First, I don't care that you are black, nor that your buddy seated next to you today on the Sky Train Canada Line is Caucasian. And I don't care that you are maybe, twenty years old. I also don't care that you are male (I will not call you a "man", though of course you are human. Just a very immature human). I decided to let it go that you didn't offer me your seat (I am sixty and I was tired, holding a bag of groceries). A kind Asian youth offered me his seat, anyway, and I gratefully accepted.
It was when you produced your precious little iPhone and decided to serenade us with your favourite Drake or some other god-awful rap, not considering that you were on public transit, that it was crowded, and maybe that not everyone shared your taste in music. You also didn't seem to care a rat's heiny that it is against transit rules of conduct.
I put up with it for a while, as did others. I looked your way, glared at you. You chose to ignore me. It was a short ride. I would let it go. But...
Why let you get away with it? Why let you think that it is okay to do something that is so obviously not okay, you young, arrogant little shit Why condone your selfish loutish behaviour and thus empower you by default to do it again and perhaps even worse? So, just as I was leaving, I spoke up.
I asked you if you lost your earphones. A few others spoke up with me in agreement. You already knew you were outnumbered. Then you said something really stupid: "I'm just doin' my thing man". I told you that you weren't the only person there. You muttered something defiant. I said that you are not the centre of the universe. You said you don't care and I replied with something I'm not proud of but I still hope it kicks your ass good and hard until you learn to act like an adult. I said as I left that you ought to care and that it is people like you that give "Black Lives Matter" a bad name.
Black Lives Matter has my sympathy and support. Still, I have suffered more than my share of grief from young black men. In Amsterdam I was robbed at knife point by...a young black man. Three years later I was threatened on the street and assaulted by...two large black men. A few years ago I was viciously sworn at while trying to dodge the secondhand cigarette smoke of, you guessed right, a black man.
Now I know that you pathetic doofuses do not accurately represent your demographic. Whatever your reasons for being so full of hate and aggression towards others I would have to say that you guys also lack something that a lot of us lovely progressive liberals are afraid to name: a moral compass. Yes, black lives matter. Yes many black people suffer from systemic racism. But you know something else, dude? The rest of us don't have it easy either and we did not ask you to vent your anger on us.
In conclusion, while I am glad to say that I know and have known an awful lot of wonderful black people, I am equally sad to say that but for one or two, none of these wonderful black people are men.
Sunday 31 July 2016
Saturday 30 July 2016
Surviving The Fire, 1
Gentle Reader, this will be the first part of a series I will be working on until, well, till I've run out of stuff to write, I guess.
I will begin with my childhood. It wasn't an easy time but I really don't think that being little is easy for anyone. For one thing, you are small. Everyone, except for younger children, is bigger than you, and stronger and smarter. You are completely and absolutely vulnerable but for your parents' protection. And when they default on protecting you from harm then you're really screwed.
There is no such thing as a really comprehensive training manual for new parents. Of course there are courses and workshops and seminars but no one is offered such a thing as a series of university credit courses in raising their own children. I don't think there is such a thing as a new parent who doesn't enter this new and wonderful phase of life feeling completely unprepared, inadequate and inept. They will not be able to go home from their kids, but thank heavens for daycare, for those who can afford it, and at least both Mom and Dad can escape into their jobs for a while every day. Of course there is little alternative given how expensive it is to not only raise children but simply to both eat and keep a roof over your head.
If the kids luck out and end up with very caring, engaging and intelligent parents chances are they will do relatively okay and will only need to pay token lip-service to Philip Larkin ("They fuck you up your mum and dad, they may not mean to but they do") And then there is the rest of us.
In my case I emerged in a household that was not ready to parent. There was already a brother three years older than me and my parents were still awfully young when I arrived: mom would have been twenty-five, dad was just about to turn twenty-eight. Neither was educated. My father barely finished elementary school and my mother dropped out of high school. When they did tie the knot she was already five months pregnant with my brother. This was in the fifties when everybody wed and bred young. And no one really had a clue about raising kids. They were too immature.
I got through it, but not unscathed. My father was an alcoholic, usually distant and uncommunicative. Occasionally he would express affection by inappropriately touching me (you may fill in the blanks, Gentle Reader). My mother had a bad temper, zero patience and a tendency towards violence. My brother rejected me and beat me almost daily.
Then there was school. I was considered gifted and excelled academically and artistically and therefore no one liked me. I got through school and my horrible family, completely covered in bruises but I got through it. At fourteen I became a hippy, smoked pot and read underground publications. I raised the middle finger at all my oppressors. I suddenly became liked at school, suddenly transforming from the most despised to the coolest kid in the hall. I didn't feel inclined to trust any of those little bastards who had previously treated me like shit. And then I became a Christian...
I will begin with my childhood. It wasn't an easy time but I really don't think that being little is easy for anyone. For one thing, you are small. Everyone, except for younger children, is bigger than you, and stronger and smarter. You are completely and absolutely vulnerable but for your parents' protection. And when they default on protecting you from harm then you're really screwed.
There is no such thing as a really comprehensive training manual for new parents. Of course there are courses and workshops and seminars but no one is offered such a thing as a series of university credit courses in raising their own children. I don't think there is such a thing as a new parent who doesn't enter this new and wonderful phase of life feeling completely unprepared, inadequate and inept. They will not be able to go home from their kids, but thank heavens for daycare, for those who can afford it, and at least both Mom and Dad can escape into their jobs for a while every day. Of course there is little alternative given how expensive it is to not only raise children but simply to both eat and keep a roof over your head.
If the kids luck out and end up with very caring, engaging and intelligent parents chances are they will do relatively okay and will only need to pay token lip-service to Philip Larkin ("They fuck you up your mum and dad, they may not mean to but they do") And then there is the rest of us.
In my case I emerged in a household that was not ready to parent. There was already a brother three years older than me and my parents were still awfully young when I arrived: mom would have been twenty-five, dad was just about to turn twenty-eight. Neither was educated. My father barely finished elementary school and my mother dropped out of high school. When they did tie the knot she was already five months pregnant with my brother. This was in the fifties when everybody wed and bred young. And no one really had a clue about raising kids. They were too immature.
I got through it, but not unscathed. My father was an alcoholic, usually distant and uncommunicative. Occasionally he would express affection by inappropriately touching me (you may fill in the blanks, Gentle Reader). My mother had a bad temper, zero patience and a tendency towards violence. My brother rejected me and beat me almost daily.
Then there was school. I was considered gifted and excelled academically and artistically and therefore no one liked me. I got through school and my horrible family, completely covered in bruises but I got through it. At fourteen I became a hippy, smoked pot and read underground publications. I raised the middle finger at all my oppressors. I suddenly became liked at school, suddenly transforming from the most despised to the coolest kid in the hall. I didn't feel inclined to trust any of those little bastards who had previously treated me like shit. And then I became a Christian...
Friday 29 July 2016
Sidewalk Preacher; Sidewalk Artist
It happened downtown. He was shouting on the pavement, not like a maniac, but as one very caught up in an enthusiasm. He was preaching the Christian Gospel as he understood it. He rhetorically asked anyone who might be listening, and it is hard to say if anyone was listening to him, if we knew what he was doing out there? As we walked by him I said blithely, Okay what are you doing out there. He replied that God had sent him out here and God told him to preach the Gospel so we would have some means of giving account of our lives when we die. Respectfully I replied Fair enough, and we continued walking.
We were hit by a sudden stench of marijuana smoke and there were two rather fat, white-trashy looking middle aged men seated at a table with original paintings for sale. The artist, between tokes, said to us, The world's full of nutcases, eh? I replied, Dude, we're both Christians. He respectfully backed off and we looked at his paintings. He asked if we saw anything that we liked, and I replied that I quite appreciated his interpretations of a wood duck and a pileated woodpecker, two of our most spectacular local birds:
The conversation that followed was quite interesting. I spoke with my companion of how for many years I had been embarrassed to the point of extreme disapprobation of that kind of display of fanaticism and proselytizing. I admitted that I was rather like that as a teenage Jesus Freak, then quickly grew out of it. As it became fashionable to bash fundamentalists I jumped on the bandwagon and relished along with the rest of society in taking potshots at this easy target. Much of that time I spent in the Anglican Church where we all delighted in sharing the same hate-on for our less educated but more fervent brethren.
This has changed for me. I still have reservations about street-preaching and I am certainly in no hurry to turn back into a fundamentalist. I have reached the conclusion that it is none of my business to judge how another Christian expresses their faith so long as they are not harming anyone. And who knows, maybe God did tell this guy to preach? How am I to know and who am I to judge another's servant? As a Christian I owe this to my sisters and brothers, even if we do not agree on certain salient issues such as same-sex marriage (I am in favour, if you must know). On the other hand, I tried to think of what we must all have in common: the preacher, the pot-smoking client and I. The artist and I of course have art in common and a certain admiration for beautiful birds. I do not smoke pot, though I did as a teenager. I was also, after my pot-smoking days at fourteen, a young zealous fundamentalist Christian. But I still was struggling to discern, to identify that discreet thread that seemed to link all of us together. Then I recalled a certain shadow that I thought I could see in the two men, the street preacher and the street artist and I recognized right away the same shadow that I have sometimes glimpsed in the mirror.
It is a shadow of affliction. It is a shadow of rejection. A shadow of marginalization.
A shadow of poverty.
The shadow of the Cross.
We were hit by a sudden stench of marijuana smoke and there were two rather fat, white-trashy looking middle aged men seated at a table with original paintings for sale. The artist, between tokes, said to us, The world's full of nutcases, eh? I replied, Dude, we're both Christians. He respectfully backed off and we looked at his paintings. He asked if we saw anything that we liked, and I replied that I quite appreciated his interpretations of a wood duck and a pileated woodpecker, two of our most spectacular local birds:
The conversation that followed was quite interesting. I spoke with my companion of how for many years I had been embarrassed to the point of extreme disapprobation of that kind of display of fanaticism and proselytizing. I admitted that I was rather like that as a teenage Jesus Freak, then quickly grew out of it. As it became fashionable to bash fundamentalists I jumped on the bandwagon and relished along with the rest of society in taking potshots at this easy target. Much of that time I spent in the Anglican Church where we all delighted in sharing the same hate-on for our less educated but more fervent brethren.
