This is not the Peruvian politician but the Nicaraguan-Canadian comedian. I love her work, she is hilarious and incisive and very smart. Look for her on YouTube. On the radio I heard her say that immigrants from Third World countries don't have bucket lists. They don't need them and they don't want them. They have spent so much of their adrenalin simply surviving and finally getting out of the horrible situations in their countries (can you say Syrian refugees? Vietnamese Boat People? Central American survivors of torture and trauma?) that they simply don't have any energy left over for recreational daring and adventure.
I concur. I was born in this country. I am a white male (though I don't really talk about it) and I don't have a bucket list. I always thought it was because I didn't feel I needed to prove anything or that any of those dumb things were really that important to do or see before Mr. Death comes a-knockin'. Now I wonder if it's also because I simply don't have a lot of leftover energy, or ambition to prove anything. When I found my little affordable apartment here fourteen years ago I already knew that I really didn't want a lot of excitement in my life. I had been through extreme poverty and homelessness and was dealing with issues of trauma. If anything I had already been blessed, or cursed, with an interesting life and I really wanted to keep things as quiet and uninteresting as possible. Therefore, no bucket list.
I don't fit the bucket list profile. I have never enslaved myself to a corporation, I have always lived simply and modestly and have long focussed my life on a model of ministry and of what I would call living authentically. Vocationally I have always worked in support and care-giving, including giving personal care to housebound seniors and providing palliative care to the dying; supporting people struggling with mental illness and poverty. Many of these years I spent making my life available round the clock to others in need, sheltering in my tiny home homeless strangers and sitting in all night cafes watching protectively over a couple of sad individuals with contracts on their lives, or listening carefully and patiently while local sex workers of all genders sat with me in coffee shops to pour out their hearts as they told me their life story. I could say more but I don't want to brag and I certainly don't want to bore you, and Gentle Reader, I believe you already get the gist of what I mean to say.
I think when we are young and throughout our lives we are presented with choices. Regardless what we believe or whether or who we choose or choose not to believe in, I believe that this is God appearing to us and speaking to us and inviting us to take the road less travelled. Once you have started doing this you are not going to be needing any bucket lists. You are living your bucket list and it is always going to be for a much higher purpose than merely keeping your sorry butt in designer jeans or Lululemon.
Sunday, 10 July 2016
Saturday, 9 July 2016
Interconnectedness Revisited
Gentle Reader, I am going to touch on this theme from three distinct and apparently irreconcilable angles. I began seriously thinking of this idea yesterday based on two occurrences, one which was a matter of personal observation, the other a major and very tragic event that is currently occupying the international news media. The personal observation was trivial enough. While doing my art inside a coffee shop yesterday I noticed the male partner of a couple grabbing the posterior of his female partner. I have to say that I didn`t like it at all, but couldn`t really identify just what it was that made me uncomfortable. In the meantime the young woman smiled admiringly at my drawing. Having just witnessed her man`s inappropriate public display of affection I felt less than inclined to engage with her in conversation. Her partner seemed quite oblivious and actually crowded right into my personal space in order to look at a painting on the wall. I felt particularly uncomfortable with this, for my space was being violated and that apparently I didn`t seem to exist at all to him as an artist while he admired someone else`s work, but this could be because he was not comfortable with addressing a stranger who seemed uninterested in him.
The second occurrence has to do with the mass shooting of twelve cops in Dallas Texas the other day, five of whom are now dead and how this was the fallout from the murder of two innocent black men this week by police in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and St. Paul`s (?), Minnesota, just weeks following the mass murder in Orlando. The media has been understandably bombarded with this horrific series of murderous events and this is impacting a lot of people. I know that when it`s on the news really frequently I simply turn off the radio now. I mean, enough is enough. These recordings of the horrific loss, pain and grief of people I will never meet really should be reserved for privileged ears and not treated as items for mass consumption. This is a species of porn and I think there is legitimate concern that this turns into some very loose interpretations of freedom of expression.
