus of Greek myth fell into a pool because of a singular point of view so his story tells us to include others, resisting the vain notion that only our reflections count. 

Truth be told I rarely spend time examining my mirror image. My wife will straighten my mussed hair with gentle fingered caresses and that suits me just fine. She and I have developed a way of mirroring each other’s feelings so that conversation becomes more revealing. Our own individual thoughts can often lack clarity. Two people ruminating offers surprising revelations and outcomes. Like two songbirds playing off of each other’s melodies perhaps. In my retelling of Echo and Narcissus I see the two lovers being blessed for respecting each other’s uniqueness. That way they look into the pool in unison, loving what they behold. It’s a selfie!

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: Book

Publishing is going through massive change. Books, magazines and newspapers used to be the norm since Johannes Gutenberg invented the press machine. In my lifetime there has been a decline in print sources delivering news and information. Text and picture can arrive by digital means but for most people my age that mode of delivery comes up short. Words on paper (I miss handwritten letters delivered by postal carriers) have a tactile benefit that cannot be understated. Words are meant to make us feel.

The old Hawaii Five-O television series had an oft quoted catchy line, “Book ‘em Danno” when referring to crooks being arrested. Books on the other hand must never be judged harshly, by their cover or otherwise. My special mom, who can’t even see the covers of her audio books, would agree. She reports that a good book is like comfort food. Her CD player is provided by CNIB (bless them) and when her discs arrive in the mail box she exclaims with delight. It’s a treat to see her smile when she is immersed in her world of words. She shows similar interest when my wife reads to her from my published work on this site.

I’m in the process of gathering columns I once wrote for a daily newspaper into a book. It’s a self publishing effort and I don’t intend to make any money from it. I had made photocopies of the individual columns which I kept in a three ring binder. First the pages had to be recopied and the data stored on a digital file. Then I had to bring it to experts to have it paginated. I next had to book an appointment at my local printing house. Other writers can relate to a similar process as everyone has a story to tell it seems. Every person is literally a walking book. Those who write are usually ravenous readers. I am unreservedly pro books, never want them to be banned, never want them to be burned (ironically the books in the story Fahrenheit 451 ARE burned). Both banning and burning still occur around the world which to me is a shocking example of misdirected anger.

If those who love food are ‘Foodies’, then I guess you could call fans of reading, ‘Bookies’. Too bad that label is attached to shady old-school gambling agents of the underworld sort. As an aside, I wish all gambling ‘pushers’ were arrested and booked for damage to society, but that’s for another blog page. In other WordPress postings, I’ve written about my love of libraries where words and other forms of artistic expression and information can be shared. I love the continuing impression that a source of books is central to any healthy community.

When I book my final passage to the great cosmic beyond, I’ll mix my life essence with countless others in the ether. I can imagine that blend of quantum particulate matter lodging in the head of some future writer who might wonder where that idea came from for another story.

Re: Own

The times in my life that have worked out for the better have been those occasions when I have owned the narrative. Times when I have made the best out of a poor situation. Times when I could have felt ‘done to’ but instead I decided that I could find a place for myself amidst the lives of others. It’s best not to feel victimized or even put upon. In the best or the worst of times, having some control allows us to use our creativity to make an adventure out of any circumstance. Taking ownership is the first step towards making a plan.

I resist the phrase, ‘You’ve made your bed now go lie in it’. Yet, owning the problem can enhance your responsibility; moving you into a place where opportunities await. Change becomes less shocking. You alone are best positioned to decide the best choices to make within the reality. Currently I am sharing the daily task of elder care. My wife’s mother is living with us so that her unique needs can be met. I rarely feel as though I want to jump ship but assessing my role in this present picture is a challenge. I could say to my bride, “She not my mother, you deal with it.” Or, I can accept my situation better the more I feel involved: I can read newspaper stories to this special 95 year old (almost blind) woman. I can engage her in a stimulating conversation. I can invite her to help me solve the crossword. I can walk her to the seaside, sit with her, and describe the scene my eyes can still see. I owe it to myself to own every moment I have in concert with the people in my world. In this scenario I am working towards the goal of recognizing the value of thinking, “Well she’s my mother too.”

Owning the present in an affirmative way has helped me accept change. As a teen my parents separated (I discovered I felt better when I spent more time independently with each of them). My first wife was raised in a church going family and wanted that lifestyle for our children (I found a new side of myself by joining the choir and learning biblical teaching). My second wife was into healthy food choices (I found the world of cuisine expanded my curiosity and gave me a heightened awareness of other countries and cultures). I adapted rather than acquiesced.

During one talk with my elder roomie, I asked her what she thought about the word Own. She blurted out, “Well I don’t own any furniture anymore.” An obvious statement coming as the consequence of downsizing and a cross country relocation to a small townhouse with her daughter and me. Digging out of the confusion of a life no longer being normal takes a lot of patience, until you find what is normal again. Owning up to the part you can play and being unafraid to design your own script can help with the success of any of life’s productions.

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: Puzzle

Those items of furniture that look great on the small screen of your phone device arrive at your door in a single cardboard box. They could be from Ikea or a host of other quick and easy delivery companies. One of these arrived at my door the other day. My wife had been tracking it so I wasn’t unaware, just a bit fretful. The source of my anxiety was the basic puzzle of what we would have to go through if we didn’t like it. We would then have to send it back and what would that mean? These ancillary costs to my mental health are always on my mind.

I like puzzles generally. I feel smart when I can solve them. I love doing crosswords. My mind seems to expand in different directions when I work on a jigsaw puzzle (as long as there is a tidy place to put the assembly and I can keep my worry of lost pieces under control). One of my favourite things to build is a custom made cardboard box for the delivery of presents to my family far away. I measure and cut carefully to avoid wasted space in the parcel. The postal workers at my local depot always smile as they measure my package and report the payment due. Supporting these old systems and pastimes pleases me.

My former father-in-law loved the three dimensional wooden puzzles you can get at farmers’ markets of in craft stores. Being an engineer, he liked playing Jenga and pick-up-sticks. He tried to show me how to play Tetris on his computer once which made me nervous for a whole day afterward. I got revenge by buying him a Christmas present of magic metal rings that were supposed to detach and separate but never did in his lifetime. Pay back can be pleasing.

I think of myself as a puzzler. I enjoy having an enquiring personality. As I age I try to keep my two cranial hemispheres firing on all synapses. I tone my left side by writing daily; using language is the key here. My right hemisphere enjoys the spatial dimensions of thought so this comes in really handy when I have to put things together, like the bureau in that box by the door, that was waiting to be opened. ‘I have a project.’ I said to my self with encouragement.

Space was made and time was allowed for the task at hand. Out of the box came all the assorted pieces. Tools were assessed. I gazed at the instructions that were numbered for clarity.  I was building this piece of furniture in front of my 95 year old special mom. She saw my puzzlement over the parts displayed before her and said, “I know you can do it.” I asked how she was sounding so sure. She answered, “ Because you are good at crossword puzzles.”

I appreciated her puzzling connection yet heart felt encouragement. I began fitting the pieces together. It pleased me that her presence gave truth to the saying; Two heads are better than one.