This has changed for me. I still have reservations about street-preaching and I am certainly in no hurry to turn back into a fundamentalist. I have reached the conclusion that it is none of my business to judge how another Christian expresses their faith so long as they are not harming anyone. And who knows, maybe God did tell this guy to preach? How am I to know and who am I to judge another's servant? As a Christian I owe this to my sisters and brothers, even if we do not agree on certain salient issues such as same-sex marriage (I am in favour, if you must know). On the other hand, I tried to think of what we must all have in common: the preacher, the pot-smoking client and I. The artist and I of course have art in common and a certain admiration for beautiful birds. I do not smoke pot, though I did as a teenager. I was also, after my pot-smoking days at fourteen, a young zealous fundamentalist Christian. But I still was struggling to discern, to identify that discreet thread that seemed to link all of us together. Then I recalled a certain shadow that I thought I could see in the two men, the street preacher and the street artist and I recognized right away the same shadow that I have sometimes glimpsed in the mirror.
It is a shadow of affliction. It is a shadow of rejection. A shadow of marginalization.
A shadow of poverty.
The shadow of the Cross.
Thursday 28 July 2016
Church And State (And Stephen Quinn's Creepy Devil Voice)
I was exploring this theme a little on the phone today with Fulano. I believe you already know about Fulano, Gentle Reader. He is my imaginary friend with whom I chatter in Spanish on the phone while I`m out for a walk. I then play back my monologue to get an idea of how my Spanish is sounding that day. Very interesting subjects come up. For example, I was exploring the whole idea of the secular versus the sacred. It is common parlance that we live in a post-Christian, post-religious culture. But really, when we consider the content of the Gospels of Christ it is not easy to imagine that maybe there has never been such a thing as an authentically Christian culture.
For example, I was just listening to a segment on the CBC Radio One, the local late afternoon program called, On the Coast. Apparently, a local art gallery is featuring an exhibit that involves videos made in the Eighties by fundamentalist Christians against the so-called evil influence of heavy metal music. Of course the videos are lame and amateurish and naturally there is little or no conclusive evidence to indict heavy metal performers as arbiters of Satan. My issue is the lack of respect in the conversation, that it exists purely to mock and discredit without considering any of the subtle subtexts in the issue, not to mention that there could still be some substance to the argument raised by fundamentalist Christians. The host of On the Coast, Stephen Quinn, didn't help matters either when he tried to do his, admittedly creepy and authentic-sounding, Satan-voice on the air. I did phone in a comment suggesting that they might spend less energy on attacking Christianity (they never seem to have derisive comments about other faiths) and more on encouraging a respectful conversation.
All said, the concerned Christians of course were very earnest and somewhat pathetic. Their big problem? Their assumption that Christianity was, or ever was, a real defining characteristic of Western Civilization. And the following assumption that they had to do something to regain lost ground. And their inability to really make a coherent conversation about the complex and very uneasy dance between religion and culture. They really sat up and begged for the derisive treatment, even if that doesn't justify or excuse Mr. Quinn's impromptu performance today.
I actually like a lot of the developments in our culture since we really ditched religion: huge advances in human rights, feminism, gay rights, proactive concern for the environment: all things that Christianity could have and should have served up for us over the centuries and defaulted in spades. Why? Because by the time Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire it had already been bastardized and eviscerated into a corrupt shell of the faith of Jesus Christ and his Apostles and that is the kind of Christianity that has been dished out to us over the centuries, condoning, justifying, and enacting mass murder, war, inquisitions, witch and heretic burnings. By the time the Protestant Reformation came along it was already too little too late.
This isn't to say that nothing useful or socially redemptive hasn't come to us through the Christian cultural influence: hospitals, care for the poor and needy, the abolition of slavery, great works of art, music and literature, to name a few. But there never was a golden age of cultural Christianity and likely, Ernestine, there will never be one. It is not going to happen.
But this doesn't necessarily exclude the possibility of individuals and small groups of Christians through lives of prayer and consecration and faithfulness bringing about such change in our lives and society such as we have never dreamed.
Stop laughing, Stephen, and yes, I am sending you the link. Make sure you read it and yes I do expect a reply.
For example, I was just listening to a segment on the CBC Radio One, the local late afternoon program called, On the Coast. Apparently, a local art gallery is featuring an exhibit that involves videos made in the Eighties by fundamentalist Christians against the so-called evil influence of heavy metal music. Of course the videos are lame and amateurish and naturally there is little or no conclusive evidence to indict heavy metal performers as arbiters of Satan. My issue is the lack of respect in the conversation, that it exists purely to mock and discredit without considering any of the subtle subtexts in the issue, not to mention that there could still be some substance to the argument raised by fundamentalist Christians. The host of On the Coast, Stephen Quinn, didn't help matters either when he tried to do his, admittedly creepy and authentic-sounding, Satan-voice on the air. I did phone in a comment suggesting that they might spend less energy on attacking Christianity (they never seem to have derisive comments about other faiths) and more on encouraging a respectful conversation.
All said, the concerned Christians of course were very earnest and somewhat pathetic. Their big problem? Their assumption that Christianity was, or ever was, a real defining characteristic of Western Civilization. And the following assumption that they had to do something to regain lost ground. And their inability to really make a coherent conversation about the complex and very uneasy dance between religion and culture. They really sat up and begged for the derisive treatment, even if that doesn't justify or excuse Mr. Quinn's impromptu performance today.
I actually like a lot of the developments in our culture since we really ditched religion: huge advances in human rights, feminism, gay rights, proactive concern for the environment: all things that Christianity could have and should have served up for us over the centuries and defaulted in spades. Why? Because by the time Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire it had already been bastardized and eviscerated into a corrupt shell of the faith of Jesus Christ and his Apostles and that is the kind of Christianity that has been dished out to us over the centuries, condoning, justifying, and enacting mass murder, war, inquisitions, witch and heretic burnings. By the time the Protestant Reformation came along it was already too little too late.
This isn't to say that nothing useful or socially redemptive hasn't come to us through the Christian cultural influence: hospitals, care for the poor and needy, the abolition of slavery, great works of art, music and literature, to name a few. But there never was a golden age of cultural Christianity and likely, Ernestine, there will never be one. It is not going to happen.
But this doesn't necessarily exclude the possibility of individuals and small groups of Christians through lives of prayer and consecration and faithfulness bringing about such change in our lives and society such as we have never dreamed.
Stop laughing, Stephen, and yes, I am sending you the link. Make sure you read it and yes I do expect a reply.
Wednesday 27 July 2016
The Missing Peacock Feather
I found it just when I was not looking for it. This morning I was dusting a bookcase with a damp cloth and a book fell to the floor. I picked it up and noticed it was a novel by Colombian author Laura Restrepo. She is a journalist whom, I think, lives or has lived in Bogota. She employs her chops as a journalist in her style of writing fiction. This will be her third novel that I will be reading, "Historia de un Entusiasmo", or the Tale of a Passion. I am reading it in Spanish, like her other novels. They are a challenging read, but worth it, and intellectually hugely rewarding. Her first novel that I read, "La Novia Obscura", or, the Dark Bride, touches on a young indigenous prostitute in a brothel in a small isolated jungle community in Colombia that services the male workers of the petroleum refining plant nearby. This is fiction and Laura Restrepo positions herself as a journalist visiting to get the full story about the young woman and her four baby sisters she has brought to live with her under her charge since the death of their mother.
The second book, El Leopardo al Sol, or the Leopard in the Sun, is about two duelling and obscenely wealthy families of Colombian narco-traffickers. This current novel of hers, which is really older than the others, promises to be a gripping read about the warring factions of Colombia's fifty year plus civil war sitting down to talk for the first time in 1984. None of these books is easy reading, whether in Spanish or (I suspect) in English translation, but I find her writing so uncompromising in its clarity, dignity and relentless demand for the truth that I really wonder that she hasn't had more press in the English speaking world. I certainly like her writing better than what I've read by Gabriel Garcia Marquez whom I have found to be dull, plodding and quite the old school misogynist. I actually did read most of El Amor en los Tiempos de Colera (Love in the Time of Cholera) but as I was slogging through the last hundred pages of so some local Latino snatched it from my café table while I was visiting the washroom.
When the book fell to my feet this morning it felt like an offering. I have lately been lamenting having nothing interesting to read on some of my longer bus rides as I used to be in the habit of always packing in my bag a book in Spanish to read in transit. And I found my missing peacock feather.
I have long loved peacocks and peacock feathers. I have three long elegant ones on display in my apartment, with a white eagle feather that I found sixteen years ago when there seemed no real hope or purpose left in my life.
When I opened the book this morning I noticed that about twenty pages inside was my missing peacock feather, the one I delight to use as a bookmark. I had forgotten that I had already tried to begin reading it last year, then lost interest because it was slow going. Today, on the bus, I began reading it again from the beginning only to find that I found her writing in Spanish clear and much easier to understand than before, a tribute to the progress I am making.
I am also glad to have my feather again. Every time I open this book I will see it and I will be reminded of the kind of beauty and perfection that resonate alike in nature and in good art.
The second book, El Leopardo al Sol, or the Leopard in the Sun, is about two duelling and obscenely wealthy families of Colombian narco-traffickers. This current novel of hers, which is really older than the others, promises to be a gripping read about the warring factions of Colombia's fifty year plus civil war sitting down to talk for the first time in 1984. None of these books is easy reading, whether in Spanish or (I suspect) in English translation, but I find her writing so uncompromising in its clarity, dignity and relentless demand for the truth that I really wonder that she hasn't had more press in the English speaking world. I certainly like her writing better than what I've read by Gabriel Garcia Marquez whom I have found to be dull, plodding and quite the old school misogynist. I actually did read most of El Amor en los Tiempos de Colera (Love in the Time of Cholera) but as I was slogging through the last hundred pages of so some local Latino snatched it from my café table while I was visiting the washroom.
When the book fell to my feet this morning it felt like an offering. I have lately been lamenting having nothing interesting to read on some of my longer bus rides as I used to be in the habit of always packing in my bag a book in Spanish to read in transit. And I found my missing peacock feather.
I have long loved peacocks and peacock feathers. I have three long elegant ones on display in my apartment, with a white eagle feather that I found sixteen years ago when there seemed no real hope or purpose left in my life.
When I opened the book this morning I noticed that about twenty pages inside was my missing peacock feather, the one I delight to use as a bookmark. I had forgotten that I had already tried to begin reading it last year, then lost interest because it was slow going. Today, on the bus, I began reading it again from the beginning only to find that I found her writing in Spanish clear and much easier to understand than before, a tribute to the progress I am making.
I am also glad to have my feather again. Every time I open this book I will see it and I will be reminded of the kind of beauty and perfection that resonate alike in nature and in good art.
Tuesday 26 July 2016
The World Still Hasn't Ended
There are lots of awful things going on in the world. We hear and read about them every day. In fact, that's often all we get to hear and read on our popular news outlets. We should congratulate ourselves for mustering the courage to leave the house. We even merit a pat on the back for getting out of bed.
