Life As Performance Art 118

While preparing for the end of the world, I also have to get ready for work today. It will be one of my lighter work days. Just a couple of meetings in two different worksites. There will also be time in between to stop in one of my favourite coffee shops for a snack and time to work on a drawing, then walk a good distance to my second meeting. If the world is going to end soon, then it probably won't be today. In the meantime it is a mild overcast kind of morning, 18 degrees and all seems well in the universe. I am waiting for my eggs to boil, two eggs that I will soon have for breakfast with two slices of whole wheat toast and a slice of cheese, natural peanut butter and strawberry jam on the toast, of course. While enjoying a wildly intense and delicious cup or two of dark Cuban roast coffee (fair trade organic, natch) Nothing like a good breakfast to get you ready for the end of the world. I intend to spend some time this morning working on my art. I have a couple of projects on the go: one is the third portrait of my friend in Colombia. I seem to do portraits these days much the way Frida Kahlo did hers, with little bits of symbolism. Except I paint other people. Self-portraiture does not, nor ever has interested me. I'm not narcissistic enough for that kind of art. One friend described my second portrait of my Colombian friend as resembling a tarot card, because of the way that it features butterflies and keys. I just finished my third drawing, in this current sketchbook, of a regal sunbird (look it up, they are stunning!) and now I am working on my first giant fire opal (ditto) I cannot provide any images, unfortunately, because this blog page no longer supports copy and paste, so you are going to have to do it yourselves, darlings. While there is still time. The world hasn't ended yet. While supplies last! The world has been coming to an end these last two thousand years or so, since Jesus and his apostles first began to warn everyone. This doesn't mean they were wrong. The world simply didn't end in their lifetime. Nor in the lifetimes of those who have followed in this way of thinking. It's simply that God is eternal, and therefore is never in a hurry. Neither are we. The world is going to end, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in ten thousand years, or a million years. In the meantime, let's make art and create beauty. We all have a shelf-life. None of us is here forever, though I understand that there will be rather different arrangements in the next life. The fireworks are tonight, and another half million or so will be gathering around our shorelines to be dazzled and amazed. That would be an awesome finale, but there are many other parts of mother earth and many other different time zones with vastly different agendas and things going on. So, not tonight, darling, I have a headache. None of us is here forever, and we could still all be snuffed out in the twinkling of an eye, so let's enjoy what we already have. But even more than that, let's take care of one another. Yes, let's also take better care of ourselves, but we are all in this together. How about in the way we treat strangers? Especially the very poor, the beggars and the homeless, the most very vulnerable among us. And other folk as well. The next time some idiot cuts you off on a right hand turn, whether driver, pedestrian or cyclist, how about resisting the urge of road rage? Yours may be the last human face that person will ever see (especially the way they are driving!). How would you like to be seen off to your eternity? And for the people already in our lives, family, friends, coworkers, neighbours, people we have forgotten, those who have forgotten us. The world could end today. How can ours be the kindest face they will have seen before their time is up and the cosmic lifeguard has blown the whistle for the last time. Of course, the world is going to end for all of us. No one gets out of this life alive. It's written in the contract. Each moment is precious, because each moment, like life itself, is a gift, so let's cherish and treasure each of these moments, and one another, as we all make ourselves and one another ready for the next great journey of our pilgrimage.

Life As Performance Art 117

I find it odd that people are saying that we are having hot weather. We are not having a heat wave. I think the highest temperature recorded here so far this summer has been at around 28 degrees. Otherwise it has coasted along in the low to mid twenties, usually at around 22 or 23, which is not hot at all. In Paris as it sizzles, they have just survived a record heat wave with temperatures up around 43 degrees celsius, or double that the soft little sissies here in Vancouver whine about as hot. How would they possible cope in Paris? Even I'm not used to warmer temperatures, and even though I have my fan on during the summer, I refuse to call this weather hot. I am thinking of many of my Latin american friends, whom by their own description are themselves friolentos, or do not cope well in cold weather. To a lot of them, what we are experiencing here in Vancouver is actually cold weather. I am also thinking of Bogotá, the capital of Colombia, situated high on a mountain plateau, some 2,640 meters (8,660 feet) above sea level. Almost everyone in Colombia comments or complains of how cold that city is, for its high altitude (and some of its dreadfully snobby and introverted residents, but I also happen to know some very nice people who live in Bogotá) According to Uncle Google, the climate in Bogotá is cool and overcast. Over the course of the year, the temperature typically varies from 44°F to 66°F (6 and 18) and is rarely below 37°F (3) or above 70°F (21). This compares to the weather here in Vancouver from April to June. In April it ranges between 6 and 13 degrees, or between 42 and 57 F. In May it is between 9 and 16 and in June, between 11 and 19. So then, Bogotá is like perpetual spring for visiting Vancouverites. Personally I love the weather there, even the dramatic thunder and lightning storms. But for Colombians, used to average temperatures up in the thirties and relentless sunshine in most other parts of the country, we had might as well be talking about an Antarctic expedition when we mention Bogotá. Right now, in my part of the world, we are finally enjoying a moderate, gentle and mild summer, with temperatures around the low twenties, lots of sun, some clouds, a little bit of rain, and an unusually green city for the end of July. This contrasts with the climate change horror stories we are hearing about from around the world. We are enjoying this respite. I think a lot of us are also a little bit nervous. We still have August to get through, and if we make it without wildfires transforming our air and sky into an apocalyptic setting for a couple of weeks then we'll be doing very well. We don't know what to expect, so best embrace the day and the moment, to extract from it the maximum joy that we can and to pay this joy forward to others. Nothing in life is certain. How we wish it weren't so, but reality does have some interesting and sometimes rather nasty ways of setting in on us. For now, outside, it is overcast, cool, and the temperature is around 17 degrees. Pleasantly cool and perfect for walking.

Life As Performance Art 116

The world is coming to an end. And I'm happy. Is the world really about to end? Am I really happy? Well, it isn't that I don't care about the end of the world. Of course I care. But how is being miserable going to help? So, I choose to be happy. I press the joy selection. So, here I am, still listening to the CBC every day, still subjecting myself to the never-ending tsunami of doom, gloom, anguish and creeping Armageddon, and here I am just laughing it all off. It is a beautiful morning and Greenland is melting. Here in Vancouver the golden morning sun is creeping so sensuously and joyously across the buildings, the trees, the lawns and the streets, as the day begins its hymn of joy, making everything gleam, glisten and shine like the City of God. Of course, I'm still happy. The biggest island in the world, Greenland, is melting, and it is going to raise the sea levels by seven metres and we're all going to die! Well, of course we're all going to die. It's written right here in the contract. No one gets out of here alive. We all have up to a hundred years, give or take, and then we shuck off this mortal coil. It used to be just three score and ten, if we were lucky, and now we're living longer than ever. Is climate change a problem? Yes. Are we causing it? Natch. Am I happy? Yep! Am I doing anything about it? Everything I can. I almost religiously reduce, reuse and recycle, and except for my annual vacations on airplanes, I keep a tiny carbon footprint, given that I don't drive a vehicle. Those two awful teenage boys from Port Alberni are still at large in northern Manitoba, and even though they haven't even seen the inside of a courtroom, trial by public opinion, largely thanks to the CBC, has already convicted and sentenced them for three murders, that someone else might well have committed. I'm still happy. The folks in the local communities up there are all shitting themselves in fear and locking themselves in their homes because, well, they're afraid. Sometimes I'm afraid. But joy is stronger than fear, because joy comes from love, and there is no fear in love, therefore it doesn't really affect me much. Well, I live downtown, where I am likely to face every single day such risks and dangers that they wouldn't imagine in a single year of their privileged existence in those remote communities (except for grizzly bears and the little black flies!) and I'm happy. CBC thrives on making people afraid. I listen to it anyway. It's nice to know what's going on. Especially if it's all about the end of the world. CBC also thrives on making us feel guilty and miserable. Now they're talking about racism. Racism is still a problem. Racism has always been a problem. We are rather horrible beings, you know. And we will do whatever we can to find excuses to hate, because this makes us feel superior, and if it isn't race or religion, it will be poverty, or gender, or sexual preference, or, pick any one. And I'm still happy. I refuse to be miserable. I will get grumpy and irritable at times, because I am a human being, and therefore most imperfect, but I will also always try to know just when to blow the whistle on my silliness and get on with this business of living like a responsible adult. Which also includes...being happy. Simply because, if I'm miserable, I'm pretty much useless to everybody, and who needs to see another grumpy frowning face in the crowd? Joy is infectious, and if this joy has its source in love, it will be even more infectious, as well as a primal healing force to overcome all the fear, misery and hate that circles around us like a dark foul tide of sewage. Everything shines in this gleaming summer morning, shining like the New Jerusalem, shining like the City of God.

