Re: Art

Re: Mystery

One of my favourite lines from a film is delivered by the owner of a theatre in early London. The movie is Shakespeare in Love and this character (played beautifully by Geoffrey Rush) is asked how the play he has sponsored can possibly go on. His reply is simple, “I don’t know. It’s a mystery!” Life is indeed mysterious and the wonder of it can flabbergast me.

Social media, as an art form, is an extension of theatre throughout the history of humanity. It is  a communication medium writ large and I’m loving the feelings of connection I get from the internet of things. I wanted to use the handle WhoNoz when I first opened an account on Twitter in recognition of this curiosity of our internet age. How I can have a relationship (even a virtual one) with someone in Australia by tweeting something on my computer and getting a follow back is a mystery to me. I like to think of myself as someone who knows some things. I acknowledge at the same time that I can’t know everything. It’s confusing and a bit contradictory, while thinking that I have an opinion, even though I’m no expert. I could just as easily lift my shoulders in a moment of exasperation declaring, “Who Knows?”

Many of my elders confess to loving mystery stories. Some pulp fiction writing is all about who did what and where. Even though I love the enduring character of Sherlock Holmes, I’ve never been a fan of the mystery genre of story telling. In a real life conversation I am often dismissive of the idea that getting to the why of things is an important objective. The mystery to me is discovering the how of making something happen. That is why I am thrilled by stories of quests. I want my characters, real or fictional, to boldly go forth on a mission of discovery. The question of how moves you into the future of stuff. I wonder what mysteries these adventurers will uncover. What truth will lay exposed after the search is complete? What lessons will be learned by the characters? Will I have found, by being a witness, that my life is more understandable?

Life deserves to be examined; each day awaits discovery. Even in a life that seems easy to describe there is mystery to be enjoyed. I’ve been taking medication for a heart dysfunction called Atrial Fibrillation. Recently I got an opportunity to have a surgeon try to correct the irregular misfiring of my heart muscles so that my beat is constant and predictable. Call me crazy, but I awaited the procedure with gleeful anticipation: Here was something new, that I could embrace, that just might make my health and my life better! I suppose one can accept mystery if one can be trusting in the process, just as Philipe Henslowe believed that the show must go on, back in 16th century England.

In my life I’d say that knowing, even when it’s hard to, gives me a positive bearing for my next step.

Re: Hierarchy

I don’t put much stake in status. I believe a system of hierarchy in a culture creates more harm than good. Perhaps it’s my lack of ambition that propels me to say this. Maybe it’s because I’m older (but not necessarily wiser). I never wanted to be the top dog in any setting, even though I appreciate recognition when it has come to me. When I have received accolades, I don’t view those who have patted me on the back as being lesser than. I like a level playing field.

A state of hierarchy is present in our systems. There is a chain of command in more than just the military. Business operations are defined by their top down approach, with chiefs being tasked with providing direction for the underlings. Well advertised economic principles are expected to trickle down benefits to the masses. Religion expects followers instead of adherents; sheep who will not stray and never confront the status quo. I once had a brother-in-law who used a patriarchal methodology with his family because the bible told him so: Father knows best. Hierarchy is a ranking of people based on a particular management team’s view of the environment at hand. To benefit the ruler, someone is to be judged smarter than, cuter than, stronger than, whiter than, younger than, or more obedient than and then given a certificate, badge, job, or corner office to occupy. Control usually comes from a pyramid design for administration. Rarely do we have an example of co-leadership where all stakeholders are given an equal share in ownership or decision making.

Children learn early to express their authority. My middle son was quick to point out that his brothers were not the boss of him. I remember him once standing rigid at the top of a flight of stairs, fists clenched, while shrieking, “I know another way!” because his elder brother wanted him to follow his lead. Bosses are critical in a hierarchal society, or so the bosses tell us. It becomes accepted that decisions are made by those in charge. Some are offended by this when it is stated as fact; “You can’t make me!” is something I’ve heard often from my children and from my students.

One of the aspects of a second U.S. presidential term of Trump that frightens me is the way he uses his authority. I believe he feels exulted that he is head honcho. And 80 million people (far from the majority mind you) have given him permission to be The Boss over a vast and diverse collection of people. Most of those people, I suspect, just want to go about their business exercising their freedom to be autonomous within their particular setting. Some will argue that there must be some form of supremacy within a culture: A desk somewhere, perhaps, where the buck stops. I think again of people like Trump, democratically elected but part of a flawed system, who is destined to have the final say. We, the people, each of us alone, are sovereign.