I often wonder what it is about humans and bad news. It must be something like train wreck syndrome. We can't avoid gawking. We seem somehow programmed to be fascinated over tragedy. I wonder if this is a kind of reptilian brain style empathy. You know what I mean, Gentle Reader: We all have that capacity of being impacted by other people's sorrows, pain and suffering. But this is often poorly informed and not at all developed. So we have the very elemental expressions of empathy: a mother or father defending their children from an attacker, for example, or a warrior defending their tribe. But that is where the empathy ends. Otherwise it becomes a reason to run away and hide, if it's the pain of someone we are not connected to or who isn't like us, or to deny and ignore, or to stare and transform into a freak show for cheap thrills.
It becomes almost like watching porn (not that I have any experience to boast of!), and we get a sleazy, but intense, vicarious pleasure from watching a YouTube beheading by Islamic terrorists, or The World Trade Centre going down in flames, smoke and dust, or...watching a train wreck.
There are good things that happen in the world. Lots of acts of kindness, selflessness and personal sacrifice, but these are seldom noted, noticed or reported about. Virtue and altruism don't seem to grab us the way tragedy and grotesque acts of cruelty.
I say, don't ignore the bad, the negative, the cruelty. Those are facts of life and we have to resist the temptation to hide, escape, ignore, sugar coat or whitewash. By the same token it would also be helpful if we were to become perhaps a little more self-aware about just what it is about vicarious tragedy and evil that makes us sit up and take notice; and especially to address and challenge that part of our reptilian brain to which such horrible things appeal. In fact, we need also to redouble our efforts towards the good, towards reaching out in kindness and good will and friendship to those around us while challenging our fascination with the dark side of our humanity. Our natural empathy needs to be trained and cultivated in such a way that we really become interested in the welfare and wellbeing of others, no matter who they are, no matter how difficult it is to naturally relate to them. This I think is why we are often more ready, willing and able to reach out to a middle class family made suddenly homeless by a fire than to try to help and understand better our own chronically homeless who languish on our sidewalks.
In the Christian faith there is a word for this process of change. It is called repentance, or, a complete turning around from one way of being to a way that is totally different. We all have this capacity and we are all called to implement repentance in our lives. We have only to rise to the occasion.
I often wonder what it is about humans and bad news. It must be something like train wreck syndrome. We can't avoid gawking. We seem somehow programmed to be fascinated over tragedy. I wonder if this is a kind of reptilian brain style empathy. You know what I mean, Gentle Reader: We all have that capacity of being impacted by other people's sorrows, pain and suffering. But this is often poorly informed and not at all developed. So we have the very elemental expressions of empathy: a mother or father defending their children from an attacker, for example, or a warrior defending their tribe. But that is where the empathy ends. Otherwise it becomes a reason to run away and hide, if it's the pain of someone we are not connected to or who isn't like us, or to deny and ignore, or to stare and transform into a freak show for cheap thrills.
It becomes almost like watching porn (not that I have any experience to boast of!), and we get a sleazy, but intense, vicarious pleasure from watching a YouTube beheading by Islamic terrorists, or The World Trade Centre going down in flames, smoke and dust, or...watching a train wreck.
There are good things that happen in the world. Lots of acts of kindness, selflessness and personal sacrifice, but these are seldom noted, noticed or reported about. Virtue and altruism don't seem to grab us the way tragedy and grotesque acts of cruelty.
I say, don't ignore the bad, the negative, the cruelty. Those are facts of life and we have to resist the temptation to hide, escape, ignore, sugar coat or whitewash. By the same token it would also be helpful if we were to become perhaps a little more self-aware about just what it is about vicarious tragedy and evil that makes us sit up and take notice; and especially to address and challenge that part of our reptilian brain to which such horrible things appeal. In fact, we need also to redouble our efforts towards the good, towards reaching out in kindness and good will and friendship to those around us while challenging our fascination with the dark side of our humanity. Our natural empathy needs to be trained and cultivated in such a way that we really become interested in the welfare and wellbeing of others, no matter who they are, no matter how difficult it is to naturally relate to them. This I think is why we are often more ready, willing and able to reach out to a middle class family made suddenly homeless by a fire than to try to help and understand better our own chronically homeless who languish on our sidewalks.
In the Christian faith there is a word for this process of change. It is called repentance, or, a complete turning around from one way of being to a way that is totally different. We all have this capacity and we are all called to implement repentance in our lives. We have only to rise to the occasion.
Monday 25 July 2016
The Power Of Small
I was listening to the CBC today on the radio, as I do every day, and heard one person on a program comment about so-called white male privilege. Uh-huh. I am still waiting to feel the love. I have never know privilege in any form whatsoever for being a white male, which, in the most strictly demographic sense, I am.
I have never earned much above minimum wage at difficult and often unsafe (though often meaningful and interesting) jobs. I never was able to finish university because of pressing economic concerns. I never enjoyed a happy or healthy family environment. I have always felt alone and often unsupported in the world. I have never found a market or an audience for my art or my writing. I live in a government subsidized apartment. I am one of the invisible, the overlooked of this world.
I am neither complaining nor feeling sorry for myself. I know that God has me where I am for a reason. I accept that the circumstances of my life are always going to be constrained and humble. I realize that my talents and contributions, however good or admirable, are going to be eclipsed by others more able, more gifted and better connected.
None of this bothers me. I have no family but I am surrounded by other human beings, each as loved and valued by God as I am. I have been able to make do and make good of my limited resources. I have opted to do well in my life, in my work, my art, writing and my relations with others. I have also chosen to continue to be a voice for others who suffer the same marginalization and worse . I will continue to believe and celebrate the love of God as he reveals himself to me every day of my life. I believe in the Power of Small and that it is out of the small, insignificant and silent places that the transforming and redeeming power of Christ is released into this broken and wounded world from the lives of those whom it has broken and wounded.
I have never earned much above minimum wage at difficult and often unsafe (though often meaningful and interesting) jobs. I never was able to finish university because of pressing economic concerns. I never enjoyed a happy or healthy family environment. I have always felt alone and often unsupported in the world. I have never found a market or an audience for my art or my writing. I live in a government subsidized apartment. I am one of the invisible, the overlooked of this world.
I am neither complaining nor feeling sorry for myself. I know that God has me where I am for a reason. I accept that the circumstances of my life are always going to be constrained and humble. I realize that my talents and contributions, however good or admirable, are going to be eclipsed by others more able, more gifted and better connected.
None of this bothers me. I have no family but I am surrounded by other human beings, each as loved and valued by God as I am. I have been able to make do and make good of my limited resources. I have opted to do well in my life, in my work, my art, writing and my relations with others. I have also chosen to continue to be a voice for others who suffer the same marginalization and worse . I will continue to believe and celebrate the love of God as he reveals himself to me every day of my life. I believe in the Power of Small and that it is out of the small, insignificant and silent places that the transforming and redeeming power of Christ is released into this broken and wounded world from the lives of those whom it has broken and wounded.
Sunday 24 July 2016
I Am Not A NIMBY, But...
Hello
It is a warm summer day and I have to keep my window closed. Why? It's because one of your tenants insists on playing his music, very loud, and the bass vibrates into my unit in the building next door (I live in the building next door). This tenant, and I suspect others, has been an ongoing problem for well over a year. No matter what is done this individual insists on inconveniencing me and other tenants in both buildings who have a right to peace and quiet in our own homes. I have contacted you people frequently about this. At first you were supportive. Lately you have been dismissive. I think this is deplorable.
The good news: Some of the staff at Granville Residence is supportive and helpful. One, this past Friday evening was even so kind as to meet me in my building parkade down below so I could direct him to where the noise was coming from. He was able to pinpoint the source then went to address the offending tenant. I found him to be very kind, considerate and helpful. He was not able to hear the noise from the building corridor for one simple reason. Often your tenants play their music by their open windows so they don't get detected by staff and can still torment the neighbourhood. I wonder if this is intentional?
As I already said this is a constant problem, it is chronic and there are many more enjoyable ways I can think of spending time in my apartment than having to make phone calls about inconsiderate idiots like him. I am calling on the City of Vancouver to do something about this in a way that there can be a lasting solution to this problem. To continually subject other renters to this garbage is unconscionable and as citizens who live and rent here we also have a right to peace and quiet.
I am not a NIMBY by the way. I am a mental health peer support worker and many of my clients struggle with addictions. A few of them might even live in your facility. I agree that they also have a right to housing. However, you, as the elected administration that governs this city also have an obligation to ensure that these tenants integrate well into the community and you have an obligation to the rest of us (we vote, by the way) to ensure that our right to peace, quiet and safety is not jeopardized by individuals who are poorly equipped to co-exist in society.
I understand and am well-versed in the needs and challenges that confront many of your tenants: mental health, addictions, brain injuries, fetal alcohol, spectrum disorder, childhood abuse and lives of poverty and marginalzation, etcetera. By the same token, if you are going to get these people off the street and into housing, then you are going to have to implement policies to ensure that the quality of life for the rest of us is not being jeopardized for their sake.
The door swings both ways. And may I remind you again, I vote.
I will be featuring this email in my blog today and will also publish any replies that I might happen to receive from you.
all the best
aaron
Please check my website: http://thesearepaintings.googlepages.com
Saturday 23 July 2016
Pokeman WHO?
Before I proceed with my little essay, Gentle Reader, I would first like to give a shout out to Russia.
Hey, you guys, I don't know whether I should feel flattered or menaced by all the hits I have been getting from your country the last few days. If your intentions are innocent and you are actually interested in what I have to write about, or if you want to practice your English this way, then go for it. Otherwise, please find something else to do. This is beginning to creep me out a little and yes I have been reporting you to Microsoft.
That said, I have decided to write a little bit about the current Pokeman Go craze that seems to be the current lifeline for the empty vacuous souls who really don't have much of a life, which is to say, an awful lot of people.
I just heard this morning on a radio program an interview with an individual whose name or occupation somehow escapes me, but he was singing the praises of Pokeman Go to his patient radio host. That it seems to be our current great hope for Western Civilization: it gets people outside, away from their desks, their TV, their computers, their whatever, even though they still have to bring with them their precious little phones in order to play. It gets them exploring neighbourhoods and areas they would never otherwise set foot it. Like, it's never occurred to any of these zombie cyborgs to actually go for a walk for the simple reason and pleasure of exploring new places, without needing an electronic prop for an excuse? It gets them meeting other Pokeman players and they sometimes even talk to each other. Well, whatever happened to saying hi for the hell of it and maybe letting a friendship develop from just being friendly without excuses or agendas? It gives them a chance to get exercise. So, we don't have enough gyms and yoga studios in this city of narcissists?