When I read about Dallas in the Weekend Globe and Mail this morning it suddenly hit me. I was reading Elizabeth Renzetti`s excellent column and when I got to the part about the four year old daughter of the girlfriend of the slain black man offering words of comfort to her mother while he was slumped dying at their side I lost it. I started crying. I had to stop reading for a while just to recompose myself. I was being hit by the pain, the huge loss and a child`s heroism, all pertaining to people I will never know.
Today I was in a café in Kerrisdale, one of Vancouver`s particularly wealthy neighbourhoods. I commented to the owner about the high price of an iced Americano. The price was even higher for the larger sizes, not because they used extra coffee--still the same regulation two shots of espresso--but because of the extra water. I asked him since when does water cost money in Vancouver (I wasn`t thinking of Perrier). He patiently explained that the rent he has to pay for the privilege of staying open in Kerrisdale would be double for something similar on the East Side. I replied that once they start paying us a living wage I will likely be a little more understanding. End of conversation.
I think that each of these three situations, in its way, addresses the larger social impact of the choices that we make, be it regarding sex and gender equality, race and ethnicity, or economic injustice. Last night I did a quick Google check about the social appropriateness, or gaucheness of a man putting his hand on his woman`s heiny while out in public. I was not all surprised that most of the commenters were firmly on my side, that this is gross, tacky and inappropriate behaviour. There was only one dissenter, the sole male commenter. All the others wrote that it conveyed the wrong public message about woman as male property, some expressed concern that perhaps she didn't want him to fondle her derriere in public, others stated that it sends the wrong message of it being okay to objectify women. And then I understood just why I felt creeped out by it.
The racial strife in the US of course is something infinitely bigger and more panoramic. Or is it? Yes, innocent people have been killed on the basis of race and sexual and gender identity. And we are all impacted. The news media, the internet and social media of course have really amplified everything, bringing other people's pain and tragedy into our daily lives as never before. This seems to have had its beginnings with how effectively the Vietnam War was televised and brought every evening into practically every living room in North America. Now, thanks to Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and Instagram we are bombarded twenty-four/seven. We either stare at the unfathomable pain, bleary eyed and uncomprehending, or we break down from the emotion or we try to escape, but really, we can't escape. It is our pain, whether we like it or not, because contrary to the libertarian dogma of individualism and self-determination we are all connected. Contrary to the virtue of selfishness as enshrined by the grand dame of libertarian capitalism, Ayn Rand, we are, at the core of our beings, empathetic creatures. That we often feel so helpless to be able to do anything to effect real change and support for others only compounds for us the pain and so of course we are going to shut down, shut off, or seek avenues of escape.
So, there we have it, injustice because of race, injustice because of gender and sex and economic injustice. All full of such intricate webs of causes and effects as to leave us in a paralysis of helpless inertia. I wish I had solutions to offer, but I don't really. All I can say to anyone is that we please try not to shut down. Take care of ourselves, yes, and to know when to disengage, but to know also when and how to re-engage and to think of whatever small acts, whatever small footsteps we can make to try to make this vast web of complex inequality a little bit less of a hell for ourselves and for others.
Please forward this to others.
The second occurrence has to do with the mass shooting of twelve cops in Dallas Texas the other day, five of whom are now dead and how this was the fallout from the murder of two innocent black men this week by police in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and St. Paul`s (?), Minnesota, just weeks following the mass murder in Orlando. The media has been understandably bombarded with this horrific series of murderous events and this is impacting a lot of people. I know that when it`s on the news really frequently I simply turn off the radio now. I mean, enough is enough. These recordings of the horrific loss, pain and grief of people I will never meet really should be reserved for privileged ears and not treated as items for mass consumption. This is a species of porn and I think there is legitimate concern that this turns into some very loose interpretations of freedom of expression.