Life As Performance Art 115

This is turning into a very gentle summer, so far. We haven't had any really hot days, no cruel heat. It hasn't been all sunshine, and the opening weeks of July, as they often are, have been a bit cool, often cloudy and sometimes damp. Yesterday in the early morning it rained a bit. We seem to be averaging a bit of rain maybe once a week. This is wonderful. I have never understood those who like it to be hot, sunny and dry forever. You know, with temperatures up perpetually at around thirty, and bright blinding sunlight day after day and all of nature languishes and becomes parched and dying around us. If that's what you really want, then maybe you should go live in Death Valley or anywhere in the Sahara or in the Atacama Desert in Peru, also known as the driest spot on earth. If that's what you really want. But people often have a shallow, knee jerk reaction to rain. It is as though their own inner sadness and dreariness just gets summoned to the surface by inclement weather. I have often heard Canadians tell me that they would prefer a winter of snow and temperatures of minus twenty with lots of bright sunny days than have to endure a balmy but grey and damp west coast December and January of up to plus ten with maybe rain five days a week and the bonus of early daffodils and crocuses appearing in January (if we're good!) So that really, our shadow selves, our sad, lonely and frightened dark little troll selves, are often never that far away, never that well-concealed underneath the good-natured and positive Canadian bonhomie for which we are all, perhaps a bit undeservedly well-known. It is rather sad to think this, and I don't think it's true for everyone, but it still appears true enough, unfortunately. Most of us are not really that happy. We are afraid of our own shadows, it would seem. Yes, we scare easy. And instead of just getting on with a positive and healthy rhythm of life, most of us just opt to hide behind our little tech screens, with perhaps young male idiots (is there any other kind?) often resorting to extreme sports in order to justify their precarious manhood. I am thinking here of my assigned physician at the clinic where I a a patient. I have met him but once. Somewhere in his early thirties, I suspect. And, I don't like him. I think he's an idiot, or at least based on our limited conversation I think he's an idiot. We were talking about Costa Rica, and especially the Monteverde area where I have been six times and happen to know rather well. So what did young Doctor Twit have to say about his great experience of Monteverde? Nothing about the majestic mountains, the incredible biodiversity and absolutely nothing about the beautiful dense and tangled cloud forest. Nor was there mention made about the lovely warm and welcoming people who live there, and are so easily overlooked by dumb tourists. Neither did he apparently know anything about the resplendent quetzal, the toucans and other wonderful birds. Why, even the hummingbirds are enough to cure almost anyone of their indifference towards things with feathers. Young Doctor Twit's great and memorable experience of his less than forty-eight hours in one of the most beautiful places on earth? He claims that there he bungee-jumped from the highest place in the Americas. He repeated it, telling me, I mean, three times. (I didn't know that the Andes ranged as far as Costa Rica) I think I am going to fire him as my physician, just for being an idiot. But I also suspect that like a lot of stupid young men (Okay, he made it through medical school, so maybe he's not that stupid. Or maybe not! I know a lot of doctors) But really, those guys are all snivelling little cowards, so they will try extreme sports just to prove they are not. Uh-huh. I have never felt attracted to bungee jumping. Nor even to sky-diving. Am I scared? You betcha! This is a natural and what I call a good fear of self-preservation, and this has helped keep our species alive. Right now there is a manhunt going on throughout Canada for the two teenagers, boys really, wanted for murder, though there is only circumstantial evidence connecting them to the crimes, but everyone seems to do trial by public opinion. To me, they are innocent till proven guilty. It is so much easier to simply assume their guilt and already hang them in our minds, than actually trying to think critically. And the folks in a certain northern community are so frightened and hysterical that there might be two murderers nearby that everyone appears to be shitting themselves about it. Are we really such cowards? Unfortunately, yes. Like last week, when I was the only one in the park with the courage to scare off a marauding coyote, while dog owners trembled with their pooches held so tight and dear (finally on leashes!). I simply approached the coyote and calmly said in Spanish, "¡Vaya, Coyote!", or, get lost, coyote. No one else thought of doing anything. They were too scared. And I don't think of myself as particularly courageous, though if something needs to be done, I will usually try to do my part to get it done. So, this is how tied and connected we are to the weather. It really tends to act on our mood, and on our shadow side. The shadow, by the way, is really just internalized fear. And there is no fear in love.

Life As Performance Art 114

It's Saturday morning and all is well. I suppose, anyway. It's quiet, being only 6:16 am. I am waiting for my eggs to boil, sipping quality decaf (it tastes like the real thing, but I had caffeine yesterday, and I try to alternate days to prevent getting addicted again) We do live in a culture of addiction. That's what keeps the iron and nail-studded wheels of capitalism turning. This is why coffee is also called black gold. How many people would be buying it every day if they didn't have to? Not because of its lovely sweet flavour. Most people smother the aromatic bitterness with so much sugar, honey, agave syrup, Splenda, cream, milk, soy or almond milk, that they don't even know how coffee tastes. They don't want to know. It's bitter! They just want their little caffeine kick. They're hooked. That's capitalism at work. Like smart phones. Ever since they found a way of triggering the dopamine centres of the brain, there has been no turning back. It is pathetic, really, seeing all those little tech slaves wandering around glued to their little portable devices. Even crossing busy streets without looking up from their precious little screens. Natural selection at work! I don't have time for any of it. I live completely without addiction, unless you could call my daily chocolate fix an addiction, but I really just like the taste. I can go a day or two without it and I feel fine, but I love how it tastes (and yes, it is awful without sugar!). So, I live addiction free in a culture of addiction. This is a very odd place to be. I don't buy a lot because I don't need or want very much. Just the basics, just the facts, ma'am. Perfection is a lonely place to live in. But this has nothing to do with perfection or self-improvement, which can be another addiction, yet another voice of the Self-Hater. We really are a culture of consumers. We are all somehow so incomplete as humans that we have to grasp and consume just to remind ourselves that we're still alive. It's never enough till your heart stops beating. I don't watch TV. Not even Netflix. In most work places, that's all they talk about besides sports (not interested). Or yoga and meditation classes (ditto!). No room at the inn for me, I'm afraid. No wonder I'm always the quiet one in the room. I may have a lot to say, but almost never anything to talk about. There are only two things I do obsessively, besides breathing. I write. And I do art. Lots of art. Maybe that's where I get my dopamine fix. I also take long, quiet and solitary walks in forests and tranquil leafy neighbourhoods, and often I sing, or think and pray in Spanish. I also read lots of Spanish, and when my friend in Colombia lets me, I try to speak as much Spanish as I can legally get away with. It's what happens when you are a creative person living in a culture of consumerism. You are not motivated by the same hunger, greed and longings of your fellows, not in my case anyway, since I never really feel empty inside, but instead are focussed on the spiritual, the creative, and the beautiful. Not to seek and consume beauty, but to actually generate beauty, to become and live beauty. And this cannot be done while texting on a phone, or filling your cravings and addictions, or constantly seeking nourishment and gratification in other things or in other people. This can only happen from places of solitude, silence and peace. From the place that generates love. I think, really, that all of us are starved for love, but so incapacitated as complete beings that we are constantly seeking it, feeding a hunger that is never totally satiated. Or we seek out spectacles to distract and thrill and awe us. Tonight is the first big fireworks display of the summer, the Celebration of Light, that will attract around a half million watchers, who will all thrill, ooh and ah, over the magnificent colour and noise. And the fireworks are lovely. I have seen them many times, and I still enjoy them. But then everyone returns home to their bland empty and distracted lives, and tomorrow they will all be hungry again. I probably won't bother watching the fireworks tonight. I can no longer see them from my window, not since they put up the thirty-two storey condo tower across the way, that now almost completely blocks my view of the sky. But getting out to have to negotiate the crowds in order to see and enjoy the fireworks has also become onerous, and people in crowds tend to be unpleasant, if not downright ugly. Not to mention, 10 pm is usually my bedtime, and I have to be up early for church tomorrow, especially since I am one of the readers this Sunday. But I don't need to see the fireworks. I am already an artist, and there are lots of things I can do and work with colour in pencil crayons, pens and paints that would put those spectacles to shame. And as an artist, as a writer, and as a human being, I am still learning. I will always be learning, and that is one of my sources of joy.

Life As Performance Art 113

I have been complaining a lot lately on these pages, Gentle Reader. I realize this. It hasn't all been negative, and of course I always like to have balance, particularly on these dear little blog posts. So, today, I am going to channel my inner Pollyanna, but buyer beware. This Pollyanna has claws and very sharp teeth. I have recently complained here about the miscommunications, or lies, that were told about me to my building manager, who, naturally opted to believe the miscommunicating (or lying) building contractor, instead of first checking in with me, a stable responsible and good tenant in this building since it opened exactly seventeen years ago. He has apologized, at least, since I communicated my disappointment, and asked for an apology. He still has not given me the contact information of the contractor, so that I could get from them at least an explanation, if not an apology, since it is never much fun feeling perjured. And particularly given the huge power imbalance for tenants who live in social housing, it can be downright dangerous. Okay, so much for Pollyanna's claws and fangs. There are some positives, some real positives here to celebrate. First, I have housing. Damn cheap and affordable housing. Right here in Vancouver. This could only be the hand of God working on my behalf. When I was without fixed address, and couch-surfing twenty years ago, I felt that there was some divine purpose behind what was happening to me, even including my PTSD diagnosis, and that it would later manifest in some real blessing for me. I believed then, as I do now, that because I have dedicated myself to the service of Christ and his Gospel for much of my life, that I could always trust God for my care and wellbeing. I also have long known that this would not happen without trials and difficulties, since nothing that is worth having is ever going to come easy or cheap (and I have never been cheap, Gentle Reader. Not so sure about easy!) So, just when Vancouver was on the cusp of becoming one of the least affordable cities in the world to live in, by divine fiat I had some very beautifully timed "random" encounters with persons and parties who became instrumental in my finding housing here where I now live. Even though my employers pay me only a pittance for wages, just a little above minimum wage, I pay rent that could be called scandalously low here, and it has been my experience of homelessness that guaranteed that I could live here. It is not a great neighbourhood, but I am in the quiet part of the building. And regardless of my kvetches, this place is well-managed and I have every confidence that our new manager is going to do well. I can travel now every year, usually in Costa Rica, or Mexico or Colombia, where I have friends, access to beautiful cultures and countries and climates, and complete Spanish language immersion. I have money in the bank for emergencies. Even though my blessings might appear modest or even miniscule to a lot of you, Gentle Reader, given how much I have had to struggle, and how I was facing extreme poverty and want for many years, this for me now is a huge blessing. I can now focus more on the kind of decent self-care that should come with ageing well (I have lived on the dark side of sixty for the last three years) and simply focus on things that really matter in life. Today, I am going to have a coffee visit with a dear friend whom I have known for many years. The afternoon I will likely spend wandering around outside in the beautiful weather in neighbourhoods full of trees, and perhaps in a coffee shop with my sketchbook. Last night I spent two hours on Skype doing Spanish-English language exchange with another dear friend who lives in Colombia. I may never be rich in my (hopefully) long life, but I can still celebrate a lot of wealth. This doesn't mean that I am going to stop complaining. I believe strongly in the power of not shutting up. But this doesn't make me ungrateful, rather this to me is but one of the many important faces of gratitude. Happy Friday, Gentle Reader!

