Life As performance Art 4

I really get sick of other people, especially with the game playing, the neediness, the way we exploit one another, the lies, and our absolute inability to cope without one another while constantly lying about our supposed rugged independence and autonomy. No one is autonomous, and no one knows this so well as the person who lives alone. We're really just a race of half-formed beings, and really, we take ourselves way too seriously. You especially run across this throughout social media. I have been for more than ten years a member of the website Conversation Exchange, for people who want to learn or improve another language in exchange for offering support to those learning or who wish to improve theirs. it's been a mixed blessing. I have met some decent people on this site, who have helped me move forward in Spanish, as I have offered them help in English. I have also met on this page some absolute idiots. And I have made friends, though right now I am negotiating the end of a friendship with a Spanish-speaker that has become toxic. I have with this website one particular quibble. Your age is posted right there on your profile. That is the first thing people are going to know about you. I am 63 years old and this site is dominated by people younger than forty. And most of them are ageist. I have contacted dozens of people on this site, who never respond, because they do not want to talk to someone who is 63 years old. I have contacted older people as well, though they are very scarce on these sites, and likely for a lot of reasons. It isn't all that bad. I have a language partner in Colombia and we are in contact on Skype twice a week, and he has become a good friend. But I would like to also have contact with Spanish speakers who live in my city. Except they are all younger and none of them seem to like older people. So, last night, I had a look at the site. Every single person whom I had contacted in the last two or three months, was still searching for a language partner, and not one single one of them had bothered to even respond to my queries. So, I sent each one of those little losers a one word message. Adios. That's all. One of them actually responded with the lame excuse that he already has a language partner. What I think he was really saying was that he was holding out for someone his age. In the meantime, as a joke, I have redone my profile on the website: " Description Adios, pendejos. No voy a perder ningun mas a tales imbeciles engreídos como ustedes. Hobbies and interests Ya soy viejo, y la mayoría de ustedes son zopencos agistes. No me aburren mas." Here is the translation "Goodbye you useless dumbasses. I am not wasting anymore time on such stuck-up imbeciles as the likes of you. I am old now, and most of you are snotty little morons., Don't bore me. I am sure that no one is going to respond, and I no longer care. I just want to tell those selfish little bastards what I think of them and move on. Already my Spanish is fluent, better than their English, so they probably need me more than I need them, though I do enjoy speaking the language of Cervantes and Goya. So, I'm not taking any of this seriously, though it is fun to smack the little wankers around a bit, just to let them know what I really think of them.

Life As Performance Art 3

Everything is impermanent. This can be particularly hard to grasp. It is for me a hard and difficult concept, not because it cannot be understood, but because of how simple and absolutely cruel this can become. A lot of us like permanence. I like permanence. I want to see beautiful old heritage buildings preserved for posterity and I get upset whenever another lovely old house or building in my overpriced city bites the dust because of developer greed. In a documentary I saw on my flight home last week, named Anthropocene, about human impact on the planet, there was one particularly disturbing scene of a church in Germany that must have been almost one thousand years old being torn down to make way for an agricultural development. I felt almost sick from seeing this awful spectacle of destruction. I like to think that all friendships will last forever. This really doesn't happen very often, though, and I know this. I am right now in the midst of a friendship that has been unravelling for the last year right now, and now seems to have finally ended. I have only to get back a piece of art I gave to this person a couple of years ago. The art was made by me, by my own hand, a particularly beautiful drawing of a parrot, and it was given to this individual as a symbol of our friendship. Of course he is all hurt and offended now that I want it back, but as he has chosen to end our friendship, that drawing he has in his possession is a piece of me, and for that reason he is no longer entitled to it. A bit cruel, perhaps, on my part, but this person was frequently emotionally and verbally abusive, and like most abusers, is completely in denial about his abuse, so I have had to distance myself for my own emotional wellbeing. I could probably be taking this a little more seriously, but I refuse to. Yes, I do take my wellbeing seriously, but after a while I can end up taking it too seriously, become totally self-absorbed, and emotionally unavailable to others. So, I am treating this whole spectacle as performance art, or a kind of tableau vivant spread across the universe, which I get to dance, sing and act in. I have already said to this individual that I am completely open to reconciliation, but because there is an expectation of an apology for acts that he has conveniently forgotten, I don't think this is very likely to happen, or get very far. So, I have decided to set us both free from each other, and this is simply one of many concrete examples of just how unconcrete our lives are in this sorry little vale of tears we all share in common. And I never say never again, when it comes to ending friendship. I try to stay open to others who want to return, renegotiate, and resume friendship, with the exception of unrepentant abusers, of course.