Full disclosure: I have never played a computer game in my life. Why not? They simply do not interest me. Or should I say that I already have a life. I love the here and now, the immediate, the experience of being in direct contact with nature, with other people, with wildlife, pets, with the city. I don't need the stimulus of a computer game to keep me mentally engaged. I am already mentally engaged: with life. I write every day, I read and communicate with others in two languages: English and Spanish, I draw and I paint, I travel, I pay special attention to world and current events, I enjoy music, take classes and learn new things, I have many good friends, I reach out to people and I enjoy my occupation. How could I possibly, or even want to, fit in a computer game when my mind, my life and my soul are already full, active and overflowing with good things and that I already am totally engaged with life.
To the rest of you I say this: go ahead and enjoy your Pokeman Go. But I still think you're all pretty pathetic.
Hey, you guys, I don't know whether I should feel flattered or menaced by all the hits I have been getting from your country the last few days. If your intentions are innocent and you are actually interested in what I have to write about, or if you want to practice your English this way, then go for it. Otherwise, please find something else to do. This is beginning to creep me out a little and yes I have been reporting you to Microsoft.
That said, I have decided to write a little bit about the current Pokeman Go craze that seems to be the current lifeline for the empty vacuous souls who really don't have much of a life, which is to say, an awful lot of people.
I just heard this morning on a radio program an interview with an individual whose name or occupation somehow escapes me, but he was singing the praises of Pokeman Go to his patient radio host. That it seems to be our current great hope for Western Civilization: it gets people outside, away from their desks, their TV, their computers, their whatever, even though they still have to bring with them their precious little phones in order to play. It gets them exploring neighbourhoods and areas they would never otherwise set foot it. Like, it's never occurred to any of these zombie cyborgs to actually go for a walk for the simple reason and pleasure of exploring new places, without needing an electronic prop for an excuse? It gets them meeting other Pokeman players and they sometimes even talk to each other. Well, whatever happened to saying hi for the hell of it and maybe letting a friendship develop from just being friendly without excuses or agendas? It gives them a chance to get exercise. So, we don't have enough gyms and yoga studios in this city of narcissists?
Full disclosure: I have never played a computer game in my life. Why not? They simply do not interest me. Or should I say that I already have a life. I love the here and now, the immediate, the experience of being in direct contact with nature, with other people, with wildlife, pets, with the city. I don't need the stimulus of a computer game to keep me mentally engaged. I am already mentally engaged: with life. I write every day, I read and communicate with others in two languages: English and Spanish, I draw and I paint, I travel, I pay special attention to world and current events, I enjoy music, take classes and learn new things, I have many good friends, I reach out to people and I enjoy my occupation. How could I possibly, or even want to, fit in a computer game when my mind, my life and my soul are already full, active and overflowing with good things and that I already am totally engaged with life.
To the rest of you I say this: go ahead and enjoy your Pokeman Go. But I still think you're all pretty pathetic.
Friday 22 July 2016
We Are One Big Family
Fear not, Gentle Reader, I have not succumbed to the Pollyanna Kool-Aid. Notice that you will not find the H word (h@ppy) in the title? Today as I wandered from duty to duty and back again to the questionable comfort of my subsidized apartment (questionable because the drug-addicted douchebag in the hard-to-house building next door keeps cranking up his stereo this evening and it's a summer evening and I have to keep my window shut with the fan on, but here I digress) I was ruminating at times of just how interconnected we really are. All over the earth. It has been found that of all animals humans have the least variation of DNA among them (citation needed). Even within recognized racial groups there can be a greater genome difference than between persons of different races. It has sometimes been claimed that race is nothing more than a social construct. I think there is merit to this argument.
We are all related by blood. People continue to mate, marry, bear children, families and individuals of disparate origins are constantly joined, connected and united and reunited. We are also all connected by up to the famous six degrees of separation. We all know one another just as surely as we are all related. I am trying to keep this in mind as I go through my day, seeing, and sometimes interacting with strangers. It helps me to stay focussed on the good that unites us. (Okay, I did taste the Kool-Aid. But I didn`t swallow any. Promise.)
Of course, the vast majority of us wander through life not thinking of this, nor necessarily believing it. For the most part we see as relevant to us our immediate family, children, spouses, partners, lovers, friends, associates, coworkers. Everyone else is negotiable, or should I say user-friendly. They are the butcher (produce vendor for vegetarians), the baker (gluten-free if you prefer), the candlestick maker, the hairdresser, the grocery store checkout clerk, the service provider, the cabbie, the bus driver, the passenger sharing a seat with you. Those who are not there to provide us a service, or who are purchasing a service from us, those who are not there for our alleged convenience, comfort or wellbeing, they exist solely to be coped with and, if possible, avoided. Occasionally some of us will be struck by a burst of altruism: offering our seat on the bus; holding a door open, directing a fellow pedestrian to a sudden lost or fallen object; perhaps to tend to and administer first aid in an accident.
I think it is during those small sparks of goodness that we are reminded that we are all connected. We don't necessarily think of ourselves as all being of the same family, but, face it Sunshine, we are. I just don't think that a lot of us can cope with this information. We are generally so distracted getting on with our lives, or believing our own private myths about our lives that there is usually no room for others unless they impact us directly. In the meantime many of us treat our interactions from a consumer's perspective. Once a (pick any one) spouse, parent, child, lover, friend, associate has outlived their usefulness to us we tend to cast them aside for something new and improved. It doesn't always happen this way and thank heaven that there still remains within our dark, cramped, vile-smelling little souls some faint glimmer of light, goodness and love. We need only devise ways of summoning forth that glimmer till it fans to a flame.
Enjoy the Kool-Aid!
We are all related by blood. People continue to mate, marry, bear children, families and individuals of disparate origins are constantly joined, connected and united and reunited. We are also all connected by up to the famous six degrees of separation. We all know one another just as surely as we are all related. I am trying to keep this in mind as I go through my day, seeing, and sometimes interacting with strangers. It helps me to stay focussed on the good that unites us. (Okay, I did taste the Kool-Aid. But I didn`t swallow any. Promise.)
Of course, the vast majority of us wander through life not thinking of this, nor necessarily believing it. For the most part we see as relevant to us our immediate family, children, spouses, partners, lovers, friends, associates, coworkers. Everyone else is negotiable, or should I say user-friendly. They are the butcher (produce vendor for vegetarians), the baker (gluten-free if you prefer), the candlestick maker, the hairdresser, the grocery store checkout clerk, the service provider, the cabbie, the bus driver, the passenger sharing a seat with you. Those who are not there to provide us a service, or who are purchasing a service from us, those who are not there for our alleged convenience, comfort or wellbeing, they exist solely to be coped with and, if possible, avoided. Occasionally some of us will be struck by a burst of altruism: offering our seat on the bus; holding a door open, directing a fellow pedestrian to a sudden lost or fallen object; perhaps to tend to and administer first aid in an accident.
I think it is during those small sparks of goodness that we are reminded that we are all connected. We don't necessarily think of ourselves as all being of the same family, but, face it Sunshine, we are. I just don't think that a lot of us can cope with this information. We are generally so distracted getting on with our lives, or believing our own private myths about our lives that there is usually no room for others unless they impact us directly. In the meantime many of us treat our interactions from a consumer's perspective. Once a (pick any one) spouse, parent, child, lover, friend, associate has outlived their usefulness to us we tend to cast them aside for something new and improved. It doesn't always happen this way and thank heaven that there still remains within our dark, cramped, vile-smelling little souls some faint glimmer of light, goodness and love. We need only devise ways of summoning forth that glimmer till it fans to a flame.
Enjoy the Kool-Aid!
Thursday 21 July 2016
YouTube Lucy
Gentle Reader, I have a confession to make. I am making this post brief so I will have time to watch the Lucy Show on YouTube. That's right. The Lucy Show. From the Sixties', starring Lucille Ball, Vivian Vance and Gale Gordon. I am revisiting my childhood, thanks to YouTube. I don't watch just anything from the Sixties on YouTube. So far it's just been Perry Mason and now it's Lucy. I don't know why. I couldn't be bothered seeing Bewitched or the Flintstones or Gilligan's Island. I think the first two programs resonated with me when I was a child and I still haven't figured out why. Perhaps because Lucille Ball reminded me of my mother and Perry Mason won almost every case. I was inspired by Perry's integrity and thrilled by Lucy's zaniness.
There is only one cure. Watching it, and watching it and watching it. Until I have run out of episodes, or till I'm sick of it. Or both.
There is only one cure. Watching it, and watching it and watching it. Until I have run out of episodes, or till I'm sick of it. Or both.
Wednesday 20 July 2016
The World Hasn't Ended Lately
Today the sun shone and is shining still. The temperature has been pleasant, the very low twenties with a light breeze. I have seen and heard children playing as though they hadn't a care in the world and I have watched their mothers, resplendent in traditional Somali attire, laugh and joke together as though they have found the threshold of heaven.
Somalia, as we know, is a failed state, parceled off by savage warlords and Islamic extremists. No one in their right mind visits that country and even those who want to help the Somali people are pitied.
I often see our local birds, not just pigeons, seagulls, starlings and crows, but lovely native birds that no one seems to really notice: flickers: I saw a dead flicker on the grass recently and phoned our city hall public service number (311 for those who live in Vancouver). I described this beautiful bird to the representaive and she couldn't believe that something so beautiful could exist here and that it must be an escaped cage bird.
Steller's jays: A lot of people still don't seem to believe that they live and fly and nest and squawk all over Vancouver. I see or hear them, like the flickers, almost every day.
house finches: Someone who has lived in this city for decades told me that just the other day she saw one of these lovely finches. She had never seen one before and didn't know what it was:
I sat today in a comfy chair inside a local café during my break time at work. I was enjoying an iced Americano while working on my current drawing of a malachite sunbird from Africa:
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It is common knowledge that because of climate change and environmental degradation that many bird species are in peril.
While in the café I enjoyed a conversation with a friendly stranger, a young student majoring in political science. I think he will do well and I have the hope that he could be a positive influence for change.
We are justifiably cynical about political corruption all over the world and even here in our dear little Canada.
I see people of all colours and nationalities, religions and social classes coexisting and actually liking each other. I did have to tell one teenage boy after he shouted the word "faggot" at one of his friends that that word is not acceptable and we are in 2016 but I am confident that he and his little friends will learn fast.
