Re: Art

Re: Loyalty

There are some values I not only don’t trust but actually shun. I’d go so far as to declare that loyalty is a moral principle that I reject. Loyalty does more harm than good, especially if it is a priority on your list of creeds to live by. The wrongness of this credo is evident to me in so many aspects of life. Yet in most people’s account book, Loyalty figures highly as worthy of respect. I put Love high on my value list so, please, let’s agree to disagree.

I’m binge-watching the television series Billions. In nearly every episode the notion of loyalty comes up. Shall I be faithful in my marriage, shall I honour my business partner, shall I be loyal to my clients whose money I am using to make myself more money? These are questions we see the cast pondering as they try to live fulfilling and exciting lives. To say their morals are non-existent is not being fair. The lesson the drama is teaching me is that being disloyal is the ultimate crime. Any consequence that comes from being disloyal is acceptable. Revenge is usually delivered on a cold plate, without a warm beverage. It’s a dog eat dog world when it comes to the power of money.

In my book of engaging in the social arrangement, allegiance might change from day to day. I figure that loyalty must not be blind, therefore it must be proven worthy by consistency, not history. It doesn’t matter to me that we ‘go way back’ if your current attitude or circumstance runs counter to my association. It’s not good for either of us to support a principle that undermines the common good. I can bend but not be tied in knots. Integrity, Health, Compassion, Courage, and Adaptability all trump Loyalty in my card game of values.

And speaking of Trump. This untrustworthy fellow is my Exhibit Number One in my assertion that loyalty is suspect in the court of human experience. Consider who the former president of the U.S.A expressed his fealty to! Not the American people, no siree! Despite being advised by some to avoid the likes of Putin, Assad, and Un, Trump courted these nasty individuals and fired those who opposed him for disloyalty. Trump is an example of what goes wrong in politics when loyalty is more important than honour.

If you define being loyal as having a commitment to another person then I have no disagreement. Once I have determined that a person is dependable I will have patience for most of their idiosyncrasies. However, I am not faithful to a fault because there is a limit in my loyalty bank and accounts are observed daily. To continue with the pet analogy; I guess I’m like a choosy cat rather than a devoted dog. A domesticated dog seems designed for unflinching devotion and we humans are all too often charmed by this misguided loyalty.

No wonder this four legged creature is referred to as Man’s Best Friend. He doesn’t know any better.

Re: Most

“You’re the most!” Is a declaration that someone once said to me after I delivered on a promise. This cliched phrase (a relative of ‘you’re too much’) was delivered as a thank you when I held up my end of a bargain. It was one of those humbling moments because I didn’t think I had done all that much. Apparently I went beyond much, into the superlative Most!

The word Most is related to the word Best and can be used to describe all the things you really like. Extreme yet simple words like these appeal to the novice wordsmith and to aged writers who can still relate to the wonders of life. My grandson recently learned this word and wants to use it in his daily speech. He wants to know all the Most things; like who had the most fun, the most dessert, who got the most candies. I tell him I love him the most.

If I were to list the times in my life when I did my utmost, those events would be few. I tend to be a lazy guy, lacking what some might call ambition. The time I had to travel across the Atlantic Ocean to my very ill father comes to mind quickly as an example of superior effort. When I had to respond to a leaking hot water tank required a lot of quick thinking. Sometimes I find large gatherings rather taxing, but I wouldn’t describe my efforts to show patience on those occasions as herculean. In other words, it is probably true that my life is mostly moderate instead of extreme. While I try to get the most out of any circumstance I wouldn’t say that I go overboard to create drama or intrigue. That doesn’t mean I lack enthusiasm. For example, if I say “That’s the most fun I ever had!” someone is bound to point out that I said the very same thing last week. I sometimes, usually, regularly, and predictably live as a character in the film Groundhog Day.

My 95 year old special mom just filled out her MOST form. Medical Orders for Scope of Treatment is a document that directs others to respect her wishes in the event of a life threatening medical situation. Some jurisdictions use DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) paperwork. MOST sounds more positive somehow. The majority of us would like our last moments to be peaceful, I suspect. Most of all my mom wanted to make her medical wishes clear to anyone who might wonder how to proceed on her behalf. She tells her daughter that she has had a satisfactory life and doesn’t want to be anyone’s bother when it comes right down to it.

When Ella Fitzgerald sang the great Cole porter song ’You’re the top!’ she’s giving the highest accolade while feeling joy in the moment. and to my ears she is the mostest. I hope the best I can say, when I reach my special mom’s age, is that I did the most with what I had been given.

