Those Were The Days

She was standing on the bus, leaning, rather, against the plastic divider between the back door and the next seat, a cane in one hand and bags of shopping in the other.  All the seats were occupied, some with rather able bodied and youngish looking selves.  I went over to her and in a voice just loud enough to hopefully help a few people nearby feel guilty I offered to get someone to give her their seat.  In a Slavic, perhaps Ukrainian or Russian accent, she replied that she was okay where she was, that her back condition only worsened with having to sit and stand again.  She then proceeded to thank me copiously for offering to stick out my neck for her.

She then got talking about how selfish and ignorant young people are, far too absorbed in themselves and their electronic gadgets to notice or care about those around them.  It was then that I thought of some of the young people whom I have seen offering their seats for others and even for me, but I said nothing.

When she was through with berating the young she then started in on the evils of technology, that she has never had a cell phone nor even learned to use a computer and how proud she is.  She is certain that the world is going to hell, that it keeps getting worse and worse and worse and that technology is to blame.

I felt in no position to argue, to agree or disagree, simply to offer her the pleasure of venting in front of a kind stranger.  She was certain that everyone who has a computer is a slave to technology.  I did mention to her that I have a computer, but no smart phone and I never carry my technology with me.  I like to leave it at home where it belongs.  I also mentioned that I take care to only use my computer when I need to check for or respond to an email or important things.  I did not tell her about the videos I see on YouTube or of how wonderfully Spanish documentaries and other programs online have enriched and improved my Spanish abilities or of all I am learning from these videos and other programs about the world and life and other people.  Nor did I mention how easy browsing the internet has made foreign travel for me, from learning about new travel destinations, to finding out about cities and towns, researching suitable hotels and making reservations.

I said nothing about how Skype without cost as brought me together with some really great people who live overseas, developing new friendships and enriching old ones.  Nor did I say anything about the Conversation Exchange Page where I meet new and interesting people to practice Spanish with and help them learn English and the wonderful friendships that have resulted.  I didn't even mention this blog.

I am not a slave to the internet, but neither am I a slave to a fictionalized past.  I, and I am sure many others, do know how to use information technology responsibly without becoming enslaved to it.  It is a matter of having self-discipline, yes, but also of having strong values and enough inner or soul substance.  In just a moment I am going to turn off this computer and find something else to do, perhaps read for a little while or work on a painting.

Even though I might not share this lady's opinions and even though I have hope for our future and for our planet it would have been unseemly to openly disagree with her.  This was her moment and it was, well, lovely to see her revel in this opportunity to freely and unabashedly express her thoughts and beliefs.  As well, when we got off the bus, she gave me her blessing.  As I walked away to cross the street, she called after me with these words: "Don't be a slave."

Thirteen Crucifixions, 117

“My name is Peter”, the youth said.

            “Chris.”

            “I was told you’d have a place for me tonight.”

            “Yes.   We always have extra beds.”

            “It’s just for one night.”

            “I know this.”

 

            His name had once been—Peter couldn’t remember anything. He ran his hand through his hair, which had grown steadily over the summer.  Then, his head used to be shaved?  He vaguely recalled the fountain.  A column rising from the middle, topped by a bat-winged gargoyle from which mouth spouted water.  He had drunk from there?  He couldn’t remember.  There’d been two people there with him, a beautiful girl and a handsome man.  They had been in his care?  He’d had some kind of responsibility.  It was all beginning to blur.  Perhaps tomorrow, after a decent night’s sleep, he might remember more.  Tomorrow he would be driven to the airport and then—where was he going?  He knew nothing, remembered little, then less.  He did know that tomorrow morning, early, there would be a car with a driver, waiting to take him away.

 

Thirteen Crucifixions, 116

He could only remember having a drink of water.  There was no way of knowing the time. He’d left his watch at home.  It was night, very late.  Chris and his young charge stood on the deserted beach, watching as the small boat vanished into the darkness.  A rather hideous creature, carved in stone, had glared down at him as he drank.  Then, together they descended the dark trail through the forest to the boat that waited for them at the bottom, the same boat they could no longer see.  Chris had the feeling of having “lost time.”  This he’d already experienced on a number of occasions.  He wondered if he was allowing too much stress to accumulate.  He had never met the youth who was in his care now.  They had ridden in the boat silently, side by side.  He never saw the face of the boat’s operator, who seemed to be wearing some sort of hood. They began walking towards the community, side by side.