Life As Performance Art 112

I have mentioned from time to time on these pages, Gentle Reader, the great debt I owe to the British writer, Doris Lessing. I have read many of her books, although I never could really warm to her attempts at science fiction. Each to their own, I suppose. But then, one of her novels, one little or almost never mentioned by the chattering classes (to them, it would seem that Ms. Lessing wrote only one book, the Golden Notebook), a huge sprawling six hundred plus pager, the concluding volume of her five book series "Children of Violence" became for me a constant source of study and contemplation. I must have read this book up to thirty times, already, though I haven't really touched it in almost ten years. It appears to have outlived, for now anyway, its usefulness to me, but I always reserve on my bookshelf a copy, in a place of honour. Even if I never pick it up and read it again, I am holding onto this novel as a way of honouring Doris Lessing's legacy to me. The novel is essentially an exploration of her most famous protagonist, Martha Hesse, who in many ways is Doris Lessing fictionalized, but I also accept her argument that this is not autobiography veiled as literary fiction. It is also a keen critique of the ever changing and morphing political, arts and social culture of the city of London between the end of the Second World War and the close of the Swinging Sixties. There are so many threads in this exploration, that this novel, if not only due to its unwieldy size, merits being read and studied over and over again. This is also a highly ethical novel, not in a moral sense, so much as a series of penetrating questions of what does being human really mean? Martha, her protagonist explores this question throughout the novel, but ends up, in the late sixties, a woman edging on fifty, performing on herself a dangerous and drastic psychological experiment. She has decided to spend several weeks alone in a borrowed room in a house in London, basically fasting and depriving herself of sleep and diversion, until she simulates for herself a state of pure psychosis. She is confronted by, and for a while taken over, by a dark force that she calls the "Self-Hater." This is where she really has to confront her shadow, her dark hidden self. Martha has dedicated much of her adult life to working for and promoting progressive and humanistic causes, under the belief that she is a good person heroically commbatting and resisting the forces of fascism and corporate greed. During her self-induced psychosis, all her lovely liberalism, as she calls it, is dropped on its head. She has to confront her own capacity for hate, for evil, for destruction. Then she sees that in the same breath she can express outrage over the Nazi holocaust against the Jews, then suddenly defend and praise Hitler. This is for her a disturbing, troubling revelation, but nevertheless she opts to reckon with this toxic shadow-side to her nature. That she could be both hero and villain, creator and destroyer, the same darkness and light that is at the essence of our humanity. In a conversation I had yesterday in a coffee shop with a couple of friendly strangers, it was posited that most people can't accept that duality, that their brains don't have the capacity to accept that they can be both good and evil. Well, those who say Israelis occupying Palestine and oppressing the Palestinian people need also to say six million Jews murdered in the Shoah, just as those who can say nothing but Jewish homeland need also to say oppression of Palestinians. Everyone who has been hated can just as easily become a hater. I am not a good person. I am not a bad person. That makes me a person. You are not a bad person, you are not a good person. That makes you a person. We do not give free rein to our shadow, rather, by knowing it,we can train it, tame it, hold it in check, channel it as constructively as we can. We can never eliminate it. Historically oppressed people can very easily become oppressors. We are all culpable.

Life As Performance Art 111

Here is a comment I just submitted online. "I find it troubling that the Pride Society is visiting upon others the same kind of intolerance that they have often and legitimately complained of being themselves subjected to. They need to take more time to reflect and accept that the entire world is not going to, nor should have to, share in every detail the same point of view and opinion. Libraries and universities are not centres of propaganda, but education, dialogue and the exchange of ideas and information. Not everyone is going to agree. As a queer asexual androgynous man, I am saddened by this development and I really hope that my friends at Pride really take a look at how easily they themselves can turn into the enemy that they themselves have fought so hard to overcome. They also need to grow a skin." This is my response to an article online I read yesterday. The Vancouver Pride Society has barred the Vancouver Public Library and the University of British Columbia from participating in this year's Pride Parade. They have a tendency of disinviting anyone who has disappointed them, or who has not lived up to their impossible high standard of narcissism. Anyone remember the revolting little ditty sung by a little girl about the Me Generation? "I am special, I am special. Look at me. look at me. I am very special, yes so very special, you will see. You will see". Sung to the tune of Frere Jacques. And if you don't agree with us then we will rip your lungs out and serve them up for brunch this Sunday. This is a huge event that attracts well above half a million participants and spectators every August. It is also controlled and dominated by what appear to be some very narrow and closed minds that have been rendered entirely dysfunctional by political correctness. I have just read a bit about Meghan Murphy, the feminist who openly questions that people can really change their gender. She appears to approach this from her experience as a woman, stating that men who transition to women are still missing a whole range and depth of experience that is unique to women, and so questions their insistence that they be also regarded as women. I happen to agree with her. No amount of hormone therapy, nor cutting and pasting or fake boobs or fake dicks is going to make an iota of difference to your DNA nor to your chromosomal structure, and those are going to remain completely deaf to your strident entreaties about your gender. You were born X, and you will die X. You were born XY and you will die Xy. This doesn't mean that you can't pretend, and it doesn't mean that you are not allowed to believe that you are a different gender or (as in my case) no real gender at all. We live in a free country and in a free society. We are allowed to believe whatever we want, about ourselves and about other people. Which also means that we are free to not believe whatever we want, from religion to what any of you want to believe or expect the rest of us to believe about your gender. Because I am suspicious and also sick and tired of the empty and angry rhetoric that comes from these minions of postmodernist thinking, I will have nothing to do with those organizations. They are simply intolerant. They are like fascists. To them, it isn't enough that they be accepted and welcomed into the mainstream. We are also expected to believe in their self-delusion. Okay. I am a Christian. I believe in a God, whom a lot of people deny existence to. I follow and walk with a Jesus Christ whom, to the mainstream, has no real existence or relevance. I have to adapt to a society that rejects, or at least does not respect or honour, my deepest and most cherished beliefs and life experience. Some people who know me, people I work with, even personal friends, think of me as deluded and possibly even psychologically impaired because I believe in God. They still do what they can to include and accept me. I do not expect them to share my point of view, since that is something very personal. Neither does their respect for me as a person have to include their accepting as their own my beliefs and my life experience. As long as they are willing to show respect about it, and then we all get along well. I think this is a kind of a leap that everyone has to take in the interest of coexisting well. No one can be reasonably expected to buy into everything that we believe about ourselves and the universe. No one should have to. By the same token, we still have to accept one another, without judgment. We don't have to agree, and really, we need to keep our minds open enough, and free enough from the strong emotions of trauma in order to welcome dialogue and debate. Even if this means having to carefully re-examine our most cherished beliefs and opinions. Historically oppressed and persecuted populations that gain legitimacy and power are often in danger of turning into the very kind of people that oppressed and persecuted them and made their lives miserable. We have only to look at Israel, what they are doing to keep the Palestinian people oppressed and impoverished on their own land, in order to get a sense of this. LGBT people have come a long way. We still have a long way to go. We also have to grow a skin and start behaving like adults.

Life As Performance Art 110

Some days, Gentle Reader, I have to wrack my poor old brain in order to come up with something interesting and novel enough to write for the blog post de jour. Other days, it gets dropped right onto my lap. Like yesterday afternoon. I had just come into the foyer of my apartment building after work where I was greeted by our new manager. He wanted to know if I had read his email to me today. I had not. He said something about cabinets and workers needing to get into my unit. I found out, after further questioning, that he was referring to a worker in the building who knocked on my door last Wednesday afternoon. He said he wanted to take measurements in my apartment. I had not received from the building manager an intent to enter form about this, and I communicated this to the worker, who responded by suggesting that maybe he should leave. I thought he seemed okay, and I told him to come in anyway. It turns out he is from El Salvador, and we had what I thought to be a pleasant conversation in Spanish while he took measurements in my kitchen and bathroom. After he he was gone I left a voice message with my building manager, saying simply that this worker wanted to take measurements in my unit, but I had been given no intent to enter notice nor any verbal advisory that he would be here. So, I asked what would be the correct protocol, and mentioned that I did let this worker in anyway, even if at my own risk, partly because he had appeared at my door and as a professing Christian, despite this current wave of distrust and hostility that seems to threaten to engulf us, I happen to believe strongly in practicing hospitality. Yesterday in the building foyer, I mentioned to the manager that I would have appreciated receiving proper notice, since no one had said anything at all to me about the cabinets being fixed in my unit, nor that they even needed to be fixed. (There is still nothing wrong with my memory, by the way, Gentle Reader, so we cannot blame this one on creeping dementia). Later, in his email, I read that he had been told by the contractors that I had refused to let the worker into my unit, and so I was given a written scolding about not being a very compliant tenant. This bothered me on several levels. To begin with, I had just been perjured. My building manager chose to believe a patent lie about me, one of the longest, and probably most reliable and responsible tenants here in this building, then to chew me out about it in an email, like I was a naughty child or a lazy schoolboy who was shirking on his homework (I am at least twice his age, by the way!) without doing anything to check in and hear from me about it, about my perspective and experience of what had happened. A bit of an insult, methinks. And no, he has not apologized. Neither has my building manager apologized about neglecting to give me proper and appropriate notice about this worker coming into my unit. And of course, the contractors also owe me an apology for telling this lie to the manager about me and potentially endangering my housing, since as a low income worker my housing options in this expensive city of Vancouver are between zero and nil, and having experienced homelessness, this is a trauma that never entirely goes away. So, the manager and I have exchanged emails. He accepts my explanation, but still falls short of an actual apology. Important, this, an apology, because if nothing else it shows that you have enough respect for the person who has been affected by your oversight, or negligence, but here it is also helpful to consider the power dynamics when one is a tenant in a social housing building. There is going to be an underlying insecurity and experience of vulnerability. This is inevitable. We are touching here upon a huge power imbalance. The tenants in my building are particularly vulnerable. Some are living with mental illness. Some are physically disabled, or simply just very old. A number of us, I among them, are actually very high functioning, work, have lives, friends, partners, recreational interests, faith communities, and a social network that has no relation to the organization that operates our building. There is not always the assurance that we are going to be respected by our housing providers as equals, rather as consumers of services, supports and charity. For this reason, the relationship can get a bit tense, nervous and sometimes downright neurotic. It takes a lot of work for people from very opposite life experiences to coexist equally and with a potential for friendship, or at least respect. For housing providers such as the employees and staff of the organization that runs my building, it is essential that they work on this. I am not convinced that they are trying very hard. I have lived in this building for seventeen years, almost to the day, and we have been through a lot of management staff, some good, some a little bit on the mistaken side, so I think it could be safely assumed that I know what I'm writing about.