Re: Bond

Bond is a four letter word like Love. Of course when I say this word out loud I want to continue: “Bond, James Bond.” Being a film lover, I have much respect for the longevity of the Bond franchise (25 movies all told, unless you count the 2 rebel outliers). I read recently that the Broccoli caretakers are on the search for the newest iteration of this iconic spy character. Good luck to the producers as they navigate the sticky issues of misogyny, political correctness, sexual diversity, and national identities.

Love of any sort starts with attraction, then association, and eventually an adhesion of sorts. When we make a vow or sign a contract we have joined ourselves to another. Those ties are binding until we find the original circumstances have changed in some way or another. We all have certain attractions to things, both natural and unnatural. We feel bonded to our pets, our family, our friends, and our possessions. Those bonds can often be hard to explain, difficult to maintain and tricky to break. Emotion, history and convenience are involved.

My dad used a paper glue that brushed on and had light adhesive properties for his artwork. I think it was called rubber cement and it was designed for artists who needed something to tack gently to another surface, then after the material was removed the glue could be rolled off by your fingertips. He also used a fixative in a spray can to set his pastel drawings. I learned that, metaphorically speaking, some things are meant to stay fastened while other things may be better thought of as a hasty-note.

In high school I remember saying to a prospective girlfriend, “I’m stuck on you.” I think that’s a lyric in a song by Lionel Richie. Anyway that relationship didn’t stick around, so to speak. Much later I concluded my best emotional bonds were cohesive rather than adhesive. The former is a fixation on someone of similar disposition; like minds as it were. The latter is more about the phenomenon of opposites that attract (another great song by Paula Abdul). My longest lasting bonds have been with people, women in particular, who share similar philosophies of life with me. Birds of a feather, if you catch my drift.

There is a contrariness here when thinking of magnetic attraction. North and South poles on two magnets are going to snap together when brought close to each other. I’ve been with others where sparks fly causing fusion of ideas in spite of lack of commonality. This is not a case of like-attracting-like. It’s a question of Game On! And I know some successful human bondings that are the result of a connection between two people who many would consider to be polar opposites. In those cases there is mystery at work. Maybe it’s a hidden bond that holds them up along with the friction, like a bracket-less shelf.

I am bound to freak out when the next James Bond is announced. Don’t ask me to explain it.

Re: Booth

If words had scent, I suspect Booth would have the aroma of grandpa’s sweater, soft leather, or maybe pipe tobacco. This word popped into my head one morning as I was waking. Booth is not a versatile word like bandage, beverage, or even British. You can replace it with box, or kiosk perhaps but the word Booth has a vintage character.

In days gone by it was a place to find a phone. It was a communications site, a depot, a word station if you like. The last time I used a phone booth was in New Zealand, where I almost lost a phone card. Were it not for a scrounged safety pin I wouldn’t have been able to retrieve my pay card from the slot.  My earliest recollection of a proper phone booth was in England where my mom took my 2 year old sister to change her nappy. Much later, in Canada when I was a teen, I would go to a local mini-mall to make calls to girlfriends. We would exchange confidences and plan run-a-ways. Despite my avoidance of small spaces, these outmoded cabinets of conversation enabled me to escape from the prying ears of my mother who would tease me mercilessly if I used the home phone line.

On those dates I might have prearranged with a favourite restaurant to reserve a cozy booth in the corner, near the back, where my date and I could have more privacy. I believe there was a television game show about setting up a date night. It involved a sound proof booth where contestants had to wait in seclusion while the audience got the scoop on what would happen next, who would choose who, or if the answers matched the questions enough for compatibility or prize money. Strangely, some of these features can be found in the interrogation one gets when having a hearing test.

A phone booth has been featured often in television and film. The scene of Hitchcock mayhem comes to mind in The Birds. Why Clark Kent chooses to transform into Superman while inside one, I’ll never understand! I’ve never been a fan of Doctor Who, yet the concept of the Tardis fascinates me. It was designed after a commonly seen police box on London streets. It’s small in size but as expansive as time & space once you step inside. This long running British series is an expensive long distance call indeed! Joel Schumacher directed a superb suspense thriller titled Phone Booth. It nicely captured two of my worst fears whenever I made use of one of these curious glassed cubicles: claustrophobia, and paranoia of not having enough change.

And speaking of tense scenarios, I always thought it was curious that John Wilkes Booth managed to assassinate Lincoln while the President sat in a theatre booth. Death by booth squared! There now; I’ve given the word Booth a boost. Now I’ll consider ordering an old-timey British phone box on eBay and installing it in my back yard as a sentimental gesture.