            “My name is Peter”, the youth said.

            “Chris.”

            “I was told you’d have a place for me tonight.”

            “Yes.   We always have extra beds.”

            “It’s just for one night.”

            “I know this.”

 

            His name had once been—Peter couldn’t remember anything. He ran his hand through his hair, which had grown steadily over the summer.  Then, his head used to be shaved?  He vaguely recalled the fountain.  A column rising from the middle, topped by a bat-winged gargoyle from which mouth spouted water.  He had drunk from there?  He couldn’t remember.  There’d been two people there with him, a beautiful girl and a handsome man.  They had been in his care?  He’d had some kind of responsibility.  It was all beginning to blur.  Perhaps tomorrow, after a decent night’s sleep, he might remember more.  Tomorrow he would be driven to the airport and then—where was he going?  He knew nothing, remembered little, then less.  He did know that tomorrow morning, early, there would be a car with a driver, waiting to take him away.

 

Thirteen Crucixions, 115

Every seat in the amphitheatre was occupied by some dignitary or other.  Some, Stefan could recognize as members of various international organizations.  Others were completely unknown to him.  They were without number, people of every race, nation, creed and tongue.  On chairs on the dais sat the old man and the old woman.  Another old woman, even taller, whom he now knew was the watcher in charge of the refuge, sat with them along with the boy.  A hush of silence hovered over the place.   The light was dimmed, but for the central dais. The old woman who was the watcher rose and addressed the assembly.

            “Welcome all of you.  It is good to see that all of you could come.  I also present greetings from the Millionth Council, the watchers who protect our imperilled earth.  I will open this plenary with the message that has been given me to impart to you:

            ‘We are the watchers and custodians of your planet.  We address you as your servants for servants we are all of the same God and Creator and Sustainer of all.  This earth is in its greatest crisis since the end of what is called here the most recent Ice Age, when the waters rose with sudden force, and great cataclysms were loosed on the earth, obliterating every vestige of human civilization.  Now this threat looms again, for greed and evil again possess the hearts of those who rule here, and again a great age of humankind comes to an end.  You must prepare for this cataclysm by creating safe havens of refuge for those who will survive, that they may again renew their covenant for the healing of the planet.  You will carry this work in secret, for the rulers of the nations would be the first to undermine and destroy our efforts. They’re in league with the Shadows, the forces of death and destruction, and to the shadows they will go, that a remnant might be spared and rescued.  We ourselves, the watchers, will soon be appearing in greater number among you, to work alongside of you, to strengthen, encourage and mentor you, for short is the time that remains in which you can work.  In earth’s time there are yet ten good years in which to accomplish all, and then the destruction comes.  You will all be spared, but even so must you continue in all your efforts to rescue and succour the remnant of human kind that is to escape the destruction.  Work now, while you can.  The time is short.

            ‘We are motivating and inspiring many to join you in your work. They will find you, and they will work alongside you….’”

 

 

 

 

There Goes The Neighbourhood!

One of the biggest challenges that often faces me where I live downtown is, well, living downtown.  I am glad to note here that I am not living in the heart of the so-called Entertainment District, where on weekends it's all noise and drunken fights etcetera, but on the fringes (when haven't I found myself living on the fringes?) near the bridge where things tend to be more toned down.  But I also live next door to a social housing complex for the hard to house.

This isn't exactly the pot calling the kettle black, by the way.  I also live in social housing but most of us here do have basic life and social skills, many of us (me for example) work for a living, and we are a category one building.  The place next door is category two.  I don't want to know what category three would be like.

Many of the tenants that I see leaving or entering the building next door look like they have spent many years living on the street, have addictions, mental illnesses, and simply look horrible.  We also have tenants in my building who live with mental illness, about forty percent of the tenants here. 