Re: Empty

Emptiness can be both positive and negative. For example an empty calendar can be refreshing: There is no responsibility or must-do event waiting to corral your attention. Under those blank circumstances you can empty your thoughts if you wish or cram them with long denied pleasures. The negative part of emptiness suggests a void: A vast expanse of nothingness. I’ve had that feeling after a relationship break-up or a sudden loss. I felt so empty of ambition in those moments, my head seemed vacant of all ideas except a nagging question, “What am I going to do now?”

Generally speaking, I’ve been a ‘Glass half full’ sort of fellow, so if my vessel empties it’s because I need a rest, not because I’ve adopted a negative vibe. A soul can be depleted, that’s for sure, so it’s important to always check your levels to see if a top-up is required. I’m a guy who likes to keep the gas tank above the half-full line. I remember being highly anxious over a song that showed exultation over driving a car while ‘running on empty’. I imagine that scenario casting me into a void of no return. Not my kind of fun.

In my teens my mom admitted to being numb, emptied of emotion, because her relationship with my dad had been depleted. It was a sad time for all of us in the family that had once enjoyed relative abundance within the restrictions of a low-budget existence. Looking back on those depressing months before reconciliation, we all could have been described as walking wounded, barren of possibilities, grasping for mere survival. Board games had once been our favourite group activity. Now, in real life, we were playing a zero-sum game.

Most will run away from emptiness because we equate it to loneliness.  But an empty space or even a brief expanse of time can beckon. An empty container is often pictured on a still-life visual art canvas. It has beauty in form and structure all on its own. Being empty means the light can shine through and around in fascinating ways. A container can be full-some, in and of itself. Forms of yoga or meditation allow us to realize that an empty mind can be a starting point to new ideas. Going blank can lead to a refreshed way of thinking and understanding. There is a new car freshness to having a clean slate. An empty vessel can also suggest an expectation of forthcoming change or the approach of being filled with a hopeful breath of new life. Metaphors abound!

When I pass a hotel or apartment complex and see a No Vacancy sign I usually feel sad. I wonder why there is no more room to shelter someone in need. I feel badly for those missing out on a chance to stay, even for a little while, and experience what that place has to offer. But a flashing Vacancy is invitational. This place is Open for Business! Those in-between spaces, neither full nor empty, need our attention.

Re: Cars

I took a mental inventory of all the cars I’ve ever owned: a VW Beetle, a Honda Civic, a Chevy Blazer, a Toyota Previa, a Toyota Camry, a Dodge Ram Roadtrek and finally a Toyota Yaris. I also enjoyed a decade riding a 50cc SYM Fiddle II. Each vehicle matched the times/needs of my life: youth, parenthood, facilitating, or adventuring. At one point I had the camper van, the Yaris and the scooter parked simultaneously in my carport. Coincidentally all modes of transport were coloured white. My youngest son was impressed, commenting, “You’ve got a fleet!”

My Beetle was second hand & red. It cost me $750. I drove to Maine and back home to Whitby. I outfoxed a policeman while driving it back from a barn-party. The Civic was my first brand new car, costing around $1500. I drove it to Timmins with my first wife by my side, excited about my first job. A new Blazer truck seemed the right thing to get for a growing family. It cost me $8,000 but it lasted me ten years and, one memorable summer, it took a family of five camping all over the East Coast of Canada. When I bought my Previa it was all the buzz in 1991. I took a test drive and I called it a shuttlecraft because it reminded me of StarTrek-TNG. My teenaged boys absolutely loved it. I checked the bank account and squeezed out the $21,000 MSRP. I shared the cost of two Camrys during a transitional stage in my life (one black and one gold which symbolically illustrated my emotional flow from darkness to heavenly days). My new bride encouraged me to get a used Roadtrek I had coveted for decades. Together we took to the road, enjoying the feeling of no-fixed-address.

Cars give us freedom and independence. My bride loves using the Yaris to get away, even if it is just an autonomous ride into the city. Being older, I notice I am becoming more tense while driving or in the passenger seat. I’m weighing the odds of having an accident (I’ve had 4). I’m finally realizing the impact automobiles have on our health and the environment. When I was in high school you could get away with drinking while driving. It took decades before groups like MADD convinced us of the folly of mixing alcohol and gasoline. Now we have climate change.

It’s still a car culture, big ass truck sales are on the rise. Joy rides are still a thing even though they may be shorter. In our community there’s a growing interest in making roads safer with designated lanes for cars, busses, and bicycles. Car owners are not happy about sharing the road that they have dominated for decades. With modern realities, we are all going to need to create a new culture, less dependent on fossil fuels.

Die-cast Dinky cars, easily imagined in the chubby hands of a kid in a sandbox, may soon be a sight only in story books. The environment must come first.