In the meantime, 46 were gunned down a few weeks ago in a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida, eight cops have been shot to death in two separate US massacres, more than eighty have been murdered by an idiot loser in Nice, not to mention the foiled military coup in Turkey and that Donald Trump still will not go away.
Today it was announced that our newly minted federal government has begun sending two hundred dollars a month into the bank accounts of every family that isn't wealthy in Canada.
I could go on. There are bad things happening in the world. There are also good things happening. I would even wager, Gentle Reader, that there are more good things occurring than bad things. Perhaps it depends on what the news media chooses to report about, perhaps it depends on whether or not we know when to stop listening to the news, perhaps it means that with only a little effort that we might try focussing on the good as often as we dwell on the bad.
Try it some time. The world hasn't ended lately.
Somalia, as we know, is a failed state, parceled off by savage warlords and Islamic extremists. No one in their right mind visits that country and even those who want to help the Somali people are pitied.
I often see our local birds, not just pigeons, seagulls, starlings and crows, but lovely native birds that no one seems to really notice: flickers: I saw a dead flicker on the grass recently and phoned our city hall public service number (311 for those who live in Vancouver). I described this beautiful bird to the representaive and she couldn't believe that something so beautiful could exist here and that it must be an escaped cage bird.
Steller's jays: A lot of people still don't seem to believe that they live and fly and nest and squawk all over Vancouver. I see or hear them, like the flickers, almost every day.
house finches: Someone who has lived in this city for decades told me that just the other day she saw one of these lovely finches. She had never seen one before and didn't know what it was:
I sat today in a comfy chair inside a local café during my break time at work. I was enjoying an iced Americano while working on my current drawing of a malachite sunbird from Africa:
It is common knowledge that because of climate change and environmental degradation that many bird species are in peril.
While in the café I enjoyed a conversation with a friendly stranger, a young student majoring in political science. I think he will do well and I have the hope that he could be a positive influence for change.
We are justifiably cynical about political corruption all over the world and even here in our dear little Canada.
I see people of all colours and nationalities, religions and social classes coexisting and actually liking each other. I did have to tell one teenage boy after he shouted the word "faggot" at one of his friends that that word is not acceptable and we are in 2016 but I am confident that he and his little friends will learn fast.
In the meantime, 46 were gunned down a few weeks ago in a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida, eight cops have been shot to death in two separate US massacres, more than eighty have been murdered by an idiot loser in Nice, not to mention the foiled military coup in Turkey and that Donald Trump still will not go away.
Today it was announced that our newly minted federal government has begun sending two hundred dollars a month into the bank accounts of every family that isn't wealthy in Canada.
I could go on. There are bad things happening in the world. There are also good things happening. I would even wager, Gentle Reader, that there are more good things occurring than bad things. Perhaps it depends on what the news media chooses to report about, perhaps it depends on whether or not we know when to stop listening to the news, perhaps it means that with only a little effort that we might try focussing on the good as often as we dwell on the bad.
Try it some time. The world hasn't ended lately.
Tuesday 19 July 2016
While Eating Three Perfect Apricots
I can't believe that I lost the entire text of this post but for one word, "what". I will give a brief summary here then get on with the rest of my day. I was eating three perfect apricots when I began writing this. I was feeling regret about turning away the Census lady yet again. She was here last week. I was just making dinner and didn't have time to talk to her. She came back today just when I was having a nap following dinner. I didn't want to let her in. I was feeling tired and the kitchen was a mess from dinner and I simply don't want strangers or friends to see my home, or myself, at our worse.
My unit was also recently treated for bedbugs. I don't know if they're all dead yet, and I didn't want her to run the risk of getting infected. I also had no idea where she'd just been and was afraid that she might unwittingly bring into my apartment some more little horrors.
She did leave me a form to fill out and now I feel badly that I wasn't more hospitable. I used to be more welcoming to strangers. My job tends to tire me and when I get home I haven't much energy left for a social life, a natural trade off when you are being emotionally and mentally supportive of adults who have special needs.
My need to take care of myself, to rest and feel safe in my own home seems to take priority now that I'm older.
I miss in some ways the person I once was, but I really gave too much of myself to others in those days and completely exhausted myself through performing acts of kindness without imposing reasonable or sensible boundaries. Still, in this age of war, conflict, intense fear and racism and socio-economic inequality I sometimes wish I could do better. We need more kindness not less. If only so many of us weren't so damn exhausted all the time.
The apricots were delicious. And now three dark stones gleam from the bottom of the white bowl by my computer.
My unit was also recently treated for bedbugs. I don't know if they're all dead yet, and I didn't want her to run the risk of getting infected. I also had no idea where she'd just been and was afraid that she might unwittingly bring into my apartment some more little horrors.
She did leave me a form to fill out and now I feel badly that I wasn't more hospitable. I used to be more welcoming to strangers. My job tends to tire me and when I get home I haven't much energy left for a social life, a natural trade off when you are being emotionally and mentally supportive of adults who have special needs.
My need to take care of myself, to rest and feel safe in my own home seems to take priority now that I'm older.
I miss in some ways the person I once was, but I really gave too much of myself to others in those days and completely exhausted myself through performing acts of kindness without imposing reasonable or sensible boundaries. Still, in this age of war, conflict, intense fear and racism and socio-economic inequality I sometimes wish I could do better. We need more kindness not less. If only so many of us weren't so damn exhausted all the time.
The apricots were delicious. And now three dark stones gleam from the bottom of the white bowl by my computer.
Monday 18 July 2016
Cultural Appropriation
I'm really trying to get my head around this one, Gentle Reader. I don't have enough information to be able to form an opinion and really it's none of my business. When I first heard about First Nations folks getting their breechcloths in a knot about dumb young white guys wearing feather headdresses during music festivals I almost wanted to ask some of them, "Who pissed in your pemmican?" So, I listened to stuff on the CBC and soon thought I discerned a genuine and justifiable anger in some of our aboriginal citizens. The narrative goes that any marginalized and oppressed minority has special ownership rights over their cultural symbols and heritage. This means no ignorant mimicking and it certainly forbids imitating aboriginal art and other cultural features by anyone who, well, is not aboriginal.
I heard some more about it yesterday on the CBC and then I just got angry. At the indignant First Nations people who want laws enacted forbidding cultural appropriation. Today I have swung a bit back towards the left and feel some sympathy.
Here is what I currently understand. Our First Nations People are survivors of a lengthy cultural genocide. For many decades their children were carted off to residential schools where they were forbidden to express any of their culture: religion, language, art, nothing. The objective was to kill the Indian in the child. Potlatches, all celebrations of native culture were outlawed for many years. They were all expected to dress, behave, live, worship and believe like white people. Broken and traumatized.
In recent years many aboriginals are reclaiming their cultural heritage, including feather headdresses and breechcloths. They are entitled to this. When I hear well-meaning, and not very well-meaning white people grumble that they should just get on with their lives and stop whining it is very clear to me that they are not really getting it. A historically traumatized and destroyed people is not just going to get off their butt and move on and become happy productive make-believe white people. They need time to go through all the stages of grief for their destroyed culture and identity, and part of doing this is going to involve returning to familiar cultural lodestones, such as feather headdresses. They will in time move forward with this but these people are reclaiming their heritage. They are justifiably and understandably angry and tolerance is not going to be one of their selling points.
I don't think that it's really relevant for me to have an opinion about this right now. I do want to understand it better. By the way, I would never take offence should I see a native person suddenly decked out in a Scottish kilt (my dad's side of the family) or German lederhosen (my mother's side). But last I heard, neither Scottish nor German cultures have ever been in danger of extermination by an occupying power.
I heard some more about it yesterday on the CBC and then I just got angry. At the indignant First Nations people who want laws enacted forbidding cultural appropriation. Today I have swung a bit back towards the left and feel some sympathy.
Here is what I currently understand. Our First Nations People are survivors of a lengthy cultural genocide. For many decades their children were carted off to residential schools where they were forbidden to express any of their culture: religion, language, art, nothing. The objective was to kill the Indian in the child. Potlatches, all celebrations of native culture were outlawed for many years. They were all expected to dress, behave, live, worship and believe like white people. Broken and traumatized.
In recent years many aboriginals are reclaiming their cultural heritage, including feather headdresses and breechcloths. They are entitled to this. When I hear well-meaning, and not very well-meaning white people grumble that they should just get on with their lives and stop whining it is very clear to me that they are not really getting it. A historically traumatized and destroyed people is not just going to get off their butt and move on and become happy productive make-believe white people. They need time to go through all the stages of grief for their destroyed culture and identity, and part of doing this is going to involve returning to familiar cultural lodestones, such as feather headdresses. They will in time move forward with this but these people are reclaiming their heritage. They are justifiably and understandably angry and tolerance is not going to be one of their selling points.
I don't think that it's really relevant for me to have an opinion about this right now. I do want to understand it better. By the way, I would never take offence should I see a native person suddenly decked out in a Scottish kilt (my dad's side of the family) or German lederhosen (my mother's side). But last I heard, neither Scottish nor German cultures have ever been in danger of extermination by an occupying power.
Sunday 17 July 2016
A Matter Of Opinion
Gentle Reader, you may well recall that I have already on occasion written on this theme and you will also remember my opinion on opinions: they're like assholes...everybody has one (thank you, Dan Savage). I am again reminded of the poster of a white Persian cat wearing glasses and saying "Everyone has the right to my opinion." Too cute and if this kind of twee anthropomorphism didn't make me want to hurl I would be oh too inclined to agree. I am writing about opinion for one simple reason. My question du jour is this: how far can two friends go with having a difference of opinion and still remain friends?
I think here it might be necessary to differentiate between opinions and values. My best friends and I all seem to share in common certain core values: a belief in human dignity, human rights, and we all share a desire to live with integrity, we all desire to learn and grow. We also share in common a native generosity of spirit which is I believe especially why we attract one another. Now this isn't to say that we are going to agree about everything.
I am currently trying to learn when to keep my mouth shut, especially when certain sensitive topics come up that we are not likely to agree on. Fortunately none of these areas of difference is particularly major and for every area of disagreement there seem to be at least two or more corresponding points that we share in common. For example, my friend who believes in free market capitalism knows not to praise the likes of Milton Friedman or Ayn Rand in my presence. Similarly I'm not going to tell him how great I think Che Guevara was (by the way, Gentle Reader, I never have liked El Che, but we will save this for a future post) Another friend reminds me rather of my father but without the racism or bigotry when he tells me how they are going too far on minority rights (Black Lives Matter, or shared washrooms for trans people and other folk). I simply shut up and nod and agree with him that people in minorities should shut up and live their lives and stop whining. (my friend, by the way, is openly gay, and has the same opinion about gay people!) I do have another perspective and I tend to agree that there are a lot of collective variables that my friend simply does not have the patience to consider but when he holds forth I know better now than to try to educate him. I simply listen now. There is another friend who, like me, believes strongly in social justice and from time to time participates in actions of civil disobedience that on occasion cause me to raise an eyebrow or two. I keep my mouth shut, support him and through his inspiration I redouble my efforts to pester politicians and journalists with emails and links to my blog when I am writing about homelessness and legislated poverty.
