Tag: communication

Re: Poetry

I believe that Art (the essential practise, not the person) saves the world. From what, you might ask. Well, some may deny it, but the world would be a darker place without Art in its many forms. And I’m not talking about the art only accessed through galleries, theatres, or museums. I’m referring to the art that comes from within us; that creative process that can drive our imaginations. Art is found in nature, is replicated by human, and is a particle of the soul. By definition, Art was present at the moment of creation, and will remain to be witnessed long after humans have become extinct.

Poetry is an art form; an item on a page to be read, an expressive line to be spoken, an incantation to soothe, or a melody to be sung. Poetry is a practise, a methodology, and a natural response to our environment. A poem is often the first piece of writing read aloud to young children. When a mother sings a lullaby to her child, she is evoking a rhythmic talisman of love that was born centuries before and will light up lives for centuries to come. Blessed are the children who are encouraged to find the Art within.

Having said all this grand stuff I don’t wish to be imagined as this poetry-reading exclusionist. I don’t believe that a poem a day will keep the boogey-man away. However, I have been calmed by coming across a poem in a magazine, written on a subway wall, or copied onto a social media posting. I have written, mailed, or sung poetry for my lovers, relatives, friends, and once for an enemy. The latter poem –– scribbled in a rage of hateful words on a scrap of paper, spat on, torn into tiny pieces, buried in a muddy stream bank and stomped on –– was never delivered. Poems can relief stress. Poems can heal. Practising poetry can be a form of meditation. Poetry helps us to become our best selves.

I could list poets who have inspired me to recognize that I contain multitudes. Poets, who suggest that we have value because we are unique, need to be heard. Shel Silverstein comes to mind: My skin is sort of brownish/Pinkish yellowish white/My eyes are greyish blueish green/But I’m told they look orange in the night/My hair is reddish blondish brown/But it’s silver when it’s wet/And all the colours I am inside/Have not been invented yet.

During my teaching career, I scheduled poetry time as part of each day. Regardless of the age of my students, joy was found during these periods of word fun. No poem was judged better or worse. Nothin had to rhyme. We all laughed or sighed at the combinations of noun, verb, adjective, adverb, or nonsensical words. Playing with words using pen on paper can be like scribbling on a sketch pad. The outcome is not as important as the process. All you need is your imagination, a few moments, and the encouragement to begin.

Re: Encounter

I enjoy the encounters I have when I am out and about in my community. A simple stroll to my village to renew my prescriptions, a stop for an ice cream cone, or finding a sale in a grocery store will bring a smile to my face especially when I have a moment with a real person.

Abraham is his name. We met at an afterparty at a local theatre. He acted in the play that night, and I was an audience member. I started the conversation as he was choosing some cheese and paté, from a tray on a pedestal. I gushed with enthusiasm over the dynamic representation of a fight scene involving athletic coordination that was the climax of the plot. On stage, Abraham and his acting partner had just parried in a violent dance, each thrusting a blade with death being the intended outcome. All this action happened in remarkable slo-motion choreography, while I watched a mere three metres from the stage apron. Now I was standing near Abraham, at the meet and greet, trying to speak without crackers spilling out of my mouth.

Encounters can be exhilarating, sometimes messy, and rarely planned. A chance encounter can stay with us for a long time, if not forever. I remember as a teen being brave enough to ask if I could have an old lobster pot that seemed discarded by a house near where I was camping with my parents. I was with a friend at the time, and as he waited a few yards back at the top of the driveway, I negotiated with the owner. I said I had long wanted a suitable keepsake for my many years as a child coming to this beachside campground in Maine. I was going off to university and imagined the rectangular lobster trap would make an excellent coffee table. The owner handed his artifact to me as a gift, the look on his face was one of pure benevolence. I still remember my friend appearing equally stunned by the exchange saying, “You got it just by talking to him!”

I’m still feeling the isolating effects of Covid19. Back then we were encouraged not to have encounters due to risk of exposure to the virus. Even though I tend to introversion on the social spectrum I missed those times when I regularly attended mass cultural events. During those covid years I got used to encountering others over social media where exchanges didn’t involve the risk of a stray sneeze. In the longer term, Covid19 made us all a bit insecure about approaching others.