Re: Opposite

War is the opposite of art. In the midst of compelling, heart-wrenching photos of the current wars in Gaza and Ukraine, art is being dimmed just as surely as lives are being extinguished. Art creates, while war is nothing but destruction. Art defines the best in humanity, while war denigrates mankind with every rocket launched, with every bullet fired, and with every anti-personal device exploded.

To be opposite is to be opposed. Opposition plays a key role in incidents of unfairness. When one side dominates it is right for the minority to speak up in rebellion. A call to arms is required if dialogue is downplayed, demonized, dismissed or otherwise disparaged. Everyone has a right to be heard and understood. Systems must be in place to protect the vulnerable, not trample over them. I get upset when I have to take a side: Life is nuanced, not black and white. Looking within the fold and shades of an issue, I see promise in the act of negotiation. Capitulation isn’t necessary when the shared goal is accommodating humanity.

War rhetoric is divisive. People on the opposite side of the line drawn in the sand are referred to as Nonpersons; humans devoid of respect or legal protection. They are “human animals”, as described by current Israeli Prime Minister B. Netanyahu when he speaks of the enemy Hamas. All sorts of words have been used through the ages to delineate the opposite side, whether in war or debate. The opposing team is the foe, the work of the devil, the pagan, the unwashed, or the undeserving. The pronouncement is made, thus the enemy is not requiring compassion. The slaughter can begin.

Some say that the opposite of war is peace. Others know that the only thing you need for the seed of war is indifference. I will play devil’s advocate by suggesting that intolerance begins the process of creating The Other. Making a contrary statement, even if it’s a lie, will get the argument going. Currently on social media sites, those who wish to incite disharmony are using AI Bots to spread discord. One small distortion, strategically used by Influencers, can cause havoc. Consider the folks in Springfield, Ohio who had to battle the abuse from folks who believed that its residents were stealing cats & dogs for food, after Trump said he had heard this on TV.

Debates are often seen as being an example of opposites not attracting. The recent Trump/Harris debacle showcased clearly for me that you can’t have a debate when one party is unwilling to discuss issues. Solving the issue of the day is looking at the double edged sword and trying to minimize the damage done to a course of action. Having a respectful debate, in my mind, is about seeing two sides of the same coin, then figuring out what to do when things flip heads or tails. Often the two sides can be complementary, even if we can’t be complimentary of that person on the other side of the arbitrary fence.

Re: Stories

While talking to my 95 year old special mom about a newspaper story of a neighbour who is lost, I became lost myself, in the flimsy gauze between truth and fiction. The report of the missing man has details that beg to be filled in with only my conjecture. My mom asks questions that I can’t objectively answer, yet a conclusion to the story had to be reached before we could move on with our day. Thus, the story in our community becomes wedded to our own story, even while the resolution to the story is pending. Even with her advanced age and experience, my mom found this hard to bear.

Bedtime stories are precious in the way they invite imagination. The child being read to goes on fantastical journeys with only a few words of script. Sometimes only a picture is enough to provoke multiple questions of why, how and where. The stories live on after the sleepy-head has been tucked in and the reader has left the room. Stories are meant to persist just as the witness to a life event takes in information and transforms the data into something relevant and understandable. In that way, life itself is a never ending story containing multitudes of chapters and possibilities.

A building starts with a foundation. Stories are added to this physical structure to accommodate people and things. Sometimes in poorer countries the extra floors take time to build. I remember asking a tour-guide, while on a bus trip in Peru, about some buildings having rebar sticking out at the top of rows of cinder block. She told me it was a sign of hope in her community that one day enough money would be available to add a second floor onto the house, to make space for expanding families. A case of another story creating room for more stories.

Recently Andrea Skinner, a daughter of Alice Munro, made public her story of abuse at the hands of her step-father. Readers of Munro’s work talked and wrote about the revelation as though it was their story. Some couldn’t see themselves ever reading this Nobel Prize winning author’s stories ever again because of this new, real life chapter insertion into the Munro bibliography. Ms.Skinner’s misfortune reminded me when I was a toddler and being admonished never to tell tales on the family. I took that to mean; Don’t lie. Yet when I saw my mom talking with others she would often start a conversation with another adult by asking for gossip. I still find the difference between privacy and secrets confusing.

Any bit of fact can be turned into a story. I believe conspiracy theories are an attempt to make our imaginations come to life. We want to understand things so desperately that we join in the story making with other like-minded folk to explain the unfathomable. Every culture is built on stories. Sometimes the truth is hidden to get on with other things we think are more important.