I could go on.
I am not trying to humour my friends, neither am I merely trying to keep the peace. Rather I have learned from years of pointless debates with an almost never ending parade of ex-friends how useless it is to try to educate others when my real motive is usually just to play devil's advocate which can make me at times pretty damn annoying. I often think that it's better just to keep my mouth shut and listen and maybe learn a thing or two. Perhaps I might even find that I've been mistaken all along and will rise to the challenge of letting go of a few pet opinions and ideologies. I might even grow a little.
But I draw the line when it comes to ethics.
I think here it might be necessary to differentiate between opinions and values. My best friends and I all seem to share in common certain core values: a belief in human dignity, human rights, and we all share a desire to live with integrity, we all desire to learn and grow. We also share in common a native generosity of spirit which is I believe especially why we attract one another. Now this isn't to say that we are going to agree about everything.
I am currently trying to learn when to keep my mouth shut, especially when certain sensitive topics come up that we are not likely to agree on. Fortunately none of these areas of difference is particularly major and for every area of disagreement there seem to be at least two or more corresponding points that we share in common. For example, my friend who believes in free market capitalism knows not to praise the likes of Milton Friedman or Ayn Rand in my presence. Similarly I'm not going to tell him how great I think Che Guevara was (by the way, Gentle Reader, I never have liked El Che, but we will save this for a future post) Another friend reminds me rather of my father but without the racism or bigotry when he tells me how they are going too far on minority rights (Black Lives Matter, or shared washrooms for trans people and other folk). I simply shut up and nod and agree with him that people in minorities should shut up and live their lives and stop whining. (my friend, by the way, is openly gay, and has the same opinion about gay people!) I do have another perspective and I tend to agree that there are a lot of collective variables that my friend simply does not have the patience to consider but when he holds forth I know better now than to try to educate him. I simply listen now. There is another friend who, like me, believes strongly in social justice and from time to time participates in actions of civil disobedience that on occasion cause me to raise an eyebrow or two. I keep my mouth shut, support him and through his inspiration I redouble my efforts to pester politicians and journalists with emails and links to my blog when I am writing about homelessness and legislated poverty.
I could go on.
I am not trying to humour my friends, neither am I merely trying to keep the peace. Rather I have learned from years of pointless debates with an almost never ending parade of ex-friends how useless it is to try to educate others when my real motive is usually just to play devil's advocate which can make me at times pretty damn annoying. I often think that it's better just to keep my mouth shut and listen and maybe learn a thing or two. Perhaps I might even find that I've been mistaken all along and will rise to the challenge of letting go of a few pet opinions and ideologies. I might even grow a little.
But I draw the line when it comes to ethics.
Saturday 16 July 2016
The Working Poor
Those of you who read the Hon. Hedy Fry's recent email to me might recall that she said, among other things, that,
"For previous generations of Canadians, home ownership was an attainable goal for those who worked hard and saved." (Why Aren't I Feeing The Love, 11 July, 2016)
I would like to correct this innocent assumption made by the Hon. Ms. Fry. Being a medical professional and a politician I can forgive her for her ignorance about the reality of the working poor. No one of her social class seem to know that we exist. Not even in previous generations was home ownership attainable for just any Canadian who worked hard and saved. There is a particular species of Canadian that almost always falls under the federal radar. We are known also as the Chronic Working Poor (chopped-liverus exploitatius no-end-in-sightium). I am a member of this species. My origins are fairly typical of my genus. A product of a broken and abusive family with few resources in sight, I had to jumpstart my adulthood at the tender age of eighteen. There was very little family support.
I had to work whatever job I could find for whatever employer would accept me. Contrary to the popular opinion of poor-bashers my genus does not refuse to work, neither do we turn down employment. For reasons often unknown to us it has often been very difficult for us to convince a potential boss to hire us, not because we lacked the skills or the experience but because we weren't seen as a good fit with the other workers. Or because we didn't have friends or relatives or in-laws pulling for us.
On this basis, I could not afford to finish my post-secondary education and no matter how hard I tried I wasn't able to get picked for a well-paying union job. I had to settle for whatever I could find and ended up spending a dozen years plus as a home-support worker, pulling only a little more than minimum wage with zero benefits or job protection. When the shit really hit the fan for a while I couldn't work anywhere. I was too exhausted and stressed from chronic poverty. Did I work hard? You bet! Did I save? Oh don't make me throw-up! I was pulling only a little more than minimum wage, not always guaranteed enough hours to pay the bills and would consider it a good month when I could both pay the rent and eat.
That's the way it has been for me, and for a lot of other working Canadians. Crappy, low paying work, no benefits, no protections. And no EI should we end up unemployed because a lot of us happen to be contract workers, or we haven't pulled enough hours to qualify, or both. I had marathon tooth-aches and my employer at the time did squat about it. I couldn't even afford to get a tooth pulled. Now that I live in BC Housing at least I can afford the rent, being thirty percent of my monthly income, though when you are pulling just twelve lovely bucks an hour even thirty percent is a bit much to be expected to pay for shelter. I of course get no dental coverage at my job, where they really treat us like yesterday's chopped liver. I have managed to rack up a few savings for dental care and for foreign vacations but only after a lot of very careful budgeting and trade offs and sacrifices (I don't eat in restaurants, don't go to concerts, plays or movies, though sometimes I'd like to, don't have a car, and don't want one, don't eat meat but I'm a happy vegetarian.) Even though I am luckier than some in my position I am still barely getting by with absolutely none of the benefits or supports that the middle class take for granted.
Hey, Hedy, when are you and Prime Minister Junior going to do something for the working poor? I'm not holding my breath.
"For previous generations of Canadians, home ownership was an attainable goal for those who worked hard and saved." (Why Aren't I Feeing The Love, 11 July, 2016)
I would like to correct this innocent assumption made by the Hon. Ms. Fry. Being a medical professional and a politician I can forgive her for her ignorance about the reality of the working poor. No one of her social class seem to know that we exist. Not even in previous generations was home ownership attainable for just any Canadian who worked hard and saved. There is a particular species of Canadian that almost always falls under the federal radar. We are known also as the Chronic Working Poor (chopped-liverus exploitatius no-end-in-sightium). I am a member of this species. My origins are fairly typical of my genus. A product of a broken and abusive family with few resources in sight, I had to jumpstart my adulthood at the tender age of eighteen. There was very little family support.
I had to work whatever job I could find for whatever employer would accept me. Contrary to the popular opinion of poor-bashers my genus does not refuse to work, neither do we turn down employment. For reasons often unknown to us it has often been very difficult for us to convince a potential boss to hire us, not because we lacked the skills or the experience but because we weren't seen as a good fit with the other workers. Or because we didn't have friends or relatives or in-laws pulling for us.
On this basis, I could not afford to finish my post-secondary education and no matter how hard I tried I wasn't able to get picked for a well-paying union job. I had to settle for whatever I could find and ended up spending a dozen years plus as a home-support worker, pulling only a little more than minimum wage with zero benefits or job protection. When the shit really hit the fan for a while I couldn't work anywhere. I was too exhausted and stressed from chronic poverty. Did I work hard? You bet! Did I save? Oh don't make me throw-up! I was pulling only a little more than minimum wage, not always guaranteed enough hours to pay the bills and would consider it a good month when I could both pay the rent and eat.
That's the way it has been for me, and for a lot of other working Canadians. Crappy, low paying work, no benefits, no protections. And no EI should we end up unemployed because a lot of us happen to be contract workers, or we haven't pulled enough hours to qualify, or both. I had marathon tooth-aches and my employer at the time did squat about it. I couldn't even afford to get a tooth pulled. Now that I live in BC Housing at least I can afford the rent, being thirty percent of my monthly income, though when you are pulling just twelve lovely bucks an hour even thirty percent is a bit much to be expected to pay for shelter. I of course get no dental coverage at my job, where they really treat us like yesterday's chopped liver. I have managed to rack up a few savings for dental care and for foreign vacations but only after a lot of very careful budgeting and trade offs and sacrifices (I don't eat in restaurants, don't go to concerts, plays or movies, though sometimes I'd like to, don't have a car, and don't want one, don't eat meat but I'm a happy vegetarian.) Even though I am luckier than some in my position I am still barely getting by with absolutely none of the benefits or supports that the middle class take for granted.
Hey, Hedy, when are you and Prime Minister Junior going to do something for the working poor? I'm not holding my breath.
Friday 15 July 2016
Thanksgiving, (The Act Of, Not The Day)
Here are one hundred things I have to be thankful for today:
1. I'm alive
2. I enjoy good health
3. I have good mental health
4. I have a job that I (mostly) like
5. I have a place to live
6. My apartment is affordable to me
7. Despite the nasty games that Microsoft still plays with my computer through Windows 10 while I'm typing I am still able to write this blog