Life As Performance Art 109

Does anyone of a certain age remember this kind of conversation with our parents? "Mom, I wanna go out and play." "Have you cleaned your room, yet?" "No." "Then go clean your room first." "That's boring." "Don't argue, go clean your room, then you can go outside and play. Hop to it." Now, with this current batch of kids that wouldn't tear themselves away from their precious little screens to go outside even if they were paid, it would be more like, "I'm gonna play computer games" (they no longer ask permission, the entitled little beasts just do whatever the hell they want now), and mom or dad asking them gently and timidly if first they might want to clean out their inbox. Or whatever. But it's the same argument that I have about all those idiots who are obsessed over this fiftieth anniversary of the moon landing when Neil Armstrong uttered his famous and eternal, if somewhat prosaic and banal words, "One small step for man; one giant leap for mankind (pardon the gendered language, Gentle Reader! We are talking fifty years ago!) So now, instead of following mom and dad's commonsense advice, everyone just wants to leave the planet, this beautiful wounded planet, in the current mess we have made of it, and now they just want to go on to ruin other worlds. This is worse than hubris. We are looking here at mass, collective toxic masculinity, completely unleashed. This nonsense that we can just go on and on exhausting our finite resources and accelerating global warming and species extinction while we aspire to the moon, Mars, the rest of the solar system and then eventually we are well into barmy Captain Kirk Zone. How can such highly educated, intelligent people be so chronically stupid, anyway! Space research and exploration burns up billions, if not trillions of dollars, money that could be much better spent on funding and developing renewable and nonpolluting forms of energy, international community development, peacemaking, education, poverty reduction, the production of food, preserving the environment, rescuing endangered species, combatting racism, misogyny and homophobia, and the list goes on. And instead, they want to go back to the moon. Well, sure. And why don't they stay on the moon and let the rest of us get on with undoing this damage that is the legacy of our human obsession with scientific progress and research and advancement? Not that that is all bad, either, but sheesh, to everything there has to be a limit and if they are not prepared to harness their scientific genius and expertise in morally, ethically and socially responsible projects and activity, then maybe the whole space program should be permanently suspended. Has anyone ever troubled to measure the carbon emissions dumped into the atmosphere by one single rocket launch? It isn't just a matter of cleaning up our planet. It is cleaning up our messy and contaminated little souls as well. It is the importance of reckoning with our shadow side, and understanding that our astronauts are not going to leave their shadow behind them on earth. They are going to carry it with them and if they in the next few hundred years (should we still be around by then) do find life on other planets, what is to stop our descendents from visiting the same kind of havoc and ruin on other planets and extraterrestrial life forms that earlier explorers and colonizers have already wreaked on indigenous peoples around the world, or what other invasive species have done to help wreck entire local biospheres? We also have to be reminded that we are not creatures fit for space travel. We are creatures of the earth. Our very DNA is tied to and binds us to our planet. We are not some highly favoured demigods above other life forms. We are animals that also have our place in the biosphere, and it is only because of the way we have misused and abused our Promethean intelligence that has landed us in this mess, with a window of less than a dozen years to clean up our act on climate change before it's game over, kablooie, and it's schnitzel for you, Tootsie! No one should be even permitted to escape from their, from our shared and collective responsibility of reckoning with and cleaning up this mess we have made of everything. We have only to consider what happens to the human body once it leaves the earth's gravitational field, if we are really serious about space travel. It isn't pretty, and the long term damage is something frightening. Not to mention, the unknown health impacts of living sealed in artificial environments, without the healing and healthful contact and benefits of fresh air and sunshine and whole and wholesome food, as well as contact with animals and plants, life forms other than and vastly more innocent and delightful than our toxic human species. And even if any of our descendents should find their way to another galaxy, to another planet, similar to earth, there is no knowing what an even slightly different composition of atmospheric gases and stellar radiation is going to have on them, nor the psychological impact of being cut off from everything that is familiar and dear. We are creatures and children of the earth. We are not equipped to live away from our mother. I say, scrap the space program, put a cap on our greed and hubris, and start focussing on the problems we have already created and, through our arrogant negligence and ultra nerdy fixation on scientific advancement, keep growing worse by the day. Get a conscience, you guys. And get one fast! Because next week they're all going to be talking about Woodstock, fifty years later. Yes. THAT Woodstock. And it ain't gonna be pretty!

Life As Performance Art 108

Once again, Gentle Reader, I thought I would start tomorrow's post this evening then finish it while enjoying my breakfast, or just before or just after (don't want to get strawberry jam on my keyboard!) I have been reading through this weekend's Globe and Mail, as I do on every Saturday afternoon. It nicely puts me asleep for my big weekend nap in the. I was a bit disappointed to see their usually fascinating central article in the front section, also called Folio, dedicated to a particularly obnoxious billionaire and his not-so-dumb blonde, but equally obnoxious, daughter, whom he has accused of defrauding him and ruining their multibillion dollar empire that he claims to have built from scratch. I will not name them here, this father and daughter act, unless they really do something over the top, and I become so angered that that will be where all my sense of mercy dies for a while. Ah yes, the bright, shrewd and comely daughter of this billionaire. About a decade and a half ago, while still in her thirties, she was flirting with federal politics, got elected as a member of parliament for Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition, then defected to the ruling party, which raised quite the media storm, also causing her then boyfriend, a future cabinet minister after the next election, to dump her like yesterday's smartphone. Let's just say that with his blonde squeeze now being on the power side of the political spectrum that he could, shall we say, no longer rise to the occasion? Or something like that. So, there she was, her picture frequently in the eponymous newspaper, jauntily sauntering along Parliament Hill, looking so pleased with herself, that I had to write under the photo these words: "I'm rich. And I'm blonde. And I have nice boobies too!" I just found her so smug and annoying. Anyway, today I read maybe half the article, then when her rich daddy was whining that his little girl had sold their private jet and now he had to fly commercial flights everywhere, let's just say that my eyes glazed over and I was muttering "Next!" I'm sure that he is flying business class, so I don't know what the rich old fart is complaining about. But what really dismays me is that with all the real news and events going on in the world that a rag as prestigious and with as much cred as the Globe would dedicate that much ink to something so puerile. Oh, I forget. These are billionaires. Canadian billionaires. Uh-huh. I see. I get it. YAWN! I think what I find particularly annoying is the way the rich, powerful and well-connected always seem to get all the press, fuss and attention. I am currently reading Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers about how gifted people who have not had the good fortune of wealthy or established middle class families, a stable upbringing and relative material comfort, not to mention good timing and good luck, are less than likely to do well in life. People like me. I was, as a child, diagnosed as gifted. (I am saying diagnosed, because being "gifted" can be almost as socially debilitating a condition as having autism or fetal alcohol spectrum disorder) I have an abnormally high IQ (at 140 I would be considered a dumb genius). I am a gifted and able and technically accomplished artist. I am also a skilled wordsmith. Am I ever going to see my stuff in the Globe and Mail? Nope. Not any more than I can expect to ever see any of my paintings hanging in a prestigious gallery. I flunked the connections lottery. I get nothing. Except maybe to write this blog and hope that somewhere in the world there is someone reading my words and maybe feeling even a little bit entertained, enlightened, and amused, maybe? We might not have in Canada an official class system, but success has even more to do with who you know, who your parents are and how much money you have than with having actual talent. I have lots of talent, and plenty to show for it, and what do I get? I live in government subsidized housing and work for a pittance as a mental health peer support worker. And my talents and gifts are never going to get recognized nor will I ever be able to make my mark or influence on things because there is a huge amount of prejudice against people who are poor, marginalized and on low incomes. It is as if no one wants to know us, nor to hear or learn from our perspective and experience. Perhaps we are an embarrassing reminder to the guardians of the lies and myths that hold our social fabric together that our culture and way of life aren't so egalitarian, after all, that there is a class system in Canada, however subtle and nastily nice we all are about it. People tend to hate the truth, and the experience of the poor and marginalized is going to be very uncomfortable and highly embarrassing to the gatekeepers of society. Especially they don't want to even hear of the existence or life experience of people like me, highly intelligent, gifted, and articulate, and polished enough to be able to deliver with deadly accuracy the bullets and missiles of the truth of our chronic experience of marginalization. We need champions if we are going to get ahead and if we are actually going to successfully flourish in our gifts. And there is absolutely no one around interested or available in helping any of us. They are too afraid of us. Unless the various estates of our culture, society and nation actually begin to notice and do something to recognize, mentor and promote and protect us, the gifted poor, and see that our gifts actually do see the light of day. I am not holding my breath.