Now that I’m back attending the arts events that I love, engaging other humans will return in fits and starts. My social muscle memory emboldens me to initiate confidently. The actor Abraham seemed pleased that I had dared to approach that night at the theatre. He said, “And what about you?” Which raised my praise to dialogue level. Oh my, what to say next!

I’m going to need more practise at this conversation game.

Re: Phonebook

My 96 year old blind mother-in-law asked if I was whispering something. We were sitting together in the living room and I was channel surfing on the smart TV using a remote control that I could direct with by voice. When I told her what I was doing she asked for more information. I thought to myself afterwards that my discussion with her about this new-fangled technology must have made her amazed. The fact that I can talk to my television awes me too.

If I were to describe a phonebook to my grandkids they would call me a silly old grandpa. I don’t know how I could convey to them that it was an old form of data filing, sorting, and acquisition; just for phone numbers! I think you got a new volume every year. It came in the mail. In large centres like Toronto, where I used to live, you’d get two books, one for phone numbers and one, called the Yellow Pages, for all the stores and services. These were thick soft-cover books listing thousands of names of people who you could talk to, just by dialling their number. Some homes had a special piece of furniture called a telephone table, that would have a seat attached and a special drawer or shelf for the phonebook. For some reason this curio-table would go right by the front door, where the phone guy would hook up your rotary phone to sit all stylish-like on the table’s top. As a teenager I got no privacy sitting on that telephone table in the front hallway of my parent’s duplex.

If I wanted privacy I would go to our strip mall down the street where folks could make their phone calls from a phone booth. These booths were on most street corners back in the day. They typically measured 32X32X90 inches with a funny folding door. Believe it or not, inside those closet-like compartments you would find a well-used phonebook. Smart-ass folks would sometimes tear pages from the phonebooks for all manner of reasons, leaving you puzzled when you were almost at last names starting with Y, only to find the Ys were missing.

Thinking about technology, systems, and industries of the past can get you time tripping. Inventions propel the human animal in directions only limited by our imagination. The Dr. Who television phone booth is called a Tardis, where you can time travel. And, believe it or not, magicians and guys with large biceps once made money proving that they could rip a phonebook in half. Today you can get pointers on how to do that on Youtube.

Smartphones carry far more data than a single phonebook ever did. Imagine being able to scroll to find your contact person. Gee Whiz! The other day while walking in a local park my wife made a phone call, and using that same device she took pictures of flowers that were then identified for her instantaneously. She then looked up a restaurant where we dined later following the route provided by her phone! Dial phones used to receive random wrong numbers. That hasn’t changed.

Re: Quaint

I used this word in a recent game of Scrabble. I got a score of 66 because I had the Q tile on a triple letter score where an I tile was exposed at a corner intersection, so I could get two words for a single play! I felt that Qi circulating as a life force of victory. My wife later captured a coveted seven letter word besting me and raising the ceremonial cup. Scrabble is a quaint game.

Quaint is the kind of word that, if used more often, has the potential to change the mood of a nation. I’m not talking MAGA, move back in time, dump progress, that sort of thing. No! Quaint is a beautiful old English word, rich with various meanings and applications. Quaint could be used in the context of a cleverly devised construction such as: “What a quaint looking chair!” Most people might use the Q word as a reflection on cuteness, which is OK but limiting. I wouldn’t put quaintness in the realm of a picture of a puppy, for example.

Currently my wife and I are providing eldercare to her 96 year old mother. This aged lady lives in our home and provides many moments of enjoyable exchanges. She says she loves a good conversation but will rarely start one; that’s quaint to me. Once I bring up a topic however, she will contribute some fascinatingly obscure points of view. When she uses words like Tarvia, or trousers, I feel a connection to another time while still being grounded in her present moment.