8. I can afford to travel every year, despite my low wage
9. I am able to live well within a budget
10. The usually kind, supportive managers of my building
11. That I have very good friends
12. For nature
13. For the natural beauty in my part of the world
14. For the mountains
15. The ocean
16. The forests
18. The accessibility of beautiful forest hiking trails
19. The beautiful beaches
20. The many parks
21. The beautiful gardens.
22. The many flowers
23. The spring
24. The summer
25. That this is a very walkable city
26. That actions are finally being taken on behalf of the homeless (still got a long way to go)
27. Music
28. My many fine cd's
29. The ability to enjoy music
30. For good food
31. For the clothes I wear
32. For the shoes on my feet
33. For art
34. That I'm an artist
35. For the huge diversity of wonderful birds that I draw and paint
36. For the many fine cafes where I draw
37. For the beautiful neighbourhoods where I enjoy walking
38. For the beautiful clean air, especially when it rains
39. For my very good golf umbrella
40. For my many fine books
41. For my huge library of books in Spanish
42. For my fluency in Spanish
43. For my computer
44. For email
45. For this blog
46. For Skype
47. For my friends in Latin American countries and Spain, especially those with whom I skype in Spanish and English
48. That I can afford a computer, given my low income
49. For my personal freedom
50. That I live in a liberal/social democracy where human rights are (mostly) upheld and honoured
51. For the growing work and interest in protecting the environment
52. For renewable sources of energy
53. For David Suzuki
54. For Justin Trudeau
55. For the beautiful sunset
56. For the birds who live here
57. For the robins
58. For the robins' beautiful song
59. For the house finches
60. For the house finches' beautiful song
61. For the varied thrush
62. For the crows, because they are so intelligent
63. For the ravens, because they also live here
64. For the great blue herons
65 for the herons' nesting colony in Stanley Park
66. For Stanley Park
67. For Queen Elizabeth Park
68. For Trout Lake Park
69. For Queen Elizabeth Park
70. For Commercial Drive
71. For Mount Pleasant
72. For a moral compass
73. For compassionate and supportive bosses
74. For the kindness of strangers
75. For iced Americanos
76. For chocolate
77. For Fair Trade
79. For Costa Rica
80. For Mexico City
81. For resplendent Quetzals
83. For trogons
84. For hummingbirds
85. For peacocks
86. For butterflies
87. For dragonflies
88. For honeybees
89. For honey
90. For what honeybees do to pollinate food crops
91. For YouTube
92. For Spanish videos and documentaries online
93. For sleep
94. For dreams
95. For having a new day to look forward to
96. For today
97. For good health care
98. For the CBC
99. That I don't smoke
100. That I have no addictions
1. I'm alive
2. I enjoy good health
3. I have good mental health
4. I have a job that I (mostly) like
5. I have a place to live
6. My apartment is affordable to me
7. Despite the nasty games that Microsoft still plays with my computer through Windows 10 while I'm typing I am still able to write this blog
8. I can afford to travel every year, despite my low wage
9. I am able to live well within a budget
10. The usually kind, supportive managers of my building
11. That I have very good friends
12. For nature
13. For the natural beauty in my part of the world
14. For the mountains
15. The ocean
16. The forests
18. The accessibility of beautiful forest hiking trails
19. The beautiful beaches
20. The many parks
21. The beautiful gardens.
22. The many flowers
23. The spring
24. The summer
25. That this is a very walkable city
26. That actions are finally being taken on behalf of the homeless (still got a long way to go)
27. Music
28. My many fine cd's
29. The ability to enjoy music
30. For good food
31. For the clothes I wear
32. For the shoes on my feet
33. For art
34. That I'm an artist
35. For the huge diversity of wonderful birds that I draw and paint
36. For the many fine cafes where I draw
37. For the beautiful neighbourhoods where I enjoy walking
38. For the beautiful clean air, especially when it rains
39. For my very good golf umbrella
40. For my many fine books
41. For my huge library of books in Spanish
42. For my fluency in Spanish
43. For my computer
44. For email
45. For this blog
46. For Skype
47. For my friends in Latin American countries and Spain, especially those with whom I skype in Spanish and English
48. That I can afford a computer, given my low income
49. For my personal freedom
50. That I live in a liberal/social democracy where human rights are (mostly) upheld and honoured
51. For the growing work and interest in protecting the environment
52. For renewable sources of energy
53. For David Suzuki
54. For Justin Trudeau
55. For the beautiful sunset
56. For the birds who live here
57. For the robins
58. For the robins' beautiful song
59. For the house finches
60. For the house finches' beautiful song
61. For the varied thrush
62. For the crows, because they are so intelligent
63. For the ravens, because they also live here
64. For the great blue herons
65 for the herons' nesting colony in Stanley Park
66. For Stanley Park
67. For Queen Elizabeth Park
68. For Trout Lake Park
69. For Queen Elizabeth Park
70. For Commercial Drive
71. For Mount Pleasant
72. For a moral compass
73. For compassionate and supportive bosses
74. For the kindness of strangers
75. For iced Americanos
76. For chocolate
77. For Fair Trade
79. For Costa Rica
80. For Mexico City
81. For resplendent Quetzals
83. For trogons
84. For hummingbirds
85. For peacocks
86. For butterflies
87. For dragonflies
88. For honeybees
89. For honey
90. For what honeybees do to pollinate food crops
91. For YouTube
92. For Spanish videos and documentaries online
93. For sleep
94. For dreams
95. For having a new day to look forward to
96. For today
97. For good health care
98. For the CBC
99. That I don't smoke
100. That I have no addictions
Thursday 14 July 2016
Same Sex Marriage And The Anglican Church
Meh. That is the sum of my response to the issue. When I first got the news that same sex marriage had been voted down I shrugged and said, yeah whatever. Then when they turned around and decided for it I was again, like, meh. Why? Because to me this is such a non-issue. This has nothing to do with homophobia. I am one hundred percent in favor of same sex marriage, adoption and child-rearing rights and everything that goes with that. I simply do not see it as the focus of the church, which is to say it does not reflect one way or the other Jesus as we know him through the Gospels.
There is absolutely nothing in any of the four accounts of his life and ministry, Matthew, Mark, Luke or John, about gay people or queer rights. This does not indicate that these things would not have mattered to Jesus, nor does it suggest that he would not gladly welcome LGBTQ people as his own. Simply that the things that are issues for us are not necessarily going to be priorities for the Kingdom of God. As with everything else, of course, the Anglican Church has this all ass-backward as they have basically eviscerated the power of the Gospel for a very limp and lame fashionable political correctness that has done sweet Fanny Adams to fill empty pews.
I am not endorsing either that the church take a step backwards and stigmatize queer people. Far from it. The church really has no business being in the marriage business to begin with. This is but a huge hangover from when the church was present in and ran all the minutiae of every day life, religious and civil, individual and political. It should be and remain a civil matter. The Anglican Church would best abandon the issue altogether of same sex matrimony as something to integrate into its rapidly disintegrating fabric and focus more on returning to the same Jesus Christ whom they have never known where everyone, straight, queer, two-spirited and other, will be welcome. Official policy does nothing but assuage collective guilt. Encouraging unity in the Spirit alone is going to, which also means a general good will among dissenting factors to come together in the love of God. The anti-gay south (as well as the arch-conservatives here in the north) have got to come to grips with their homophobia and their hidebound stubbornness about change. The liberal north must get over their militant arrogance and acquire a focus based on reconciliation and love.
One of the few things I actually like about Anglicanism is the freedom to respectfully agree to disagree while focussing on the things we really share in common. I think now is the time for us to all pray that God will visit us with a spirit of repentance and renewal. Very few Anglicans (very few church people in general) know what it is to have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ or the baptismal experience of the Holy Spirit. Spiritual renewal can still come to Anglicans but this is going to be a costly grace requiring of us all to rend our hearts and not our garments and to learn to trust God more completely than ever, for ourselves, for one another, the church, for the world.
There is absolutely nothing in any of the four accounts of his life and ministry, Matthew, Mark, Luke or John, about gay people or queer rights. This does not indicate that these things would not have mattered to Jesus, nor does it suggest that he would not gladly welcome LGBTQ people as his own. Simply that the things that are issues for us are not necessarily going to be priorities for the Kingdom of God. As with everything else, of course, the Anglican Church has this all ass-backward as they have basically eviscerated the power of the Gospel for a very limp and lame fashionable political correctness that has done sweet Fanny Adams to fill empty pews.
I am not endorsing either that the church take a step backwards and stigmatize queer people. Far from it. The church really has no business being in the marriage business to begin with. This is but a huge hangover from when the church was present in and ran all the minutiae of every day life, religious and civil, individual and political. It should be and remain a civil matter. The Anglican Church would best abandon the issue altogether of same sex matrimony as something to integrate into its rapidly disintegrating fabric and focus more on returning to the same Jesus Christ whom they have never known where everyone, straight, queer, two-spirited and other, will be welcome. Official policy does nothing but assuage collective guilt. Encouraging unity in the Spirit alone is going to, which also means a general good will among dissenting factors to come together in the love of God. The anti-gay south (as well as the arch-conservatives here in the north) have got to come to grips with their homophobia and their hidebound stubbornness about change. The liberal north must get over their militant arrogance and acquire a focus based on reconciliation and love.
One of the few things I actually like about Anglicanism is the freedom to respectfully agree to disagree while focussing on the things we really share in common. I think now is the time for us to all pray that God will visit us with a spirit of repentance and renewal. Very few Anglicans (very few church people in general) know what it is to have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ or the baptismal experience of the Holy Spirit. Spiritual renewal can still come to Anglicans but this is going to be a costly grace requiring of us all to rend our hearts and not our garments and to learn to trust God more completely than ever, for ourselves, for one another, the church, for the world.
Wednesday 13 July 2016
The Gift Of The Present Moment
I mean, really, Gentle Reader, that's all we have. The moment. The present. The present moment. During my long walks and my interminable monologues in Spanish on my cell phone (they all think I'm talking to someone in Spanish Well, maybe I am!) I keep returning to the subject of the gift of the present moment. I often have to return there when I find myself getting spun out on tangents about matters that I am not able to solve or that are really none of my business. Now I am not going to call this "Mindfulness," which to me is simplistic Buddha babble, a useless catchphrase for the unimaginative. It is an interior state of awareness, a place where we can really begin to give thanks to the beauty of what God has given us and made us. Perhaps living in the present, but something more. It is living in a state of gratitude and enjoyment of the present. This is where God, lives, where hope, faith and inspiration live. This is the place where we are strengthened with love, to love. It is easily lost and forgotten as I get caught up again in worries about the future or regrets over the past. And then I have to remember again to focus on the present. The sunlight filtering through the trees. That flower over there. Moss on a tree trunk. The sound of a bird calling nearby.
This is God's gift to us, this gift of the present moment. It is a refuge, a sanctuary. The stillness is still too easily broken by distractions or sudden inconveniences or accidents. And then we lose altogether this foretaste of Paradise and have to struggle again to regain this gift of the present. It is a place of solitude, but authentic solitude where there is no loneliness for in this state of solitude we are joined to others and to the world. This is where true prayer begins when in the gift of the present moment where we live and move in the presence of God that we come into true fellowship with
God, with Angels and Saints, with all of those who have lived before us and all those whom we live among now and those who will come after us. We have only to open our heart and let the trickle of love begin.
This is where we gather the strength to forgive and to live lives of reconciliation and healing.
This is God's gift to us, this gift of the present moment. It is a refuge, a sanctuary. The stillness is still too easily broken by distractions or sudden inconveniences or accidents. And then we lose altogether this foretaste of Paradise and have to struggle again to regain this gift of the present. It is a place of solitude, but authentic solitude where there is no loneliness for in this state of solitude we are joined to others and to the world. This is where true prayer begins when in the gift of the present moment where we live and move in the presence of God that we come into true fellowship with
God, with Angels and Saints, with all of those who have lived before us and all those whom we live among now and those who will come after us. We have only to open our heart and let the trickle of love begin.