What we don't have here in Candela Place is a huge problem with noise.  There are no party animals living here, neither are any of us in the state of prolonged adolescence that often earmarks adults with already a host of other problems.  Right now there is one unfortunate individual in the building next door who is a prolonged adolescent, his stereo is cranked up, window wide open out of which from time to time he whoops very loudly.  He appears to be alone, is likely drunk or high on something, probably very lonely It is also the weekend following welfare day.

If he is making this kind of noise at night I will generally call the management of his building and they do take care to try to calm him down.  They have had to call police on him on occasion and I suspect that his tenancy is under review, to say the least.  Today, he was acting out on this Sunday afternoon.  It is still daytime and even though I would like to be able to relax and chill a bit in my own apartment on a Sunday afternoon I choose instead to close my window.  Yes, this does deprive me of fresh air but it also gives me some peace and quiet.  Trade-offs, eh?  When it got stuffy I made sure my kitchen exhaust fan was on and opened the window.  The white noise effectively blocked everything else.  He has since quietened down, perhaps management in his building just gave his ass a good kick, but who knows.  My window is open, the fan is off and it is nice and tranquil right now.

I really have little choice but to put up with this guy's and other people's racket.  We do live in a free country and even if I don't approve of his choice of intoxicants who am I to deny him the right to enjoying himself? I know nothing about this person.  I have no idea how he has suffered, what kind of upbringing he has had, what kind of home, if any, he lived in, who abused him, what kind of limitations he has to live with.  He might be living with a mental illness, or an addiction (probably) or fetal alcohol spectrum disorder (likely)  I do suspect that he has suffered a lot, though, and I imagine that in order to help him and others like him to integrate into society the rest of us are going to have to be patient and prepare to suffer a bit.  In the meantime, once or twice a month when he gets particularly gamey I can turn on my fan, wear earplugs and as a last resort call his building managers and or police.

It's better than leaving them to rot on the street and as it takes a village to raise a child it also takes a city to rehabilitate the homeless.

Two hours have passed since I started writing this.  It has been quiet as a day in the country for the past hour and a half.  I am going to enjoy it as long as it lasts.

My Dream Book Of Birds

This is not a dream journal that I am working on.  Rather I am making real a persistent dream I have been having over the years.  This is the dream: I will be in an antiquarian bookstore somewhere or a library where I come across several volumes of books full of beautiful illustrations of gorgeously colourful birds set in gold.  When I went to Colombia I brought with me a sketch book given me by a lovely couple in my church (thanks again Doug and Heather!) and decided to fill it with full colour drawings of beautifully coloured birds, beginning with birds of Colombia.  It is going very well so far.  I finished eight drawings while in Bogota and back here in Vancouver I am working on number twelve.  Here they are in sequential order: I will begin with the Shining Honeycreeper:

 

Followed by the Paradise Tanager:

 

and the Yellow Backed Oriole:

 

 

I saw two of these while in Bogota

 

The Golden Headed Quetzal: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVXBH46donc

and:

 Then I drew one of the local hummingbirds in Bogota (I saw two there)  They are called Sparkling Violet Ears:

 

 

Here is the bird that followed, Blue Necked Tanager:

 

[PDF]Then I drew three Golden Tanagers:

 

 

Here is the Violet Tailed Sylph, a Colombian hummingbird I began in Bogota and finished in Vancouver: 

 

Since I returned I am still doing images of Colombian birds.  Here is a Glistening Green Tanager:

 

 

As well as a Turquoise Honeycreeper:

 

 

a White Tailed Trogon:

 

[PDF]

And right now, last but not least, I'm doing another hummingbird, called a Fork Tailed Wood Nymph:

 

 

Anyway I hope this hasn't bored you, gentle reader.  This book of bird images is for me and for me alone.  A couple times in Bogota people asked about buying my art, but this is my dream book of birds and they are not for sale.  If anyone likes any of these drawings enough to want to own one then I am open to commissioned paintings based on the images.  Otherwise, they're all mine.