The other day a sales clerk in a store I was visiting gave me helpful feedback on where to find what I was looking for. We had a friendly dialogue which seemed to amuse her enough to say that she thought me charming. This remark made me suggest she had an old-fashioned way of speaking, to which she giggled, “People say I have an old soul.” The conversation that day, on reflection, could have been held in an old-timey London milliners shop, a scene in a play, or part of a serial book written by Charles Dickens. I would consider that master of the English language to be a Quaint-essential author.

Some words evoke a feeling rather than a fact. Quaint feels cozy, like a country cottage with a wood burning fireplace. Quaint exudes hearth and home. It is a timeless word, yet of-a-time. I wonder if a person could quaintly go about their business. I picture the character Geppetto doing just that as he pieces together the wooden parts that will become his Pinocchio, a puppet desiring to be a real boy. When I think of any sort of home-made craft my head spins with all the quaint aspects of bringing art to life.

My aging mother-in-law enjoys listening to her house mates play Scrabble. Even in her blindness she seems to gather warmth from the kitchen as my wife prepares a meal. She probably doesn’t realize that she is adding to the quaintness of our existence.

Re: Post

My dad loved writing letters. In a desk drawer by his apartment door he kept a bunch of stamps, notepaper, envelopes, and cards for when he felt inclined to send something off in the post. He was raised on the value of the British Royal Mail Service. Often he initiated the correspondence to family or friends with a quick one-page newsy hello. When a letter came for him he would always write back the same day.

A recent headline read, ‘Canada Post in Crisis’. The article suggested letter writing was dead. The popularity of Amazon free shipping, and the rise of labour costs were all reasons for our crown corporation to be in existential trouble. A world without some form of communication across borders would be isolating. Connections of the global sort stoke my imagination. To me the message will always be key, regardless of how it is delivered. I can get amused by thoughts of carrier pigeons, Pony Express riders, ham radio broadcasts, or telegraph typers sending my notes of love or encouragement. I’ve enjoyed my online relationships, especially flourishing through Covid times. Social media platforms can contribute to feelings of togetherness in times of alienation.

Postal service has changed greatly since my relatives in England counted on their daily mail. Traditional bright red post-boxes, looking a bit like vertical cannons, can still be seen on British street corners for tourists to mail a postcard home. Now it’s more likely that a smart phone photo will be snapped of the same sight and sent digitally and instantaneously to curious relations abroad. I have a decorative mailbox on the wall outside my front door. I’m always hopeful for the clanky sound of the lid when a letter is dropped by a postal worker. Some housing areas have community mailboxes that encourage a bit of neighbourly banter. I once lived in a mining town that had a village postoffice. My mail had a postbox number, which I thought was very rural and romantic. On my daily visits I was happy to say hello to either the postmaster or postmistress behind the service counter. How quaint!

Dad set a high bar for postage stuff. For a while in my adulthood I felt I met his standard. Then came email. I lost my pen-to-paper skills, however I kept my joy of wrapping a parcel for delivery by Canada Post. I still take pride in building my own cardboard containers for packages; wrapping them in craft paper with a neat address. Handing parcels to my local postal clerk gives me a special feeling of reaching out. Recently I felt saddened when one of my mailings to Germany was returned to me, undamaged but stamped ‘Undeliverable’. I got my money back but the sense of a disconnect in the universal link of global communication left me slightly shaken.

In grade school I communicated with several pen pals. I loved receiving mail envelopes with foreign stamps on them. The letters inside felt magical. These messages helped create a bridge of understanding between cultures, breaking stereotypes and prejudices. Now I type this for you.

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: 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: Laughter

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

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

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

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

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

Re: Uncle

I make a point of talking to my uncle every month. I use my computer so I can see him and because it is a free way to connect since he lives way across the Atlantic Ocean. He’s the only uncle I have left, so I feel a certain responsibility. He is my auntie’s husband after all. But that doesn’t really explain things.

As kids we sometimes cry out “Uncle” when we are in a wrestling hold. It might be a universal safe word that tells our playmate/opponent that we’ve had enough and we give in before further damage is done. Once during an overnight adventure with my scout pack I got into a bear cub like scuffle with another boy. Saying Uncle to his aggression made me feel ashamed. I remember leaving the scene shouting that he would be sorry, “Just you wait! I’ll be famous one day!” I screamed.