My story is not like yours but we have chapters in common, let’s build on that.

Re: Anxiety

A week ago, I had an episode of high anxiety. It woke me up; A feeling of dread. There was nothing imminently dangerous. I lay still, controlling my breathing until I fell back to sleep. And now, just last night, my bride comforted me in the dark when I woke her with a vocal exclamation loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. I had had a feeling of someone, a body, falling on me. My voice gave a “Huh!”grunt. It was an affront!

When does worry merge with the high traffic lane of anxiety? I can be fretful but I’m not necessarily anxious. With all the stressors in this present time it is easy to be filled with angst. Yet that is what makes a feeling of panic so confounding: When there is no real monster at the door it feels stupid for being fearful. Feeling threatened is different from being threatened. I have no reticence to talk about the fear within because feeling scared is real. Any counsellor will tell you that if you feel it then it exists. Trouble is you can’t grab this particular monster and wrestle it to the ground.

There is debate in our community over a school program allowing police to be present, within the halls of learning, serving as liaison officers. Such programs have been in existence before and are still active in other municipalities. The trouble is that many students are learning from other sources that police officers are not to be trusted. Media continually has news of armed forces going beyond the notion of serving and protecting. The appearance of an authoritative state makes me and others nervous. Thus, the anxiety in the school community is justified. We all have a role to play in educating children how to interact confidently with strangers. It’s not the job of someone wearing a badge, a protective vest and carrying a gun. That’s not a comforting presence, it’s intimidating.

Protesters and police. Liberals and Conservatives. Workers and Rich Folk. We are a class society and school has been cancelled. We have trouble getting useful information because we are bombarded with manufactured truth. Science and Education are no longer respected. Everyone is choosing a slogan and getting it tattooed on their skin or printed on an item of clothing. Our self labelling lowers the anxiety level because now we feel defined and less alone with our thoughts of impending doom. Still, trying to decide which side you’re on or who to vote for or where to shop creates tension that we may be taking for granted.

There are valid reasons to be a nervous Nellie or Norman in our stratified culture. Our technology puts us all up close and personal to global struggles. On a good day, a day when all things seem smoothly running, that’s sometimes the day when I suddenly feel surrounded by doubt, then doubt feeds worry and worry brings anxiety. I’m internalizing a vast amount of shared grief.

Good thing I have someone to lean on, when I’m not strong.

Re: Break

Break and its homonym Brake can give me trouble when I am writing. I can imagine ESL teachers using this pair of words as examples in a humorous writing assignment. And sometimes the meaning within the sentence can give me pause to wonder why a third word hasn’t been invented to provide a better illustration.

Take Breakneck Speed for example. These two words clearly describe a perilous situation requiring brakes to be applied before physical damage occurs. “Gimme a break!” Is something shouted in exasperation, but is the person asking for time out or for someone to halt the forward momentum of the monologue as in “Shut up!” A work stoppage is not a break from routine but an effective strike action to put brakes on unfair labour practises. If someone  breaks a dish while cleaning up there is no R&R involved, just more work. Why does destroying something and taking a vacation get described by using the same word, same spelling: Break!

When you have broken a promise damage has been done and emotional repairs are needed. Perhaps your lifestyle, when it comes to your relationships, has been too fast and loose and you need to apply the brakes before more trouble comes your way. When it comes to romantic friendships we all know that breaking up is hard to do. In that case, maybe taking a break from normal routine is the best course of action before it’s forced upon you.

I’ve shared this conundrum of two spellings, too many meanings with others and they think I’m rather overreacting. When I was working on the details of this blog page I asked my 95 year old special mom what she thought. She is a whiz at spelling so wasn’t challenged by my ideas, just a bit exasperated by the reason behind my niggling point. She chewed on it, literally working through the rest of her breakfast, put down her utensils and calmly said, “That’s just the way it is.”

In Thunder Bay, Ontario the residents celebrate Spring Break, not by travelling to Florida or Mexico but by gathering in around Port Arthur to watch the winter ice break. The floes come apart making a noisy, metallic, crackling sound: Like a cross between pinewood in a fire and a waste metal recycling plant crushing cars. It’s big news every year since many container ships have had to put the brakes on their movement up the St.Lawrence River.

“Hold your horses!” I suddenly imitated a grumpy Abe Simpson bellowing to his son Homer. In my imagination I’m saying this to myself to put the brakes on this hamster wheel of thought. I then see a donkey, stubbornly taking a break and braying about his plight carrying loads so heavy he might suffer a broken bone. I picture this cartoon mule with his scrawny neck extended, and a speech bubble above his head, not saying HeeHaw but “Braaayyk!”