Life As Performance Art 2

I have been sometimes accused of taking God too seriously. The first time I heard those words was from my father's live-in girlfriend. I was seventeen, it was November, 1974, and I had been kicked out of home by my father just a month earlier. I moved to Vancouver where I lived in the booming metropolis of Duncan with my mother and her live-in boyfriend. I was in Vancouver for the weekend, staying with friends in Vancouver. I phoned my father about visiting. I was invited, I think reluctantly, for dinner. I was upset, and said that I felt unfairly treated by the way he kicked me out. He got angry and upset and started screaming at me about throwing it in his face. As I was leaving, his girlfriend could think of nothing else to say but that I take God too seriously. I replied that I didn't really know what that had to do with anything. We did agree on a kind of unspoken truce, and I do recall being there for Christmas, even staying a couple of nights, though it was hardly what I would call a heart-warming reconciliation, just a matter of not bringing up anything that would upset poor old dad, which is to say, to not speak the truth in his presence (he was an alcoholic, you know). Following the November fiasco, I visited a friend, and when I told her about my father's girlfriend's advice about not taking God seriously, she just spat out, "How else are we supposed to take him!" There are many different ways of understanding this statement. I think this is because there are many different ways of expressing and being a Christian. There are those who are so solemn and sombre about their faith that they are sometimes privately mocked as walking religious caricatures. I have been like that in the past. My take on it is that there is a process of spiritual maturation, in which we learn to balance things with our faith in God. It takes a while to get there, and it is usually a long, painful and often humiliating process getting there. I think that what really happens is that we grow into an experience of the living God, and that this becomes our fulcrum, our axis and our starting point. The reality of our faith becomes so internalized, that without even thinking of it or being aware, it begins to influence and inform many of our actions and attitudes and perspectives. God becomes always there, and always present to us, and so we don't have to posture or pose about what we believe. It is as real, and even more real, than the air that we breathe. This is really for me a huge relief. I already know that God is always present with me, and this helps me relax and be comfortable (though not complacent). It also introduces a lighter sense of what it is to be a Christian in a world that is hostile to this faith, and it really helps one nurture and develop a sense of humour. Humour, especially when it becomes part of your personal foundation, can open you in many ways, and chiefly for me, this has helped me take things with more joy, and really a sense of delight and laughter. This isn't always present, and neither would it be appropriate in every context, but it sure helps me get through the day.