I showed him.

Parents who had children in the fifties would advise their kids to call family friends Uncle or Aunt to somehow distinguish them from untrustworthy strangers. Even as a kid this creeped me out that I had an Uncle Frank even though he wasn’t a REAL uncle. From my parent’s point of view I suppose this might be an innocent bit of labelling in the name of ranking a friendship. Such confusion of terms and association has led to child abuse all in the effort to show familiarity. Sticks and stones eh.

My authentic uncle in England has been an important addition to my life even though we have only been together about a half dozen times. He was a buddy to me when I had a brief solo adventure in Europe that went bust in my late teens. I learned how to sail under his tutelage. Once he travelled to Canada while I was raising a young family of my own. I took him on his first fishing trip, we travelled together with my dad and eldest son on a northern train trip. During this time, I hosted a backyard salmon bake with gallons and gallons of wine and we talked about Shakespeare’s impact on the world until the stars above our heads astounded us with their brilliance.

And now I watch him getting old on Skype. I want him to remain as he was but he gets forgetful even amidst a short conversation. I’m not getting any younger either and my uncle is a reminder that life is finite. Covid has shown us that no one lasts forever. As long as we have a present we don’t have to rely on memories to buoy us up. So I call him to remind him of the fun we had together and to thank him for being the elder in my life. I wonder to myself how the past can invade the present, grasping us, like in a wrestling match.

I’ll say Uncle to death’s embrace at some point. For now, I’ll surrender to the joy that is mine, today. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eaCDXcXnpVI

Re: Animate

“It’s Alive!” Is the exuberant cry that Dr. Frankenstein shrieks when he has re-animated his stitched together fictional monster. He is excited! From what was once dead, springs fresh life. I am waiting for that enthusiastic response after what has been a deadening historical interval. I am man, hear me moan.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy encouraging myself and others to be Yippy-Skippy. When I see someone exuberant I want them to bring on that happy face & spread sunshine all over the place. It’s awesome how we can take a troubling situation and turn it upside down with a smile. My son recently told us a classic Canadian winter story of driving on treacherous roads of snow and sleet. Then he told us how he almost chocked to death after a first bite of a meal. He had us sitting on the edge of our seats because he animated his tale with captivating facial expression and body language. It reminded me of tribal times after a mastodon hunt, but not really because I’m not that old.

I’d love to be a comic strip artist or better yet an editorial cartoonist. These folks use drawings to animate our existence, dull that it is. I have been especially focussed on political cartoonists since they do such a good job of making me laugh/cry at our current leaders. Their point of view effectively lampoons the irony of our existence. I’m particularly keen on the art of Michel deAdder, a brilliant pictorial satirist, once fired from a Canadian newspaper and then picked up by the high profile Washington Post (take that Brunswick News!)

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-monday-edition-1.5196196/michael-de-adder-opens-up-about-being-dumped-by-n-b-newspapers-after-viral-trump-cartoon-1.5196199

Animation as an art form fascinates me. My dad once tried to use 16mm home movie film to turn my sister’s birthday party into a cartoon. I helped him make stick models that danced while cardboard letters magically arranged themselves into words. I can never be too old for cartoons (such a Saturday morning with cereal by the television unimportant sounding plural noun). Pinocchio, a film by Guillermo del Toro, recently won an Academy Award for stop-motion artistry. Claymation is fun and then came the Wallace&Gromit features. There are many Pixar and Disney films that make me marvel. Walt’s classics are works of art painted in a single cel that connects to a loop of film creating the illusion of movement. Add sound and you have a masterpiece. My granddaughter sings ‘Let it Go’ whenever she is awake. I’ve been singing the ‘Little April Shower’ song from Bambi for more than sixty years.

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

To be animated is to be optimistic: I welcome the fascinating, the wondrous, the rebirth. As I spring forward with the time change leaving winter’s death behind, the lengthening hours of sunlight will animate my mood, inviting me to look for reasons to dance and sing.