Life As Performance Art 107

It isn't often that I do it this way, Gentle Reader, but I have decided to begin tomorrow's blog post this afternoon, while the idea is still fresh in my noggin. This is about justice, since I am particularly obsessed with justice, and with fairness and balance. I have come to learn over the years that, concerning justice and fairness, one size is never going to fit all. I will speak to a batch of privileged overgrown middle class brats in such a way that I would never think of addressing a homeless street person. I am gentle with the homeless, usually not with spoilt rich kids. There are reasons for this, and this has nothing, or almost nothing, to do with mere self-preservation, even if a stressed out guy living on the streets could get particularly unpleasant or even dangerous, shall we say, if put under even a little extra duress. This afternoon, when I arrived home from a pleasant day outing, I found a group of five or so middle class teenagers hanging out just below my apartment window, and they were being kind of loud and annoying. At first I thought that I just might as well close my window, turn the fan on at full blast, and enjoy the peace and quiet of this summer day, even if my apartment was going to feel rather stuffy for a while, till the little snot-noses had finally disbanded and I could open the window again, but I simply was not feeling very kind at the moment. Now these weren't little badass wannabes out for a good time on the mean streets. Rather, they looked like well-fed and very well and comfortably brought up, sons and daughters of privilege and that they'd just gotten lost while on their way to an Anglican church summer camp. So, in other words, they were what would be commonly referred to as "nice" kids, likely from leafy, toney upper middle class neighborhoods well away from the mean streets of downtown Vancouver. So, I called to them from my window, telling them they were making a lot of noise, and would they please move on. One of them tried to argue so I hollered at them to get lost, your mother is calling you. So, they left. My conscience is clear. There is a Tim Horton's, Blenz coffee shop and a Breka bakery and cafe, all within five minutes or less walking distance. They can sit in any one of those places, or in a Starbucks. Not so easy for some of our local homeless. And I would never talk like that to a homeless street person, and for some very good reasons, but primarily, even though I tend only to punch above my weight, and it could be argued that I was being a big bad bully towards the privileged little darlings, by the same token, I am not going to kick someone who is already down. And a homeless street person is already down. Way way down, and simply does not deserve any further shit or abuse. When some of the local homeless congregate outside my place, and I want peace and quiet, then I merely close the window and turn on the fan if I have to and try not to notice the lack of real ventilation in my place. (hey, at least I have a place to live in!). They already have nowhere to go, so I am happy to let them be, as long as they are not making too huge a racket, and as long as no one is being hurt. That is when I go downstairs to check, and that is when I might call 911, if someone is really noisy, sick or injured, having a psychotic episode, or is being assaulted. But sometimes I will also feed them, not if they're out in the back because it's too difficult to get to them, but if someone is panhandling in front of the door on the sidewalk, then sometimes I will slip them a banana or other fruit. I don't see this as kindness so much, as being simply a good neighbour. Not to mention, the homeless already get such rough and shabby treatment almost everywhere they go, unlike nice kids who look like they belong in an Anglican church camp. (I attend an Anglican church, by the way, but who could tell?) It isn't that I'm chronically mean. Who would have guessed that I was also the kind man on his bus giving up his seat for a child on an outing with a day program? But I really try to pick my battles. For example, earlier in the day, I was enjoying a rest on the bench in one of Vancouver's most beautiful medium sized parks, on the Crescent in toney Shaughnessy Heights. As usual there were a few douchebags with their dogs off-leash, not a good idea, but I really don't enjoy getting sworn at, so usually I just look the other way and mind my own business. Unless one of the dogs is trying to threaten and harass me, and then I take no prisoners! And sometimes, something needs to be said. Like to the ageing idiot leaving the liquor store next door with an off-leash pit bull. He also had the nerve to call me a nut case when I told him that his dog, being a pit bull, ought to be on leash, so I had for him a few choice words. But one gets battle fatigue and simply one just has to shut up after a while just to get on with their day. Back to the off-leash dogs in the park. A few months ago, in another upscale neighbourhood, a coyote ran off with a little poodle dog between its jaws, and I'm sure he had quite a lovely meal. The dog's owner did not have it on a leash at the time. I could offer that warning to the dumb dog owners at the park, but I am tired of getting sworn at. So, it just happened that a coyote appeared, just on the edge of the park. I shooed the coyote away in Spanish (I always talk to animals in Spanish, for some reason!), then I turned and said "Coyote" to the dumb dog owner, whose precious four-legged darling was now on a very short leash, and standing very close to his daft human owner. Idiots!!!

Life As Performance Art 106

It might be time again to disconnect entirely from the news. On the radio news broadcasts every day they play the voice of the Dump in the White House. That's right. THAT Dump! I am so sick of this, and so sick of getting nowhere when I phone in my complaints, often swearing at those overpaid bastards at the cBC that maybe it is just time to disconnect altogether. Just play classical music CD's, read newspapers occasionally, look at the odd website. Otherwise, madness. The people at the CBC are complete absolute idiots when it comes to news broadcasting. They will play the same garbage, no matter how upsetting or puerile, over and over again, and they seem to have some kind of sick kinky fetish about the Dump. I think that it's because of those idiots that a lot of folks are disconnecting. But they don't care. This is public radio. They get paid whopping salaries for their crappy work and they don't have to worry about their ratings. They can do whatever they want. They are the CBBC, the Canadian Bullshit Corporation and they are omnipotent! Absolute zero public accountability. I will still listen to a few programs, but I am done with the news. It is too upsetting, too angering, and they just don't even care. Not to mention that, the negative, fearmongering and melodramatic dreck that passees as daily news is not the only news that is relevant. They somehow seem to almost always lose and miss out on the beauty that is also going on right now in the world. In the lives of people who don't seem to exist to them. All the acts of random kindness that occur. The beauty of a sunset or a sunrise. The lovely green foliage around us. The wildlife. The disappearing songbirds. Yes, of course these things are also in peril, and we need to be reminded, but we also need to know that there is hope and that we will somehow get through this. Still, we have those idiots who occupy positions of obscene wealth and influence and power who seem intent on destroying (mining and petroleum CEOs and executives) everything that is good and beautiful, just to satisfy their greed for profit. But they also are going to die and once they are in the grave, who knows what the next generation will bring. There appears to be a growing contingent of youth who want to clean up this mess that we and the previous generations have been leaving behind, and who are passionate and determined to build something new, better, more sustainable, more equitable, and more just. I have always, despite my age now, been part of that contingent. I was thinking and saying the things that Millennials are now thinking and saying, forty years ago when I was in my early twenties. I have never, not once reneged on my values. I still don't drive a car and I don't eat meat, live very simply, and I reduce, reuse and recycle. Now I am gratified to think that others are finally starting to catch up. I just hope it isn't too late. Right now everyone's focussed on the moon, since it is the fiftieth anniversary of the first moon landing. I was thirteen years old, home alone and watching it all on TV. I thought, what a waste of time. It's too nice a day to waste on something like this. But I also realised, with some dismay and disappointment, that I was already jaded. I didn't care. "Is that all there is," I sang, thinking of Peggy Lee's recent hit recording. "If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing. Let's break out the booze, and have a ball. If that's all...there is." One would think, kid, you're just thirteen, too young to be cynical. Well, I was already a survivor of sexual and physical abuse, schoolyard bullying, and was then weathering my parents' difficult and bitter divorce. I had already earned the right to be jaded and cynical. Well, now they are all mooning over the moon again, and my take isn't much different from fifty years ago. We are a noxious and toxic species. We have already destroyed our own planet, and now we presume to wreak havoc on other worlds? We have to give up these stupid dreams, we're creatures of Earth and we are not biologically equipped for space or other planets, and neither are any planets that sustain life going to be equipped for us. We will overrun them like feral rabbits, pigeons, rats and starlings, or they will eat us up. We have to clean up the mess we have already made here on our own planet and of our own planet Earth, and in the meantime clean ourselves up. As for the moon, if they really want to put someone there, on the Moon, then how about starting with President Dump? And his obnoxious kids. And the extreme right of the Republican Party, and the entire Communist Part of China, the fat little dictator of North Korea, Victor Maduro, Andrew Scheer, the sitting squealing pig premiers of Alberta and Ontario, the entire BC Liberal Party, and a few others. Give them a one trip to the moon and leave them there, WBO (Without Benefit of Oxygen)

Life As Performance Art 105

Most Canadians, who have never been poor or had to rely on social assistance in their lives, really get poverty. They usually do not have relatives or friends who are poor, and certainly not coworkers. They go on living in their middle class bubble, full of their middle class frustrations, vexed by middle class neuroses while also enjoying and taking for granted middle class pleasures and privilege. To them, and the Anglican Church is almost exclusively made up of this class of human, people like me either don't exist or aren't supposed to exist. Or we exist as recipients of their charity. But never friendship. This is Canada, they muse, the land of opportunity, flowing with milk and honey. You work hard, you get ahead, you go from entry level, low paying work into something better, you go to university, vocational training, you get ahead. You get married, buy a house, raise a family, and everything will be hunkey dorey. Only if you fail to play by these simple rules of hard work and diligence will you fail and then you will have only yourself to blame. You didn't work hard enough. If only it were that simple. A friend of mine even recently tried to give me the pull yourself up by your bootstraps horse shit, which is exactly what it is. Nice if you have a pair of boots. And if you don't? He was not able to reply. I have been poor all my life. Mostly, I have worked at low paid jobs, just keeping things together, until government cutbacks and other changes beyond my control made secure and reliable work all the more difficult to come by. I was not able to finish my postsecondary education for the simple reason that I did not have the bank of Mom and Dad to rely on. My mother herself was just getting by and my father was incredibly selfish (they divorced when I was thirteen). Living at home was not an option, not after high school. It was sink or swim. Neither could I juggle work and college. Too stressful, and when I finally had to leave in order to work full time and pay the rent every month, I was so hounded by collection agencies to pay back my modest government student loan, that it became traumatizing. I only managed to pay them off twelve years later, when for a little while I was flush with money. I am not the only Canadian who has been derailed by these kinds of roadblocks. But we are not supposed to exist. We are not granted help with the most basic necessities, such as dental coverage, for example, because we do not fit the myth of Canadian upward mobility. We are a stain on the national reputation. We expose and esplode as bullshit the national myth. They don't like people like us. So, they just hope that we stay quiet, and will just quietly die on the margins and do nothing to further embarrass them. But some of us, like me, are not going to go out quietly. I have come out relatively okay. I am in government subsidized housing and work at emotionally rewarding if poorly remunerated work. In many ways I am stranded by my situation, and I have had to live and act creatively in order to extract the most from it. Not easy. I don't think that anyone in my church really knows what it is like having to live constantly and permanently on a tight budget. They all seem very much blinded by their privilege and it seems almost impossible to wake them up about it. I'm not even sure if it's worth the effort. But I am not going quietly. I am going to continue to be in their face until they either start to question and challenge their privilege, or until they throw me out of their church. Right now, all bets are off.