When I read about Dallas in the Weekend Globe and Mail this morning it suddenly hit me. I was reading Elizabeth Renzetti`s excellent column and when I got to the part about the four year old daughter of the girlfriend of the slain black man offering words of comfort to her mother while he was slumped dying at their side I lost it. I started crying. I had to stop reading for a while just to recompose myself. I was being hit by the pain, the huge loss and a child`s heroism, all pertaining to people I will never know.
Today I was in a café in Kerrisdale, one of Vancouver`s particularly wealthy neighbourhoods. I commented to the owner about the high price of an iced Americano. The price was even higher for the larger sizes, not because they used extra coffee--still the same regulation two shots of espresso--but because of the extra water. I asked him since when does water cost money in Vancouver (I wasn`t thinking of Perrier). He patiently explained that the rent he has to pay for the privilege of staying open in Kerrisdale would be double for something similar on the East Side. I replied that once they start paying us a living wage I will likely be a little more understanding. End of conversation.
I think that each of these three situations, in its way, addresses the larger social impact of the choices that we make, be it regarding sex and gender equality, race and ethnicity, or economic injustice. Last night I did a quick Google check about the social appropriateness, or gaucheness of a man putting his hand on his woman`s heiny while out in public. I was not all surprised that most of the commenters were firmly on my side, that this is gross, tacky and inappropriate behaviour. There was only one dissenter, the sole male commenter. All the others wrote that it conveyed the wrong public message about woman as male property, some expressed concern that perhaps she didn't want him to fondle her derriere in public, others stated that it sends the wrong message of it being okay to objectify women. And then I understood just why I felt creeped out by it.
The racial strife in the US of course is something infinitely bigger and more panoramic. Or is it? Yes, innocent people have been killed on the basis of race and sexual and gender identity. And we are all impacted. The news media, the internet and social media of course have really amplified everything, bringing other people's pain and tragedy into our daily lives as never before. This seems to have had its beginnings with how effectively the Vietnam War was televised and brought every evening into practically every living room in North America. Now, thanks to Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and Instagram we are bombarded twenty-four/seven. We either stare at the unfathomable pain, bleary eyed and uncomprehending, or we break down from the emotion or we try to escape, but really, we can't escape. It is our pain, whether we like it or not, because contrary to the libertarian dogma of individualism and self-determination we are all connected. Contrary to the virtue of selfishness as enshrined by the grand dame of libertarian capitalism, Ayn Rand, we are, at the core of our beings, empathetic creatures. That we often feel so helpless to be able to do anything to effect real change and support for others only compounds for us the pain and so of course we are going to shut down, shut off, or seek avenues of escape.
So, there we have it, injustice because of race, injustice because of gender and sex and economic injustice. All full of such intricate webs of causes and effects as to leave us in a paralysis of helpless inertia. I wish I had solutions to offer, but I don't really. All I can say to anyone is that we please try not to shut down. Take care of ourselves, yes, and to know when to disengage, but to know also when and how to re-engage and to think of whatever small acts, whatever small footsteps we can make to try to make this vast web of complex inequality a little bit less of a hell for ourselves and for others.
Please forward this to others.
Friday, 8 July 2016
We Are Cyborgs
Well, I`m not. At least I haven`t become one so far. I have so far resisted the temptation of buying an iPhone. They're expensive, I earn only a little more than minimum wage, and I would rather put money in the bank for my old age and for foreign travel. Not a lot of people on low incomes can afford these addictive plastic rectangles. I have a free cell phone, an old-fashioned flip phone for work. It is also my language practice. I have mentioned in other posts, I believe, that I have an imaginary friend, Fulano (Spanish for What's-Its-Face) whom I address on my lengthy chats with my voice mail, all in Spanish. I do this a lot during my many long walks. It is excellent for improving fluency, though still not quite a substitute for live flesh-and-blood Spanish speakers. But really, that is the closest I get to being a cyborg.