‘Brayk’, a new all-purpose word, meaning; ‘I’m tired please stop’. Take that, Spell Check!

Re: York

I’ve learned to pay attention to symbols. I don’t always know their meaning at the time they present themselves but I get a certain pause that tells me to look again. I wonder if I am getting a message from my future self or simply a memory of something. Maybe something like a time capsule where the thought was packaged for future viewing only.

Anyway it might explain why I woke this morning to a nursery rhyme about a grand old Duke of York who had 10,000 men. When I came down for breakfast I was captivated by the way my bride had hung her sun hat over a chair post that had a cotton New Yorker book bag tangling. I continued to stare at the story created by hat and bag and chair. A memory came; of rushing to see my father after learning he was taken to a hospital in Maine. The journey required me to fly from England and catch a Grey Hound bus leaving from downtown New York at 2 in the morning. This mega-city was awake, bustling even, as I sped on foot through Times Square towards the subterranean depot.

I buttered my toast humming a medley of songs about the city that never sleeps: Barry Manilow told of how he survived by keeping the New York City rhythm in his life. Rod Stewart harmonized in a melancholic ode to a girl he hopes he’ll see tonight on a downtown train. Neil Sedaka chimes in to say he loves the place he calls his home. My breakfast ends with me tap dancing with Gene Kelly and his pals in a scene from On The Town; “The people ride in a hole in the ground.”

My English roots mean I’ve eaten sizzling hot Yorkshire Pudding (roast beef is a meager meal without its presence pooled in gravy on the plate). I’ve even been to the old Roman City of York with its magnificently preserved Cliffords Keep and the majestic cathedral York Minster. The latter construction is a massive structure that dominates the city yet the walls have carvings that give the building the lightness of lace. I feel a pull to both Yorks; the old and the new. I would like to live in either city to resolve the emotional tug that comes from anything York-ish.

Picking up the latest New Yorker magazine, I linger with the manuscript in my hands, looking at the cover art, hoping it holds the promise of unravelling the mystery that is symbolism. My love of magazines notwithstanding (the power and beauty I find in words written there) yet this magazine is a flimsy structure despite the heft of the title page font: New Yorker. “This has meaning”

Perhaps I am crossing borders to my Angle ancestors when I speak the word York as in some mystic chant to summon images of hunts for wild boar. The symbolism that draws me to that city; a geographical place but more than that. I wonder if there is something coded in my DNA.

Re: Photo

My bride has a new found passion. She’s been loving her cell phone and its photographical features. She goes to a photo club once a week to share her work and gain knowledge about the art form. I love it when she shares her homework with me; discussing the theme for the week’s assignments, showing me her latest on-screen captures, scrolling through the dozens of shots of charmingly photographable subjects while deciding which one has just the right composition.

I love the Kodachrome Song by Paul Simon; “makes you feel all the world’s a sunny day!” The lyrics conjure a picture of happy times. Times of the past seen through the lens of a camera. But before we get too sentimental let’s remember that those cameras, not the ones now compressed into our digital devices, used to be lugged around by a shoulder strap that dug a groove in your neck. I’ve owned all kinds of photographic devices. I started with one of those little brown boxes called Brownies. The film was expensive and therefore precious. I remember counting down the twelve shots, one by one until I turned the roll in to a developer who would give me single photos, on magical paper, that would remind me of how much fun I had at the beach. Back then, I kept the scalloped edge photos in a biscuit tin just like my mom had once kept her sepia coloured treasures of ancient family poses.

Photofinishing is not just what horses do in a close race. My former father-in-law used to have his own darkroom, thereby expressing his creativity while saving film processing fees. He died before the digital age but he would have had all the photoshop style software and apps to go with his hobby for sure. As I got older I was happy to transfer all the heritage slides onto a flash drive as a Christmas gift for my now grown three sons. Memories they can share over social media platforms. Pictures that are now part of The Cloud; that awesome computer photo and data bank that makes my head spin: “it’s a wonder I can think at all.”

Along with my first child I purchased a second-hand SLR Canon camera. I became the Family Photographer, with all the honours and responsibilities that came with that title. The device itself weighed several pounds and as I collected lenses and filters I needed a small suitcase to carry all the equipment. I call this time My Slide Period since I felt I was becoming a true artist of film. Mounds of slides required a filing system. A projector and screen were purchased for family fun. I entertained guests who would always seem polite and interested. Not!

My passionate wife is learning new skills and experiencing the world in a creative way, all because of a device that lets her send a message plus photos to people anywhere in the world. There’s always a new improved IPhone, promising astounding photo features.

“I can read the writing on the wall.”