Life As Performance Art 104

If I have one major issue with the Anglican Church, and with Christianity in general, it is simply this one single point of contention: There is absolutely nothing in common between the attendees at church and the one from whom this religious faith is said to have its beginnings. In fact, Jesus would not be welcome in an Anglican church. He would not necessarily be crucified all over again. Anglicans are too nice for that. Nastily nice. He would have been welcomed as a novelty, there would have been great pleasure taken in his scandalously profound and insightful teachings, and probably no one would have otherwise lifted a finger to live as he was teaching. They would never even imagine having to sell their lovely multi-million dollar homes, live more modestly and contribute the equity to the Lord's work and people, nor would they make any other changes that were not merely superficial and cosmetic. No one would do anything to move out of their comfort zone to really help someone in need. For example, I am the only person in my church on a really low income. I don't have dental coverage, and I need work done pretty soon. One particularly obnoxious elderly twit in my parish suggested I get a UBC student to do the work for free, which for many reasons is not a good option. Others suggested I get it done as soon as possible, even if I have to make sure I have the extra money in the bank first. Not one of those well-incomed Anglicans did or is going to offer to actually help me pay for the dentist. Because they do not really get community, nor do they get Christianity. Likewise with this other wild card that has just appeared in my deck. They want to paint part of my apartment, just part of one wall, as part of some necessary repairs after flooding last March. I will probably have to endure a few nights sleeping with the strong and noxious paint odours afterward (I live in a tiny, single room bachelor unit), because I have no friends able to help me, and no one in my parish church really gets community or Christianity. No one is going to invite me into their big, spacious multimillion dollar home. Nor do I expect them to, because at the end of the day, if any of us are Christians, it likely doesn't run very deep. They would, in my denomination, of course change the language of their hymns and liturgies, expunging all gendered, and especially masculine pronouns (though just last Sunday at my church we were singing a hymn where the words, "wicked men" had been so overlooked by the liturgical politically correct thought police. I have the text right here. The name of the hymn is Be Not Afraid. Lovely words and music, and I intend to learn it. I will even sing the words wicked men, though maybe I will make them gender neutral. Maybe I will sing instead "if the wicked insult and hate you all because of me", even if there is also no shortage of wicked women around. Two of them are now retired priests who tried to do to me what Anglicans would do to Jesus. They tried to persuade me that I was mentally ill (I was telling them that we needed to do way more in anti-poverty and fighting homelessness and supporting the vulnerable. They didn't appear to think so) and that I ought to be on medication. When I communicated to them that my doctor and my psychiatrist thought otherwise, they shunned me. Crucifixion, Anglican style. So nastily nice. Who only knows what we would do to Jesus, and I say we, because I am not better than the rest of them. God, as it says in Hebrews, is a consuming fire. And if we are really going to invite him into our lives and our structures and our houses of religion and worship, then we had better be prepared to burn. We had better be ready to be transformed, because we are otherwise going to be quite useless to God. The Holy Spirit, on the Day of Pentecost, appeared as tongues of fire. We had better be ready for the fire, because if we want to be the people of God, we are going to have to be transformed. Me too. And it is going to be painful.

Life As Performance Art 103

I was mentioning to my parish priest that the Anglican Church is very delinquent when it comes to addressing poverty. They just don't seem to get it. Her response was to send me the link to the Third Order of St. Francis. THAT St. Francis. So, I looked at the website, and a lot of it looks very nice. All these well-incomed, well-fed, expensively-dressed and privileged Anglicans buying off their guilt and privilege by taking on a kind of sacred hobby. Third order basically means that you do not have to give up your comfort or privilege, you are not required to change your lifestyle, not even if you're obscenely wealthy, nor to make any sacrifices while salving your conscience with a pottage of noblesse oblige. The real St. Francis of Assisi, just like the real Jesus of Nazareth, would never be accepted as members, not in the Anglican Church, nor in the order that exists thanks to their respective and conjoined legacies. They would have been considered way too wild, and too full of the Holy Spirit. It would be like inviting a flaming torch into a barn full of perfectly dry hay bales. I know that I won't be welcome and for one simple reason. I am one of the authentic poor. Not a wannabe. I didn't choose to be poor. This for me is a default mode that I have done my due diligence to make work for me and provide me some way of witnessing faithfully to my Lord. The poor are still going to have to exist outside of the Third Order of St. Francis, Anglican brand, just as the poor can only exist outside of the Anglican Church of Canada. We are there, we exist, according to them, to consume their charity and help them feel better about themselves, and we must never presume that we are ever going to be really welcomed, taken seriously or integrated as full and functioning members. Our existence for them is something too threatening, too scary. You cannot expect to be considered for the Anglican Third Order of St. Francis without the advice and support of your spiritual director. In the Anglican Church you cannot get a spiritual director unless you pay for one. That's right, Gentle Reader. Once you are done choking and gagging on your granola and your free range eggs, do read on... Spiritual direction, for Anglicans is a paid-for consumer service. Not a ministry. There are no free spiritual directors in the Anglican Church. This is such an effective and nasty screening device. I cannot afford a spiritual director. And even if I could afford one I wouldn't buy this service because the things of God are not for sale. They are there freely for all of us who seek him with sincere and broken hearts. Unless we happen to be Anglicans. I neither could, nor would ever accept spiritual direction from someone expecting and accepting pay for it. This is not the way of Jesus. So, I will likely never find my way into the Anglican Third Order of anything, because I am poor. And because I have perhaps a few more ethical values than your average Anglican! Now, what if someone offered me spiritual direction free of charge? Would I accept? Maybe. But that might also depend on certain variables. I am constitutionally an anarchist. I do not believe in human authority (divine authority, yes, but that is a different kettle of black beans, and most if not all of those that presume to be vectors of divine authority are anything but). The spiritual direction would have to be, in my case, mutual and collaborative. We would be two disciples along the way, discerning together and helping each other to hear what God is saying, not to me, but to us. If that model exists in the Anglican Church, if anyone is willing to help make this a reality, then just maybe I might find myself in that kind of sacred relationship. But given how thoroughly corrupted Anglicanism is by class, wealth and secular power, my hopes are very slim. Anyone willing to take me on, for them it is going have to be with one big fat huge Caveat Emptor. At their own risk.

Life As Performance Art 102

Here is an email I sent yesterday to my parish priest, regarding the decision of this synod to not yet approve same sex marriage in the Anglican Church of Canada: "I have been reflecting further today on what was said at church about same sex marriage. While I was walking afterward I was in prayer about it, and when I am on these long walks I try to hear what God is saying to me. First I asked him how I should have voted had I been part of the synod. Almost verbatim I was told, that I would have voted yes, knowing that Jesus welcomes everyone and wants a church where all can feel safe and welcome and full participants.Then when I asked about why it wasn't approved, I was told that because it is not time yet. Basically, Same sex marriage, like the environment, and like gender equality and many other worthy causes, as important as they are to us, are still not necessarily the priorities that God wants us to focus on. It is usually because there are things more fundamental to our faith, life and witness that we need to learn and absorb, or relearn, otherwise we cannot be trusted with the new. There are some priorities that we are still failing to consider, especially our holy obligation to the poor. This has to come first. Not the default racism that results from focussing on reconciliation with First Nations, as important as this is, but real care, support, advocacy, sacrificial love and ministry to all who are vulnerable, especially economically vulnerable, homeless and street homeless. It appears to me, that very little is being done in those areas, and until this diocese takes things a lot further than simply telling the government to pay us a living wage, I don't think we are going to be getting a lot further on other areas. I think for______, they are ___ very young and they are going to be quite zealous on the things that are important to them. The things that we believe that God wants, at times are the things that God wants, but very often they are more our idea of what God wants. God still walks us through these things, not necessarily to give us what we think he wants, but to teach us, mold us and discipline us through the process, making this wilderness wandering our discipleship training. Is same sex marriage important to Jesus? I think what matters to him more is that queer people can feel safe and fully included in the church, and if ordaining same sex marriage can help this along, then so much the better. But more our idea than his, he is simply walking with us through the process. As for those who are not comfortable with same sex marriage, or whose theology is different, they also need to be included and made to feel welcome. It is partly honouring the way some of the First Nations view marriage, but also to try not to see this through the lens of race and culture, and to accept that this is also the position that some Christian evangelicals are taking, not because they are homophobic, but that is how they understand marriage and God (I don't agree with their position, but I respect it all the same as part of our diversity). For me, what would be ideal, would be for the diocese to proceed with ordaining gay marriage, but with the proviso that parishes that vote against it should also be made to feel welcome, but by the same token that they are still to welcome and fully include married lesbians and gays in their midst. This could be complicated, and we probably are never going to get it right, We never do. But right now, we are really defaulting on our call to serve the poor and this needs to be brought forth as a prophetic challenge to the church, and in writing this to you, that is exactly what I am doing....". I can only add to this that in London, Ontario (let's get our Londons right!), yesterday, there was a protest at one of the Anglican parishes against this decision and parishioners were encouraged to come out (pun intended, Gentle Reader!), dressed in rainbow colours as an expression of solidarity to their gay members. No problem there. What I was a bit perplexed over is what drama queens some were being, as though a great heresy had just taken over the church, or as if the inquisition had been revived. This should not be a huge issue. Jesus nowhere in the Gospels mentions homosexuality, and his rare reference to marriage is always as a heterosexual norm. On the other hand, this doesn't mean that we shouldn't be permitted to marry those whom we love. It is more a matter of having a sense of proportion, which the postmodernist nonsense that has overtaken the thinking of many Anglicans has entirely thrown under the bus. I would like a church that welcomes and supports the poor, and shares all wealth equally, as well as a church that is reconciled with indigenous people and that fully welcomes and integrates LGBTQ people. I really don't know if that is ever going to happen. Anglicans, among Christians, are notoriously selfish.