Life As Performance Art 1

Since I have mentioned this in my recent travel blog a couple of times, I thought why not explore the concept a little on these pages, now that I am back in ordinary life, Gentle Reader? I will begin with a conversation I had yesterday with the fellow who was fixing my toilet. He was interested in my art, which he saw hanging all over my walls, including in the bathroom, and he had previously studied art history. I somehow began talking about how my career as an artist got started. Now, it can be very interesting the kinds of conversations one can end up having with the person who is fixing one's toilet, and this was no exception. We somehow got on the subject of death and dying when I was telling him how my mother's untimely passing from cancer led to my career as an artist. I was doing a little art therapy as part of my grieving process, taking coloured felt markers and making all kinds of spontaneous abstract drawings on paper. Eventually the drawings began to work as pieces of art, some of them becoming quite beautiful and intriguing. I showed them to a local painter, whose response was that I have to start painting and taking my talent more seriously, which I did. He only had to bark at me to quit arguing and do it, and that was enough to get me started. Or, in other words, he kicked me in the ass. A year later, his girlfriend became my agent and helped me sell four big beautiful parrot paintings to a pommy Brit architect to beautify the hotel he was working on and the rest, as they say, is history. At that time, I had been reading about the Monteverde region of Costa Rica, not yet quite on the tourist map, and I was resolved to somehow get there, even though I didn't have the funds to travel. Then the said girlfriend of said painter saw by happenstance my art show in a local coffee shop, and she phoned me and we started working together. The proceeds of the art sales went quickly into the purchase of a plane ticket and travellers' cheques (that was back in 1994), and just following the summer solstice of that year, and a false start when a bumbling travel agent had tried to book me a flight to the wrong San José (California instead of Costa Rica), and before I knew it I was luxuriating in the almost otherworldly beauty of the Central American mountain tropics. My two weeks in Costa Rica prompted me to become fluent in Spanish, as I wanted to return to that beautiful country, but also to be able to communicate with and befriend the local people, since I didn't want to experience the place only through the prejudiced eyes of white foreigners who were living there at the time. I am now fluent in the language of Cervantes and Goya, and have been enjoying a number of visits repeatedly back to Costa Rica, as well as Colombia and Mexico, where I have the opportunity every year of practicing and strengthening my Spanish skills, as well as doing tonnes of art in my sketchbook. Even if I have missed my mother terribly, I am not really sure that my life would have taken this kind of direction had she lived. In a way, she had to step out of the way for me to really get on with my life, and for me to take a direction that was for me the most appropriate. This also suggests to me how beautiful things and new and meaningful directions in life can come out of the bitter process of death and bereavement. This is the whole process of redemption at work. The perpetual creative dynamic at work here begs no explaining, but there has been in this process, despite the many setbacks, obstacles and traumas that I have also incurred, an underlying thread of joy and celebration, and this is why life for me has become a kind of living art performance. Life is a gift, and only those who receive it gratefully as a gift can grow into the joy that is really our due and calling as human beings. My single regret is that it has taken me this long to begin to learn this. But I am also grateful that I have come to clue in at all to this beautiful mystery. There are many who never seem to ever get there. Which is really unfortunate, because if there is a secret to ageing well, then joy and gratitude must play a significant role.