I do spend plenty of time on my laptop when I'm at home. I have to if I am going to write this blog. I also am still doing research for the art classes and of course reading and writing emails, though not all the time given that I'm not that popular. I also try to watch at least a portion of a video on YouTube in Spanish every evening. I don't read a lot online. The screen light is not comfortable for my eyes, so I prefer to get my news from the CBC Radio as well as the various newspapers I read throughout the week. Every weekday I pick up copies of both our free local daily papers, Twenty-Four Hours and Metro. Thursdays I pick up the free weeklies from their various boxes: the Courier, the West Ender and the Georgia Strait. Saturdays I splurge and spend four glorious dollars and twenty cents for the weekend Globe and Mail. I do this not only because I like print, but also to maintain what for me is a safe and healthy distance from social media. I refuse to become consumed. So, that is the extent of my reliance on technology and social media. I have allowed my Facebook account to atrophy and have never followed through on Twitter. I prefer to deal with people in person. I see hundreds and thousands of mindless human drones wandering the sidewalks every day, hunched over their little phones, oblivious to their surroundings. This looks both pathetic and sinister. And it is likely a harbinger of what is coming: a race of humans so entirely dependent upon communications technologies that they are unable to function independently, of anything. Perhaps they'll even come up with an app that will wipe your ass for you.
Speaking of which I heard on the CBC today about a camp for cleansing people of their high tech toys. It is a four day camp, probably expensive as hell, and you submit your phone and laptop and live with other campers absolutely tech-free. There doesn't appear to be much occasion for solitude or reflection, as it is twenty-four/seven fun group activities. I would prefer a situation without laptop or phone but a bare minimum of group activities. Something more like a spiritual/religious retreat in a monastery. We have meals together and quiet times of prayer or meditation together, but otherwise we are each on our own and forced to face and reckon with ourselves and those cold empty black holes that years of constant diversion have turned our souls into.
I really prefer real face time with others. It is only when we are together in one another's presence, seeing the various subtle expressions in our faces and eyes, hearing the subtle nuances and intonations in our voices, in a way, being able to smell one another, that we can really be together. You cannot do this online, not even on Skype, which would be otherwise better than nothing.
I also heard on the CBC this morning about an enterprising fellow who has invented an app to help people get away from their phones. Simply the app freezes their phones or computers for an hour or longer so they can get other work done. I suppose he is expecting to get richer than Croesus. I say, how pathetic, and how weak we have all become.
I do spend plenty of time on my laptop when I'm at home. I have to if I am going to write this blog. I also am still doing research for the art classes and of course reading and writing emails, though not all the time given that I'm not that popular. I also try to watch at least a portion of a video on YouTube in Spanish every evening. I don't read a lot online. The screen light is not comfortable for my eyes, so I prefer to get my news from the CBC Radio as well as the various newspapers I read throughout the week. Every weekday I pick up copies of both our free local daily papers, Twenty-Four Hours and Metro. Thursdays I pick up the free weeklies from their various boxes: the Courier, the West Ender and the Georgia Strait. Saturdays I splurge and spend four glorious dollars and twenty cents for the weekend Globe and Mail. I do this not only because I like print, but also to maintain what for me is a safe and healthy distance from social media. I refuse to become consumed. So, that is the extent of my reliance on technology and social media. I have allowed my Facebook account to atrophy and have never followed through on Twitter. I prefer to deal with people in person. I see hundreds and thousands of mindless human drones wandering the sidewalks every day, hunched over their little phones, oblivious to their surroundings. This looks both pathetic and sinister. And it is likely a harbinger of what is coming: a race of humans so entirely dependent upon communications technologies that they are unable to function independently, of anything. Perhaps they'll even come up with an app that will wipe your ass for you.