“In for a penny, in for a pound.”eh?

Re: Exist

I find it amusing that an anagram for Exist is Exits. We are living in Existential times, say many articles I read these days. Some headlines scream; “It’s an Existential Crisis!” or “Our very Existence is being jeopardized!” or “Human’s will soon cease to Exist on our planet!” Certainly civilization is in a roiling turmoil, sufficient to make us feel that it’s time to seek the exits of the great theatre of life (the vomitoria of ancient roman amphitheatres come to mind).

But wait! Before we search for that way-out from our own arena, let’s consider together what defines our existence. Hamlet was right when he opined that to be or not to be was the question. I believe we must be, simply because we are. Life is precious, to ourselves and to others. I’ve known folks who have committed suicide. I’ve contemplated shuffling off this mortal coil. What held me back was that the fear of missing out was greater than the fear of what comes next.

My existence is dependent on my thoughts. I am aware of my presence because I feel things. My senses send me signals of pleasure and pain. To be present means to acknowledge the messages being received, even if they are uncomfortable. All things will pass. I can’t always relate to what’s happening around me so I find comfort in the parade. Maybe I’ll join in later, or start my own parade. We are characters in a play of our own making. All the world’s a stage.

When I read stories of people who have disappeared I wonder what their previous existence had been like. I’m going to assume here that they arranged their own disappearance. After their escape, I’ll assume they had a life, somewhere, even though the ones they left behind may do better emotionally by thinking they are dead. The story writer in me wants these vanished souls to have an alternate world; a world free of the hassles from which they felt they had to depart. Imagine being so uncomfortable that you had to get as far away from your current experience as possible. It’s hard to believe that such a disappearing act would be possible in this age of surveillance. Yet, in Canada alone, tens of thousands go missing every year.

There is no doubt that we are in an existential moment in history. The world-wide pinball machine seems to be in continuous tilt mode. Lights flash warning after warning: Climate change, Terrorist attack, War crimes, Political lies, Viral pandemic, Species extinction. Prophets are screaming end-of-days rhetoric. Please wake me up when it’s all over!

Then I see my wife smile at me. I see a sparrow land nearby and tilt its tiny head. A breeze teases the hairs on my arm. I smell a barbecue cooking. I swallow my saliva. I am alive! I exist and my existence doesn’t have to matter to anyone else but me. Each day can be better than what I thought it might be. I’ll never miss out if I hold on for one more day.

Re: Walk

In my time at University it was popular to hang posters with inspirational sayings. I remember seeing the one with a set of footprints in the sand describing how someone might walk with you in times of trouble. Another poster showed various pathways to talk about the road less travelled. Still another suggested the end result was not as important as the journey itself. Walking was central to many of these themes, and woe be the person who didn’t walk their talk, ideologically or in campus conversation. No one wants to be labelled a hypocrite!

There are many songs that depend on the word Walk to drive the message: Who among us has had boots made for walking, or been advised to just walk away like Renée. Maybe we’ve walked like an Egyptian after two many drinks or walked 500 miles just to be the one who falls down by your door. I’ve walked the line between good and evil, just to please the one I wanted to love me back. In the olden days if a boy walked you to the car or to your doorstep he was considered a keeper.

My 95 year old special mom sets a good example by going on a daily walk around the block. She takes seeds in a bag for any bird friends she finds along the way. As do other elders, she has a stable walker with handles suited to her height, a seat, and wheels she can brake so she doesn’t roll away when she chooses to sit and take a rest. I go with her sometimes but I find her slow pace a challenge to my balance. In a metaphorical sense I am taking a walk with her during this twilight part of her life. Watching her deal with the changes that come with aging is a privileged learning experience.

I’ve felt fortunate to have legs that can carry me to where I wish to go. Now in my eightieth decade I neither have the will nor the ability I once had to cover great distances. I have a friend who has mastered the famed Camino de Santiago trail. My son has tramped the beautiful West Coast Trail of Vancouver Island. My hikes have been much less impressive but I have enjoyed the ground I’ve covered. I have taken part in fund-raising walks and once, in late elementary school, I spent time training on a track in the manner of Olympic walking. I wasn’t fast enough to make the team but my hip-work impressed my weekend extra-curricular dancing instructor so much that he designed a special dance character for me. I was a cop-on-the-beat in a dance recital routine that had me walking around a Paris neighbourhood dressed Charlie Chaplin style: Rubber legged, bum waggling, and twirling my truncheon. The audience loved it!

Alas my 15 minutes of fame on that stage would not have propelled me to a career in show business or to be noted on Toronto’s Walk of Fame. But here I am talking about my walks.