Costa Rica 6, Final Installment

"Hola Quiero escribir algo de mis experiencias del chofer del bus desde Monteverde para San Jose, miércoles,, 3 abril, 2:30 por la tarde. Cuando bajé en frente del aeropuerto Juan Santamaría a las 6 de la tarde, estuve esperando mi equipaje. Fui la última persona, y solo se quedaba una maleta, lo mia. Presenté al chofer la factura de la etiqueta apegosa que colocó en mi maleta antes de subir en Monteverde. El no lo aceptaría, insistiendo que lo entregue la factura de mi boleto de tránsito. No lo pude encontrar en mis bolsillos la factura, y su manera agresiva me ponía nervioso, por eso fue difícil encontrarlo. De precisión lo describí de mi mochila: de color negro con un sol pequeño que pinté para identificarla con facilidad. El no me hizo caso, aunque no mandó lo mismo de los otros pasajeros. Amenazó que llevara consigo mismo mi mochila hasta San José, pero no lo podría permitir, porque tuve un vuelo temprano de la próxima mañana de regreso a Canadá. El no me escuchó, y por eso saqué mi maleta para llevar conmigo. El chofer agarró mi mochila y tuve que arrancarla de sus manos con mucha fuerza. Lo maldije en buen Castellano, y subí a un taxi. Tengo planes de regresar a Monteverde en el próximo año y tengo miedo que tal chofer me rehusara de llevarme por su venganza en mi contra. ¿Es posible que se pueda hablar con el para indicar que su comportamiento no fue apropiado, y también que se ofrecen a el por mi mis disculpas por mis malas palabras, porque también no fue acción aceptable por la parte mía, y acepto también mi responsabilidad por mis acciones? Espero que ustedes me respondan, por favor. con saludos cordiales desde Vancouver, Aaron Zacharias" Here is the English translation. "Hello. I want to write to you about my experience with the bus driver from Monteverde to San Jose, Wednesday, 3 April, 2:30 pm. When I got off the bus in front of the Juan Santamaría Airport at 6 pm, I was waiting for my baggage. I was the last one, and there remained only one piece of luggage, mine. I showed the driver the stub from the sticky tag he had put on my bag before I got on the bus in Monteverde. He wouldn't accept it, insisting that I give him the receipt for my bus ticket. I couldn't find it in my pockets, and his aggressive manner was making me nervous, so that I had trouble finding it. I precisely described my bag: black with a little sun that I painted on it to easily identify it. He ignored me, even though he didn't make such demands of the other passengers. He threatened to take it with him to San José, but I wouldn't let him, because I had a flight early the next morning back to Canada. He didn't listen, and so I took my bag with me. The bus driver grabbed my bag and I had to pull it forcefully from his hands. I swore at him in good Spanish, and got into a cab. I am planning to return to Monteverde next year and I am afraid that this driver will refuse to give me a ride out of revenge. Is it possible that you could speak to him to indicate that his behaviour was inappropriate, and also to offer him my apology for my swearing, because that also was not acceptable on my part, and I also accept responsibility for my actions. I hope you will reply, please. with friendly greetings from Vancouver, Aaron Zacharias." So passed my last full day in Costa Rica. I am neither going to further accuse the driver, nor justify myself. Everything you need to know about what happened, I have written in this email that I spent to the driver's employers. I slept poorly, that night, maybe three hours, which for me, before an early morning flight is nothing unusual. The flight to Toronto was without incident, and I slept much of the way, surrounded by friendly and good-natured passengers. Pearson International Airport in Toronto is a nightmare to navigate, and we had to claim and recheck our baggage. I was also directed to the immigration police. Fortunately, the young man who interviewed me and searched my luggage, was respectful, and he did seem nonplussed about finding little more of interest that my art, art materials and devotional literature. I was concerned about the amount of time it took, an hour, and how poorly staffed the room was, and with some immigration police who were real bullies, especially towards a small elderly man, possibly Middle-Eastern. Then I had to find my way to the appropriate check-in area, which was not easy. I did catch my plane on time, but just as people were boarding. The flight to Vancouver was difficult., The passenger behind me kept poking me in the back, either with his aggressive way of touching the screen, and digging his knee into the back of my seat. I was still tired and unable to rest from the disruption, and fortunately, the flight attendant redirected me to a different seat. Upon arriving home, real life has really been smacking me across the face: problems with Telus, my bank and Canada Revenue, and after several phone calls and a visit to the bank, everything is resolved. I also learned that, not only did my apartment managers not fix my toilet, but that the sixth floor had a huge flood two weeks ago, which is still being cleaned up. Today, someone fixed my toilet. I am still a bit tired, not from jet lag, since there is only one hour time difference, but the simple exhaustion of air travel and the culture shock of returning home. But everything is back in order and I was also enjoying a long walk among the abundance of spring flowers in Vancouver in early April. My fridge is again full of good food, and I expect to sleep well this weekend. Thanks for reading.