This is where we gather the strength to forgive and to live lives of reconciliation and healing.
Tuesday 12 July 2016
A Conversation With My Shadow
Shadow: Well, hello, Aaron! How are you?
Me: This is a charm offensive?
Shadow: And how could my charm be offensive? It is so lovely to see you!
Me: What do you want?
Shadow: Aren't you going to invite me in?
Me: Have I any option? You never left.
Shadow: How about a cup of coffee?
Me: Who's going to make it?
Shadow: I will. Where do you keep the filters?
Me: The usual place. Above the stove. Now please tell me: What do you want?
Shadow: Aaron, Aaron, always a cynic. Always seeking the ulterior motive. And what if I don't have one?
Me: We have known each other all my life. You have never come around not wanting something from me.
Shadow: Why are you nervous?
Me: You have your cat shape today.
Shadow: You like cats.
Me: My point, exactly. When you come around in your serpent shape, or your scorpion shape, then I know whom I'm dealing with, especially when you morph into your dragon or your vulture shape. Today you come in purring like a friendly pedigreed Russian Blue. Now tell me, please, what is it that you want from me today.
Shadow: I thought that maybe it's time we moved in together.
Me: Raise a family of our own, you and me. But that's the way I always thought it should be-
Shadow: No need to be sarcastic.
Me: Don't you like my singing?
Shadow: Oh, you're in fine voice as always, but...
Me: Let's see, you don't like Carly Simon:
Shadow: She is so forty years ago.
Me: Younger than us.
Shadow: How do you like your coffee?
Me: In a cup.
Shadow: There you go again.
Me: You know how I like my coffee. Black and bitter. Like life.
Shadow: How about Vietnamese style. Got sweetened condensed milk in the fridge?
Me: Can't take it straight up, can you?
Shadow: I can't take anything straight up. That's why I'm your shadow.
Me: At least you've finally figured it out. Now tell me please, one more time, what do you want?
Shadow: I thought we should live together.
Me: We already do. You still haven't left since your last visit.
Shadow: Why do you always seem to resent me?
Me: Besides the fact that you're a treacherous passive-aggressive liar who can't be trusted further than I can kick you I would say that I don't resent you at all.
Shadow: You've never loved me.
Me: Can you blame me, with all the crap you've caused?
Shadow: All the crap that you consented to.
Me: Fair enough. But now you want us to live together. Are you prepared to share the rent?
Shadow: Fifty-fifty.
Me: Food?
Shadow: I believe you do all the eating here.
Me: Keeps us both alive, since I've never been able to get rid of you. I've been feeding you all my life like a malignant fetus.
Shadow: Is that anything to call your oldest and dearest friend?
Me: You're more a parasite than a friend.
Shadow: So, is it a deal? I can move in?
Me: On one condition.
Shadow: What did you just pull from the drawer?
Me: It's a choke chain.
Shadow: You don't have a dog.
Me: It's for you. You're going to wear it.
Shadow: What?
Me: That's right. You are wearing this collar at all times and I am going to hold it. That is my condition. Take it or leave it.
Shadow: You're not going to pull on it too tight, are you?
Me: That all depends on which shape you take. Now...Come here.
Me: This is a charm offensive?
Shadow: And how could my charm be offensive? It is so lovely to see you!
Me: What do you want?
Shadow: Aren't you going to invite me in?
Me: Have I any option? You never left.
Shadow: How about a cup of coffee?
Me: Who's going to make it?
Shadow: I will. Where do you keep the filters?
Me: The usual place. Above the stove. Now please tell me: What do you want?
Shadow: Aaron, Aaron, always a cynic. Always seeking the ulterior motive. And what if I don't have one?
Me: We have known each other all my life. You have never come around not wanting something from me.
Shadow: Why are you nervous?
Me: You have your cat shape today.
Shadow: You like cats.
Me: My point, exactly. When you come around in your serpent shape, or your scorpion shape, then I know whom I'm dealing with, especially when you morph into your dragon or your vulture shape. Today you come in purring like a friendly pedigreed Russian Blue. Now tell me, please, what is it that you want from me today.
Shadow: I thought that maybe it's time we moved in together.
Me: Raise a family of our own, you and me. But that's the way I always thought it should be-
Shadow: No need to be sarcastic.
Me: Don't you like my singing?
Shadow: Oh, you're in fine voice as always, but...
Me: Let's see, you don't like Carly Simon:
Shadow: She is so forty years ago.
Me: Younger than us.
Shadow: How do you like your coffee?
Me: In a cup.
Shadow: There you go again.
Me: You know how I like my coffee. Black and bitter. Like life.
Shadow: How about Vietnamese style. Got sweetened condensed milk in the fridge?
Me: Can't take it straight up, can you?
Shadow: I can't take anything straight up. That's why I'm your shadow.
Me: At least you've finally figured it out. Now tell me please, one more time, what do you want?
Shadow: I thought we should live together.
Me: We already do. You still haven't left since your last visit.
Shadow: Why do you always seem to resent me?
Me: Besides the fact that you're a treacherous passive-aggressive liar who can't be trusted further than I can kick you I would say that I don't resent you at all.
Shadow: You've never loved me.
Me: Can you blame me, with all the crap you've caused?
Shadow: All the crap that you consented to.
Me: Fair enough. But now you want us to live together. Are you prepared to share the rent?
Shadow: Fifty-fifty.
Me: Food?
Shadow: I believe you do all the eating here.
Me: Keeps us both alive, since I've never been able to get rid of you. I've been feeding you all my life like a malignant fetus.
Shadow: Is that anything to call your oldest and dearest friend?
Me: You're more a parasite than a friend.
Shadow: So, is it a deal? I can move in?
Me: On one condition.
Shadow: What did you just pull from the drawer?
Me: It's a choke chain.
Shadow: You don't have a dog.
Me: It's for you. You're going to wear it.
Shadow: What?
Me: That's right. You are wearing this collar at all times and I am going to hold it. That is my condition. Take it or leave it.
Shadow: You're not going to pull on it too tight, are you?
Me: That all depends on which shape you take. Now...Come here.
Monday 11 July 2016
Why Aren`t I Feeling The Love?
I am so sick of hearing, reading, writing, thinking and talking about the high cost of housing and homelessness in Vancouver. And really, Gentle Reader, why should I worry about it? I`m okay. I live in Social Housing. For the rest of my life I will likely be paying thirty percent or less of my monthly income on rent. It isn`t ideal. I could well be spending up to three decades or longer in this tiny bachelor unit in a relatively unsafe part of downtown Vancouver. I also know how scary it is out there. If anything should happen to jeopardize or deprive me of my housing I would be in the deepest possible doo-doo. So, being short on alternatives as I am, I will never be able to survive in this fabulously overpriced city in market housing of any variety. And this is every bit as likely as it is that my wages are going to remain frozen at twelve glorious dollars an hour until the minimum wage rises above that sum.
I am not suffering. Even with rising food costs I am still able to live within the budget I created for myself ten years ago. I simply no longer eat out. I am also not as generous with charitable giving as I used to be. I used to be a regular donor to the food bank. Now, hardly ever. Likewise with street beggars. I used to give frequently and generously, especially for someone earning only a little above minimum wage. But then I became suspicious that a lot of the money I was giving was being spent on drugs, alcohol, gambling and cigarettes, or at least keeping their sorry asses alive while they waited for their next welfare check to blow on another batch of self-destructive fun. I still give sometimes, if only to protect my soul from shrinking incurably. I have a bank account, savings and the capacity to travel every year, cheaply mind you, and always in Latin America (so far, Costa Rica, Mexico, Colombia, then back to Costa Rica next year.
I am not complaining. I am still doing a lot better than many other people. I can still live in this beautiful city. I have also been blessed with a capacity for enjoying life, even if it's just a short walk to buy a jug of milk, or listening to a cd of Baroque music while working on my art, or having coffee with a good friend, or practicing Spanish on Skype with a friend in Venezuela or Honduras.
I have survival guilt. Severe survival guilt, given my own personal experience of being homeless. If anyone has an obligation to speak out about homelessness and housing unaffordability it should be me. And outside of writing this blog and annoying politicians I am not really doing a hell of a lot these days. One very good friend of mine, whom I will not name out of respect for his privacy (and I do like to keep my friends!) is currently occupying with several others in his collective an apartment building slated for demolition, a protest against the destruction of low cost housing and the displacement and driving out onto the street of the many low-income renters who make up our body politick.
I just received today from my Member of Parliament, the Hon. Hedy Fry an email detailing some funding, changes and reforms that the federal government are going to push through. Here it is:
I am not suffering. Even with rising food costs I am still able to live within the budget I created for myself ten years ago. I simply no longer eat out. I am also not as generous with charitable giving as I used to be. I used to be a regular donor to the food bank. Now, hardly ever. Likewise with street beggars. I used to give frequently and generously, especially for someone earning only a little above minimum wage. But then I became suspicious that a lot of the money I was giving was being spent on drugs, alcohol, gambling and cigarettes, or at least keeping their sorry asses alive while they waited for their next welfare check to blow on another batch of self-destructive fun. I still give sometimes, if only to protect my soul from shrinking incurably. I have a bank account, savings and the capacity to travel every year, cheaply mind you, and always in Latin America (so far, Costa Rica, Mexico, Colombia, then back to Costa Rica next year.
I am not complaining. I am still doing a lot better than many other people. I can still live in this beautiful city. I have also been blessed with a capacity for enjoying life, even if it's just a short walk to buy a jug of milk, or listening to a cd of Baroque music while working on my art, or having coffee with a good friend, or practicing Spanish on Skype with a friend in Venezuela or Honduras.
I have survival guilt. Severe survival guilt, given my own personal experience of being homeless. If anyone has an obligation to speak out about homelessness and housing unaffordability it should be me. And outside of writing this blog and annoying politicians I am not really doing a hell of a lot these days. One very good friend of mine, whom I will not name out of respect for his privacy (and I do like to keep my friends!) is currently occupying with several others in his collective an apartment building slated for demolition, a protest against the destruction of low cost housing and the displacement and driving out onto the street of the many low-income renters who make up our body politick.
I just received today from my Member of Parliament, the Hon. Hedy Fry an email detailing some funding, changes and reforms that the federal government are going to push through. Here it is:
Just one little note to conclude, Gentle Reader: Equity, Schmequity. Housing is not an investment, it is having a place to live. When a few greedy homeowners are allowed to hold the rest of us hostage because they want to make their cool million off their equity we will know that things have already tilted too far. Whoops! Too late!
Um...Hedy?
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