Re: Wed

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the abbreviation of Wednesday is Wed., especially when you think how the mid-week day is affectionately called Hump Day. I’m being cheeky of course, because there is more to being wed than having sex, or whatever day you choose to enjoy that activity. To be wedded implies a union like no other, a bond that is more than just the sum of its parts.

My 95 year old special mom got me thinking about this word when she commented how the flavours of the stew my bride was making needed to take time to marry. “It’s always better the next day.” She stated. I thought about my marriage in that context and made her laugh by suggesting that her daughter and I, after twenty years together, must be very tasty indeed. Our conversation went to tales of marriages of convenience, shotgun weddings and also fairy tale romances, like in the film Princess Bride. I told her about a neighbour of mine who once had a delightfully amusing remarriage on the front lawn of their suburban home. They dressed in hillbilly clothes and, instead of kissing his renewed wife, the aging groom was encouraged to throw his bride over his shoulder and “Git!”

In some religions, marriage is a sacrament. To me, it’s a loving attachment that is mutually beneficial. I don’t believe that deciding to live together with others in a shared experience can be any less holy simply because of a lack of paperwork or an official stamp of approval. Being unwed used to carry a stigma and usually women suffered the disparaging remarks associated with shacking-up with someone or, gods forbid, not finding a mate and thus becoming a spinster! Society can be cruel when judgement defines its culture. My own children have taken marital arrangements in the broad sense of finding someone with whom they wish to share life.

I’ve had two different marriages: One was traditional with church service and reception followed by a honeymoon. A wedding so old fashioned in ceremony that my best man even read out telegrams we received from far away lands. We had a tiered cake. We lit two candles for ourselves, then used that light for a single candle to represent our union. The singing of hymns proclaimed our love. My second marriage was an elopement to a distant island where days were spent holding hands while strolling barefoot on the beach. Just the two of us, the music in our hearts. Some of our friends and family sent candles in our luggage as a beautiful form of blessing which added historical connection. Idyllic. Eden-like. A twinning experience. We faced the future together.

I’m wedded to the idea of the possible. Aspects of cultural formality in the eyes of society and church may have their place yet I prefer to think that structures are often arbitrary. I enjoy stories of humans who overcome convention in their work, recreation, and love lives. I still feel newly-wed. Learning about another soul takes a lifetime of Wednesdays.

Re: Pivot

We seem to be living in pivotal times. It’s not that these days are necessarily more dangerous than in the past but judging by headlines, bylines and frown lines there is a lot of distress washing up on our shores. Canadians can be thankful the turmoil hasn’t been violent in our country. Perhaps gratitude comes easily when there is food on the table and a roof over the head.

Chaos and catastrophe aren’t necessary for a shift in direction. Change in leadership can bring about a country’s world view, or maybe it’s the other way around. I will ever be puzzled by the strength of Trump’s following in the United States. I breathed a sigh of relief back in 2020 and now here we are on the cusp of the unthinkable: another four years of head shaking pivots of policy.

Times like these make me even more introspective, if that’s possible. There have been moments in my life where I have pivoted. Sometimes I have strayed from a self-prescribed course of action. At those moments it feels like I’m making a personal choice but now, looking back, I wonder how much free will I really had. On several occasions I have had change inflicted on me and I’ve had to react, adapt or just resign myself to go down that lazy river. We are all soldiers in our own way; sometimes confined to barracks, sometimes told to carry an extra pack, in the rain, through the mud. And sometimes we get to do an about-face and go elsewhere.

In 1954 I was brought to Canada at age two (obviously very little choice with this pivotal event). In 1974 I chose to marry the woman with whom I created a beautiful family. In 1994 my life took a turn for the worse as I fell ill with depression. Returning to health, assisted by excellent medication and an accompanying shift in attitude, I set out to steer my ship into more enjoyable ports of call. In 2004 there came a miracle that felt like a second lifetime: A lovely woman danced me into a new relationship, with new possibilities and a future filled with dream-come-true moments. It’s now 2024. I don’t have the full value of hindsight here, but I do know that thinking of myself as an author has created a pivot in my daily activities. There are many labels I could use to describe me. This new one of ‘Author’ has a pivotal feel.

When I wrote these dates down I was struck that they occurred every twenty years. I score!  Amusingly, I had a vision of my life carrying me another score of years, befitting the pattern. In this positive frame of mind I confidently forecast that I shall survive until 2044. For the next two decades I shall dedicate my life to the things that bring me joy. It’s like a New Year’s Resolution but only over twenty years of daily happiness, pivoting as needs be, to bring an equal dose of joy to those I love.