Costa Rica 6, Twenty-Sixth Day In Monteverde

This is my last full day and night in Monteverde. Tomorrow afternoon I bus down to Alajuela, and the following morning, Thursday, I fly back to Vancouver. I have spent today tracking down various individuals I have come to know here, to say goodbye to them, and to pass on to them my contact information should they want to stay in touch. It has all worked quite seemlessly. I began in Cafe Caburé where I said goodbye to one of the waitresses, then walked to Santa Elena where I was able to do the same with a few others, as well as back to Tramonti's, the Italian restaurant, for tiramisu and a chat with a couple of the staff there. I don't know if I'll hear from anyone, and it really doesn't matter, though it would be nice, but I think it's a significant gesture, and it helps for people to know that they're liked and cared for. I can't think of a lot else to say in this post. I did have a lovely encounter with a morpho butterfly, and also with an agouti, which is a large and very cute local rodent. It really feels like I live here, and even though I don't expect that I'll ever actually move to Monteverde, it is nice to have another place on earth that feels like home. This is also an incredible luxury and privilege. Anyone who doesn't know me well might easily assume that I must have quite a lot of money to be able to do this and I don't, but God has directed my life circumstances so that this has become for me a possibility. I sometimes wonder where this is all going to lead to, since I don't have a map to read, but I am feeling these days kind of like a spiritual cartographer, or map-maker, as each day I explore this world, both exterior and interior. It hasn't been so brutally hot today, and there has been a steady strong and cooling wind.

Costa Rica 6, Twenty-Fifth Day In Monteverde

I don't think I'll be going back to the Cloud Forest during this visit. I feel more concerned with seeing people before I leave, and it seems that the reserve, by now, has served its purpose for me. There also appears to be a marauding dog in the area. Yesterday morning I was taking an early morning walk, and I was going to walk up towards the reserve when a large black dog, rather like a German shepherd, seemed intent on blocking me. I didn't get close enough for it to actually try to approach me, but he was standing stiff and erect and watching me from ahead. I know from difficult and bitter past experience that that is a dog's body language of warning, and that if you approach any closer he may move in to attack. So, I am feeling a bit nervous about this possibly happening, but for now I'm okay with it. I was there four times, and that feels like enough for now. And it was wonderful. Today, I collected for a couple of my drawings that they want to put up in two of their rooms. It wasn't a lot, $100, or $133 Canadian, but its better than nothing and it's still something and I have been well-treated at the Mariposa. I might have asked for more, and probably was entitled to more, but it's only money, and even this little bit is making a difference, if a small one, so best to accept and move on, and it is not going to affect our friendship. I did stop at the Cafe Monteverde and had an enjoyable and very interesting visit with two of the staff here, both young men in their early twenties, I think, one of whom in particular seems to be becoming a friend, and I'm hoping we will stay in contact when I return to Vancouver. I think I've already mentioned him here, that he is a classical musician (violin-cello, and other instruments). We had some really interesting conversations today, especially around the subject of tourism, travel, ethics, consumerism, and attitudes and perspectives towards the people who live in the places that we like to visit. I also ran across some more Canadians, a very snooty young couple from Toronto (natch!) and then a lady from Hamilton (not at all snooty!) who lives in Monteverde six months of the year. That was when I mentioned to my friends working there about how the rest of Canada is not particularly fond of Toronto, much as the rest of Costa Rica doesn't much like people from San Jose, Mexicans don't much care for the Chilangos (people who live in Mexico City), Colombians don't like Bogotanos, or how the British don't seem to care for Londoners etc. Then later at the Italian restaurant, a couple of the staff (the waiter, especially) were weighing in about how much they would miss me, so tomorrow I'm, coming back for tiramisu and to say goodbye again. I can't really complain at all about how I've been treated on this visit, not even with the art sale (hey, I did sell something, anyway!). This has been a particularly enjoyable day (crowned just now by a glorious sunset), of a particularly successful visit here. One of the guys at the cafe told me that to him I'm more a local than a tourist, and it seems that others here have been taking on this perception of me, and well, it's also become my self perception, given how different I feel from the many tourists I see here. Oh, by the way, speaking of tourists, Gentle Reader, I have finally figured out why I enjoy making fun of German tourists. A lot of them look so tight in the rear end that they probably need colostomy bags!