Life As Performance Art 101

Some of you already know, Gentle Reader, that I read the weekend Globe and Mail, which is rather like Canada's own little New York Times, on an almost religious basis, which is to say that Saturday morning, or sometimes afternoon, I will stop at the local Shoppers Drug Mart, where I am given an incredibly generous discount on this paper, and take it home, make a pot of cocoa and immerse myself in the pages of broadsheet and ink for several hours, often falling in and out of a blissful slumber while in my reclining chair. What could be a lovelier way of celebrating a day of rest, particularly following a good ten mile hike or so, interrupted by an hour and a half or better tucked in a comfy corner in my favourite coffee shop with my sketchbook, an iced Americano, and a gigantic chocolate cookie? The Globe and Mail, of course, provides one of the highest qualities of journalism anywhere in this country, touching and expounding on the current issues of the nation, the world and life itself in ways that are educational, enlightening, entertaining and sometimes humorous. Some of you may know that for around eight years or so I quit reading this paper, primarily thanks to their former editor-in-chief, that arrogant blowhard John Stackhouse, when he crowed infamously and quite stupidly that the Globe and Mail is primarily and by default exclusively a paper for the One Percent, and the rest of us Great Unwashed needn't stain our fingers with their precious ink. Harumph! I snorted as I boycotted for several years the august publication. Still, I do find myself admitting that he is half-right, that the journalism does slant more towards the privileged classes, people with lovely university educations, advanced degrees, and lucrative and influential professional lives and positions. I would be utterly daft not to see this. And perhaps it is also because I'm a bit of a wannabe, myself, since my own economic and other difficult life situations made it impossible for me to advance beyond a second year of community college. I have lived ever since as a low income worker, though I still can't complain, given what an interesting ride it has been. I am currently wading my way through the Opinion pages of this weekend's and pondering a couple of articles in particular. One is about making do, or taking the time to fix and mend things rather than going out to buy something new. The other article touches on the idea of people with big empty houses renting out the extra rooms to help solve our housing crisis. Of course, I agree one hundred percent with these premises, and am also amused to have just read that Prince Charles (yes, THAT Prince Charles), will mend his old clothes and go on wearing them till they can no longer hold together, rather than buy something new. A splendid role model for frugality and economic common sense, especially considering how fabulously and ridiculously wealthy he is. While I find this kind of writing admirable, and even laudable, I am also left laughing with a little bit of irony, if not quite ready to choke on my cocoa. I do not have a large house (I live in a small bachelor apartment in a government subsidized building), but I am, for want of a better word, a minimalist (but for an abundant home library, bilingual in English and Spanish of some five hundred books, and of course tons of my own paintings that I never sold). In my case, if I am a minimalist, then, of course, I am a minimalist by necessity. I mend things, and I keep wearing clothes until they are no longer wearable. I buy on average, maybe two shirts (always second hand), and one pair of pants a year. This is partly because I can't afford to buy a lot of clothes, and certainly usually not new ones, except these days for pants, because they tend to wear a lot longer if bought new than secondhand. For me, and people like me, frugality and economy are not boutique luxuries that we can cop in order to feel and look virtuous. While it is a good thing that privileged folk are beginning to catch on to the notion, if only to slow down this manic death dance of consumption and waste that is choking the planet, it also strikes me as something very typical of their way of grabbing and reinventing old and common sense values, and branding them as their very own, just as if no one has ever done or thought of doing the same thing before them. And this does make me laugh. Perhaps if some of them would actually learn what it is like to be poor, to have to decide between going to the dentist or buying a new bedspread, or having to buy oranges at the No Frills supermarket because strawberries are once again unaffordable, even if they are still in season, such dilemmas and choices that they have never had to worry about, and likely never will. But they can salve their conscience and build their public cred a little by stitching up a pair of frayed designer jeans. Uh-huh! I do think they are onto something good, by the way. I only wish they would give a little credit to those of us who have been doing the same thing far longer than they have, and not simply because we want to, but because we have to. Happy Sunday, Gentle Reader.

Life As Performance Art 100

I am getting a clearer sense of where I really stand on a couple of, shall we call them, delicate, issues. One is gender binary and identity. The other has to do with abortion and choice, which I will touch on later, maybe much later on. Any regular reader of this blog will already know how opposed I am to any kind of knee jerk, unreflective thinking, which really isn't thinking at all. And this goes to the left as well as the right. I have no time for right wing fascist intolerant racists, misogynists or homophobes. I have a similar distaste for politically correct, four legs good two legs bad kind of thinking that has hijacked both our universities, and to some extent, the anglican Church of Canada. I also have absolutely no time for academic idiots nor for uneducated idiots who want to impose their thinking on others. Concerning binary gender, I have concluded that most of those people who expect everyone to refer to them by the pronoun of their choice are themselves intolerant bigots. With the exception of those who are actually intersex, or hermaphrodite. Even if intersex people are a tiny minority, they do merit the right to identify as male, female or other, with some kind of appropriate neutral pronoun that is more personal than "it". To the rest of you, no one is obligated to buy into your personal little fantasy. I am not going to refer to you as they or them unless there are more than one of you, otherwise I am abusing the English language. We are, of course, limited by the English language. The only gender neutral pronoun we have is "it". If you don't wish to be referred to as he or she, then I shall from now on refer to you as it, especially one particularly disagreeable young woman whom I will not otherwise name or identify on this page. Because I do not fit the gender binary, I shall also accept being referred to as it, though I am still going to refer to myself as he. And really, I don't care what other people call me, just don't call me late for dinner. And for one simple reason. That is how I was born, biologically. I do not fit the traditional male binary, but my body reminds me every day that that is my assigned gender and I have come to accept this, and for one simple reason. My sex, or assigned gender, even if I do not identify with traditional masculinity, is still part, if a minor part, of who and what I am as a complete human being. So, I have made peace with being a male, even if I do not so identify. Life, and the universe, are not always fair. We have to live with this. I think it's a bit easier for me because I have had a lot of time to think and sort through issues of traditional gender identity, only to conclude that my physical gender has very little to do with who I am as a person. However, I am not separate from my body, so this I also must accept. This is why I am usually not in favour of gender reassignment surgery. Even if a man takes on all the acquired female characteristics, he is still not a woman. He does not have ovaries, eggs or a uterus, nor fallopian tubes and certainly no birth canal. Neither do his artificial breasts secrete milk, and of course he is never going to conceive or give birth to a child. By courtesy, I will still refer to him as her, as a woman, even if I don't happen to agree that he is a real woman, rather, a man who identifies as female. But this has more to do with good manners than being accurate, and there are times when kindness and self-preservation get the upper hand. Likewise with women who want to transition to men. They will never have fully functioning testicles or penis. And their chromosomal structure is always going to be X. I will still perceive them as men, because I really don't want to rock the boat. I also tend to think of trans people as being enormously deluded, and that they seem to be so unable to think outside of the box of assigned gender binary, that they have to resort to having their bodies butchered and mutilated in order to feel a little more female or more like a man. But I otherwise don't judge them, and I still welcome and respect them. I just don't completely agree with them. And I am free enough from binary masculinity that I don't feel in any way threatened by them, because to me, it really doesn't matter. At the end of the day, we need to all pull together somehow and focus on the things that unite us. Kindness is important, but equally important is accepting that not everyone is going to see us the way we want to be seen and to learn how to live with that. In other words, Deal with it.

Life As Performance Art 99

So then, who are we? What are we? I don't entirely buy into the Buddhist nonsense about the illusion of self. There is something there, definitely there, if not necessarily definite, that identifies me as me, and you as you. I think that boundary is always going to exist between others, among disparate selves. But it isn't all, or always that simple. I think there is a lot of room for paradox here, and most of us do not deal well with paradox. It's too scary for a lot of us, because it deals with complexity, and this makes us have to think, and most of us simply would rather not think too much, but will just settle for the most simple answer on tap, then kick back and suck back another one. I only wish it was so simple. Even if we are individuals, we are not separate, no matter how brainwashed we are by capitalism and individualism. We all connect, and we also all merge together, often in ways that can be downright frightening and catastrophic. For example, when we think of the mob mania of political and religious gatherings. At its very worst, the way Hitler or Castro were able to galvanize the German and Cuban people, respectively, to do their bidding, or the bidding of their morally bankrupt ideologies, through mass rallies where they could pontificate, rant and scream from their podium for hours on end. I am here intentionally conflating extreme left and extreme right as a way of tipping my hat to my old political science prof, who memorably admonished that left wing extremism and right wing extremism are so close as to be virtually inseparable. Scratch a radical, she told us, and underneath you will find a reactionary. Scratch a reactionary, and, behold! a radical. Religious gatherings can be similarly problematic, or a blessing, depending on what's going on. I have been to both varieties. I do recall, in my salad days as a young Jesus Freak, the lovely and ineffable sense of the presence of God bringing us together and out of ourselves, and often for a few minutes there would be an incredible sense that we were all one. But never once did I lose the sense of being a being apart, but in unity with others. If my nose was itching, I would be the one who would sneeze. But we were, and are still, all connected, and we are in a sense, one humanity, though individual selves. Yesterday in the coffee shop, I was eavesdropping (had little choice in the matter, their voices were pretty loud) on two professional gentlemen at the next table. I couldn't get all the details, but one was being or just had been recruited in an executive position by the manager of some corporation and they were discussing various workers and colleagues as though they were livestock whose value was entirely predicated on their professional usefulness. On one hand, I thought they were kind of pathetic, as I am sure they would think so of me, (especially given that, living in social housing, and working as a contracted employee of our public health system, their generous tax dollars from all their hard and thankless labour are helping keep my sorry butt alive) but on the other hand, I felt a certain sympathy, and a connection to them both. I suspect they are both probably really decent and nice people, but had I offered anything at all to their conversation I would have been frozen out like the descent of a sudden ice age. I did sense that they both seemed to have to struggle for their very existence if they wanted to thrive and maintain a certain standard of living in this rampant capitalist economy and I did feel rather sorry for them, not so much because they have to struggle, but because they likely haven't really explored alternatives to living more simply and more sustainably, if also somewhat more poorly. It's that each one of us has a will to survive and to flourish, I think, that marks us as individuals. Also, the fact that no matter how similar, we are all still quite radically different. For this reason, when a loved one dies, they leave behind a void that no one else is going to fill. There will never be another you. But there also must come a point when we have to be willing and ready to rise above the personal and individual and become more connected, more joined to others, because in this our humanity is validated and in this we become truly ourselves. It is like what Jesus said about the grain of wheat, that must fall into the ground and first, die, before it can produce a new stalk, and new grains of wheat. So it is with us.