 

Thirteen Crucifixions, 114

It was a quiet night.  Lazarus alone remained awake, in the consoling quiet solitude of the common room.  A soft rain was falling, gently and rhythmically drumming on the roof.  Tobias the cat lay curled in a white plush mound in an armchair.  With Sheila, the cat had survived the holocaust, and like Sheila, had already in a few weeks become a familiar and beloved presence here.  Michael had gone to sleep weeping, his first night back with the community.  He hadn’t been able to stay away long.  And Lazarus?  He could think of no other place to be.  Strange it was, that he would feel this safe here.  And safe he was.  Among friends.  Family.  The orphan had found himself a family.  He couldn’t conceive of leaving. Not yet. Not ever.  He had just passed his first three months.  Chris asked him how he felt.  He replied in a single word—“home”.  We need you here, was his reply.  But you know that you are always free to leave, whenever you choose.  And that you are always free to return.  Like Michael, who upon seeing his mother, fell into her arms weeping.  Glen had taken him aside after dinner, and they spent the evening walking together.

            Lazarus had brought a National Geographic that lay unread next to him.  There was no television in the room.  All he heard was the rain.  Adam no longer ignored him. They didn’t know what to make of each other.  Matthew had already declared them to be far too much alike.  Grudgingly, Lazarus could now see it.  But Adam was happy.  He had, unlike Lazarus, a gift of joy.  Lazarus was merely handsome but Adam was radiant and beautiful, who at twenty-two resembled a boy of fifteen.  Older and younger than Lazarus.

            “He heard footsteps sounding in counterpoint with the rain on the pavement outside.  The door opened and in walked Adam, even after midnight the sun shone in his face.

            “I’m sorry, do you want to be alone?”

            “Sit”, Lazarus said.

            “What a night.”  He slipped off his shoes and his jersey.

            “It’s raining pretty hard?

            “It’s starting to.”  He settled in the chair opposite.  “What did you do today?”

             “I had a couple of classes.  Then came here and helped with dinner.  You?”

            “Spent the day in Victoria.”

            “At the shelter?”

            “I was there this morning.  Then I was hanging out in the library.”

            “Research?”

            “Birds.”

            “Birds?”

            “Books with pictures of birds. I want to start painting them.”

            “Birds?”

            “Glen has offered to mentor me.”  The bitter little stab that Lazarus suddenly felt just in the back of his stomach confirmed to him that his real difficulty with Adam was jealousy.  He was jealous on Glen’s account.  Lazarus was being petulant and possessive.  He felt ashamed of himself.

            “You like birds?”

            “I love birds.”

            “Why?”  He couldn’t get over how his face shone, his golden green eyes glittering like those of a haunted lynx.  Lazarus feared that he might be falling in love with Adam, who was hard not to love.

            “I don’t know.  But they are so wonderful.”

            Lazarus felt his heart in his throat, aching at this presence of beauty he was sitting in.  This was why he had resisted Adam?  Had held aloof from him?  The fear of being engulfed in the flame of his presence, this beautiful boy, more angel than human.  He would have to discuss this with Chris, for things could not go on as they were, and such love as this could not be consummated by two bodies mingling together.  Almost, he asked Adam to come sit next to him on the couch, not to touch him, but to be near him.  He almost wanted to weep in frustrated ecstasy.

            “What?”

            “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare”, Lazarus said.

            “You often do.”

            “Do I?  I’ve never noticed.”

            “What do you seek in me?”

            “Beauty?”

            “But you are beautiful.”

            “Am I?”

            “You are so beautiful, Lazarus.  If you could only see this.  If you could only know it.  Lazarus, you are beautiful.”

            “Why are you telling me this?”

            “Because you need to hear this.”

            “Thank you.”

            “I want to be your friend.”

            “I want you to be my friend, Adam.”

            “Thank you.  Now, I’m tired, so I’m going to bed.  What are you going to do.  Stay here?"

            “Yes, for a little while.”

            “Yes.  It’s nice here, alone at night.  Isn’t it?”

            “Don’t go yet.”

            “I’ll stay a moment.  But I should get to bed.”

            “I hardly know you.  I don’t really know your story.”

            “Another day I’ll tell it.”

            “Tomorrow?  I have one class in the morning, then I’m free.”

            “Tomorrow then.” He put on his shoes.  “Good night, Lazarus.”  He smiled like an incarnation of the sun.  Lazarus remained seated, daring not to touch him, to not even draw near.

            “Let’s take off somewhere after lunch.”

            “Yes, let’s”, said Adam, smiling by the door as he slowly opened it to leave.