Re: Choice

I’ve just finished a provocative book by Robert Sapolski called Determined: A Science of Life Without Free Will. Its main point is that there is no such thing as independent choice. The author gives many examples and even scientific data to show that the act of choosing is not possible, even if we are determined to believe it to be true. Choice comes with so much baggage; personal, genetic, historical, cultural and generational. He argues that these patterns in our lives determine our characteristics and behaviour.

When I was in university the common-area lounge debate was often Nature vs Nurture. Looking back on those times it seems the imperative was to take a side. One fellow, I recall clearly, telling us all that he had a right Not to choose. He gave the example of the election held the week before our discussion. He shocked us by declaring he didn’t vote, and probably never would, as his form of protest against the system. I thought at the time that he was an example of anarchy, which was a side without a side I suppose.

If I choose to believe I have no choice I guess I join those who figure that Fate determines our lives. My 95 year old special mom likes to use the phrase, “What will be will be!” That dismissive comment might work for small burps in our existence but I’d hate to use that notion when it comes to global issues like climate change, inequity, famine, or war. Those who argue that something, as serious as humanity’s deterioration, is inevitable get me angry. When I can’t logically explain that choice is inherent to my being, then I’ll get emotional. And emotion will get me nowhere in a debate regarding my freedom of choice.

We can excuse our actions by complaining that we had no choice. To some that is a cop-out, to others who have less advantage, even from the moment of birth, it is a reason to connect A to B. That great David Lean film Lawrence of Arabia contains a narrative arc that illustrates this point dramatically. Lawrence saves a traveller in his caravan apparently destined to die and boasts that choice changes the outcome. In a following scene, that same man commits a deadly act ordained by the instructions of his god. Lawrence must then execute the very man he saved by his own hand.

Sometimes it’s enough to shrug your shoulders at the conundrum of the decision making process. My sister used to ignore the warning signs of a bad situation while I tend to masticate over every detail before picking the ‘best’ course of action. I’m guilty of shaming others by thinking “Well it’s your own damn fault.” I suspect that might be one of the rationals behind bombing Gaza into oblivion, because of the events of October 7, 2023. Choosing to rebel is considered less holy a crusade than an act of retribution. Therein lies the crime against humanity. Alternatively, when we choose something as important as peace we can make good on the promise of creation.

Re: Claudia

In any journey to understand words, in whatever language you use, I feel that emotion often supersedes meaning. For instance, some of us might have trouble even saying a word like Love, let alone trying to define it. The word Love is rich with meaning within the context of a sentence and exquisitely profound when used to understand the depth of a relationship. Let’s face it, some words are utile only. Other words are magical enough to carry a spirit.

Proper nouns are amazing in that regard. The naming of someone immediately makes the qualities of that person unique. Claudia is a Spirit Grandma to three beautiful grandchildren who were born after she died. I love the way her being is honoured with this evocative title. Claudia was once my best friend, my wife and a mother to three precious sons. She and I shared a quarter of a century together before she succumbed to a quickly spreading cancer. To the very end, Claudia was resolute that she had had a good life; one filled with activities, challenges and people who mattered.

Claudia is an uncommon name, befitting a woman unusual for her time. She loved things that resonated with the past. In a time when being a homemaker was losing its efficacy, even looked down upon as a career choice, Claudia enrolled in a University program focussing on Home Economics subjects. In the early seventies, the Macdonald Institute at Guelph University was often derided as leading to a Mrs. Degree. One of the first things that fascinated me about this woman with an old fashioned name was that she made her own clothes. She had been doing it since elementary school, won several contests, entered many fashion shows and was now specializing in the textile arts. I met her at a party, hosted by her friends, where she told me all this as I fell in love with her. Later, when we were planning our marriage, she stated emphatically that she aspired to being a homemaker. I couldn’t have asked for a better mate in that regard. Our house was a very, very, very fine house.

I wonder when a word becomes more than a word. A person’s name is an extraordinary use of a single word. It’s when a noun becomes a proper noun, almost giving it more value. When parents struggle over what word to use to describe their child no wonder there is much to debate and decide. Claudia is indistinguishable to me. Probably because I loved the person attached to that name. I’m sure there are other folks with the name Claudia, but none come to mind when I think of that word.

On paper, in text, Claudia is just a word. It is hard for me to type this word without all sorts of sights, sounds and feelings tumbling out of my brain. Before her death at age fifty, Claudia told me that she had lived the life she wanted, however short. Others, who knew of this particular Claudia, could tell you their own marvellous stories.