Life As Performance Art 98

I slept well last night. Sleep is always a crapshoot for me. This is the real reason I want to retire, and soon. My sleep patterns do not adjust well to my work schedule. This has always been for me a problem. It's exhausting. The worst thing about this is that I cannot trace the cause. If something stressful happens during the day, I might sleep well that night, maybe not. If everything goes tickety-boo, I might be up half the night, or I will sleep like the proverbial baby (wake up crying every two hours!), or I will actually sleep very well, deeply and decently. And the dreams, when I do sleep well. Lat night was especially lively. I won't go into a lot of detail here because it could mean a lot of boring explanations, but I think I was again hanging out with some of my dead friends. I seem to have this tendency of being visited in my dreams by people who have died, and somehow they are supporting, helping and teaching me through their friendship while I am sleeping. Does anyone else every have this kind of experience? Please let me know. I concluded my last dream having an emotional confrontation with an Israeli who had served in the army. I told him, when he admitted that he had killed people, that he had innocent blood on his hands for all the Palestinians he had killed, and that they have to find a way to peacefully coexist if both peoples want to learn how to occupy Israel and Palestine together and cooperatively. I just was not happy with that individual. there was something very smug and self-satisfied about him that turned my stomach. (By the way, I would have been every bit as hardass with a Palestinian militant. I don't take sides.) Only when I wake up do I realize I have been dreaming, that's how real it is for me, Gentle Reader. Since I meet interesting people and encounter interesting experiences throughout my average day, then I don't think the dreams are compensatory. It could be that I'm just overstimulated. My mind and my imagination are always on, it seems. There is always something going on. It almost seems like a psychiatric diagnosis, this not knowing whether I am sleeping or dreaming. But right now, while I am writing this and listening to a boring wealthy restaurant owner who seems to have bought his way onto the CBC, I am thinking of how this wealthy individual is a symptom of everything that is wrong with us. For a lot of people, it still seems that money makes the world go around. Well, it makes their little world go around, but I almost feel sorry for them. Not a lot of people seem to have the courage to venture out into this good night unprotected. I do this every day. No phone, no ipod, and sometimes it is a bit scary and overwhelming, because there is so much going on around me. But isn't that the way it has always been? I don't think that any of us are really going to live and appreciate life without somehow making ourselves vulnerable to life. This isn't always going to be easy or pleasant. Living here in the Downtown South, which is rather an unsafe area, one has to be almost constantly vigilant. I already mentioned the crazy guy who tried to spill my milk the other day. I think he wasn't really dangerous, that he just wanted to make contact, but not in an appropriate manner, and that he was acting in a way that could very easily have escalated into something dangerous. In the meantime, everyone goes around shielded and disconnected. Rather like they are hypnotized. They do not seem to think or even wonder if it is worth the risk, making themselves vulnerable. They are the walking dead.

Life As Performance Art 97

It is raining this morning, and likely to go on raining throughout the long summer day. We don't often think of July as a time for rain and cool weather. The weather people on the radio yesterday said it would be like a day in October. I don't think a lot of people are sad about this. We have had summer throughout May and June, unseasonably dry and warm, and for the most part beautiful, and also accompanied with incredibly green grass and fresh green leaves and flowers as far as the eye could see. I don't think that a lot of people are going to weep over the rain today. It is needed. We are thirsty. The earth is thirsty. But this is also, in Vancouver, very typical weather for July, for the first three weeks of July, anyway. Throughout my long life here, often July has been at best a crapshoot for nice weather, at worst, a complete write-off. But everyone thinks that July, all of july, by right and by cosmic obligation, has got to be warm, dry and sunny throughout, with daytime temperatures no lower than twenty-two and a Beach Boys' soundtrack that will go on well into October. Even people who have lived here as long or longer than me (you don't want to know, Gentle Reader!) still expect that July, even after many years of wet rainy weather till well into the ides of that lovely month, has to be warm and sunny, throughout. This brings to mind how much we expect things to be often doesn't really square with the way that they are...Well, it is approximately three and a half hours later. I have slept a bit, sort of, and it is no longer raining. There was even a little bit of sunshine. They are still expecting a little rain in the form of scattered showers today, but nothing really worth crying about. I am glad that after two months straight of early summer weather, that very few people are complaining about the rain. But I do want to make one point perfectly clear. Hone your expectations. Or abandon them altogether. With or without climate change (and we are certainly in the middle of it) Weather forecasting in these climes is at the very best an inexact science. And so is life, itself, Gentle Reader. Always expect the unexpected. With everything. The weather is but a metaphor for this rather frightening fact of the universe: that nothing is certain. Enjoy each moment, because that is all we are ever going to have to enjoy. But always prepare for sucker punches, because anything can, and is going to happen. Which means to leave your phone in your pocket and actually notice your surroundings. Which means to put away your earbuds and actually listen. Which means notice the other people around you. Try saying hi to a perfect stranger. Try performing one kind and unexpected act today for someone you don't know, someone to whom you would not be attracted or interested in. I dare you. Now, happy Wednesday!

Life As Performance Art 96

Good morning, Gentle Reader. And, Happy Tuesday! It is not yet five in the morning, and following breakfast I am going down for a nap to grab the hour I lost when I woke a bit too early this morning. I am thinking right now of our own public transit system, of how imperfect and sometimes inefficient it still is, even if it happens to be better than in almost every developing country on earth. Compared to other First World countries? Methinks we could find ourselves hauled up short. Not that it couldn't be worse. Things could almost always be worse. I like public transit, for all its headaches, for the way it brings people together. Often very disparate folks who wouldn't be ordinarily seen having lunch or coffee together. It teaches us, in this very fragmented and self-absorbed age we are living in, to coexist. On the Skytrain yesterday, all the seats were occupied, and I was occupying one of them. I offered one lady who must have been at least eighty my seat, but she refused. I respect this, she didn't look frail, but I still get a bit nervous when I see elderly people standing on public transit. I think it's partly the respect factor. They have had to spend a lot of time already during their long lives on their feet and even if some of them are more fit than the selfish wastes of DNA young enough to be their grandchildren, they still shouldn't have to stand on the bus. Unless they choose to. But it is still bad optics. Especially when you think of the fragility of elderly bones, the risk of hip fractures, and the problems from arthritis and similar that can make it all the more difficult to have to hold on, stand and stay balanced. There were also two Asian women standing, elderly, Japanese, I think. I would have guessed them to be around seventy. One of them was clearly having trouble standing, and was really holding on. There were two young women, maybe twenty, if that, absorbed in their little tech toys while hogging the two courtesy seats in front of me. I got up, insisted the Japanese lady sit down, which she accepted with grace and gratitude, and then I said something in rather a loud voice about certain young people too busy to notice. The girls looked at me and I shouted, "Yeah, I'm talking to you!" Mission accomplished. They will probably need their selfish girl butts kicked a few more times, but I am hoping that they are still young enough to learn a new skill, in this case courtesy towards the aged. A bit later, on my way home from my client, I took the bus instead of walking the mile or so from the Skytrain, for the simple reason to save a bit of time. (I would have paperwork and phone calls to make at home, then a Skype appointment with an old friend from Peru, and I would have a window of just twenty minutes to get everything done on time.) As I and a couple of others boarded the bus, suddenly an elderly lady leaning on a walker was needing to get off, so the driver warned us, and naturally we all were going to have to get off the bus to give her room. Except for one. An Asian lady, I think Chinese. Even after we all pointed out to her the lady with the walker, she still refused to budge, so, as the driver and I later commisserated, there was more going on than just a language barrier. He finally had to almost yell at her as he ordered her to get off the bus with the rest of us. My guess is that she is from China, where people with disabilities are not accommodated on public transit, so this was something she simply didn't have a clue about, nor much respect probably. The elderly lady was having trouble positioning her walker, so I gently guided it for her, and stayed on hand till she was safely off the bus, then we all got back on, including the ignorant Chinese lady. I found a seat by the back door, and the young couple in front of me were banging on the window to get the attention of a man standing by the curb. Apparently, his zipper was open, and they were trying to let him know. I joked and said "Gotta be cruel to be kind", and they laughed and then the elderly lady next to me chimed in and mentioned about some small children standing near the front not getting a seat. She also told the young couple in front of us that if she had to shame them into giving up their seat she wouldn't hesitate. It was all good-natured and rather fun, actually, and for me, anyway, one of many examples of how public transit can actually bring people together. The four of us, except for the couple, probably wouldn't have otherwise even given each other the time of day, but here were three generations being suddenly brought together in a spontaneous expression of goodwill and good humour. These small incidents do give me a little bit of hope for us all.