Speaking of which I heard on the CBC today about a camp for cleansing people of their high tech toys. It is a four day camp, probably expensive as hell, and you submit your phone and laptop and live with other campers absolutely tech-free. There doesn't appear to be much occasion for solitude or reflection, as it is twenty-four/seven fun group activities. I would prefer a situation without laptop or phone but a bare minimum of group activities. Something more like a spiritual/religious retreat in a monastery. We have meals together and quiet times of prayer or meditation together, but otherwise we are each on our own and forced to face and reckon with ourselves and those cold empty black holes that years of constant diversion have turned our souls into.
I really prefer real face time with others. It is only when we are together in one another's presence, seeing the various subtle expressions in our faces and eyes, hearing the subtle nuances and intonations in our voices, in a way, being able to smell one another, that we can really be together. You cannot do this online, not even on Skype, which would be otherwise better than nothing.
I also heard on the CBC this morning about an enterprising fellow who has invented an app to help people get away from their phones. Simply the app freezes their phones or computers for an hour or longer so they can get other work done. I suppose he is expecting to get richer than Croesus. I say, how pathetic, and how weak we have all become.
Thursday, 7 July 2016
Getting It Done
Today, Mr. Bedbug (not his real name) came in to spray my unit a second time. Six weeks later. After five weeks of complaining to my building managers that the bugs still weren`t gone, I was still getting bitten at night, I was still a human buffet for repulsive insects, and that Mr. Bedbug perhaps is not the best thing since sliced bread after all.
Even though I had done everything I could to go with Mr. Bedbug`s prior recommendations he still couldn`t seem to resist scolding me like I was a naughty child (it really does seem that when you live in a government subsidized building that a lot of people aren`t going to talk to you as though you are a responsible, working adult worthy of respect) After several minutes of this kind of treatment I pushed back, telling him that by his tone it is easy for me to feel like he`s punishing the victim. When the assistant building manager tried to intervene I mentioned that had Mr. Bedbug`s tone been gentle like hers then I likely wouldn`t be feeling defensive. That was enough to shut everyone up before I left. And once again I was feeling grateful for the gift of the snappy comeback.
On Mr. Bedbug`s recommendation (or should I say, orders) I took all my bedding and other covers downstairs to put in the dryer for an hour. He wanted me to wash everything but everything had already been washed four days ago (not five as he insisted) then went for a walk in the rain along the seawall. When I returned, I retrieved the laundry and put the two bags full in my bathroom (the rest of the apartment, reeking with sickly sweet pesticide that I could smell once the elevator door opened, was in complete disarray) then went for another walk. Two of my favourite places, Café Molli, Mexican, on Davie and Burrard, and Melriche`s café, funky old holdout on Davie between Bute and Jervis, were both full so I opted for a French bakery-café I had always walked by on Davie Street, the Baguette and Co. I was pleasantly surprised and occupied a window table with a decaf Americano a fancy schmancy pastry and a glass of water while working on a new drawing. Here is an image of the bird I am interpreting:
Nice birdie, eh? It's called a Black-Collared Jay, from Colombia and Venezuela.
A rather streetwise looking couple were admiring my drawing from the sidewalk and came in to have a look. They were so sweet.
The Davie Street sidewalk is almost always an exercise in the fascinating. There is always something going on, like it or not. There was also the other street-ish fellow who was smoking just outside the open door. Fortunately the wind wasn't blowing my way but the woman working in the hipster boutique next door came out to scold him and to ask him (or should I say, order him, to take his cigarette elsewhere) There was a bit of a yelling match. She called him a loser and he swore at her and replied that she had no right calling people names like that and said he wasn't going to move. (as much as I dislike second-hand smoke I felt by far the stronger sympathy for him instead of that horrible woman. He did go away pretty soon, only to come back and light up a joint and now the smoke was blowing into the café. Marijuana, Gentle Reader, I might remind you is somewhat more potent than it was when you and I were young and naughty. I could already feel my brain chemistry start to alter. Knowing not to confront the fellow I simply got the barista's permission to close the door till he went away again, which he did very shortly after I closed the door. An act of courtesy, perhaps?
I then took a longer walk in the West End, under the rain and under my umbrella, psyching myself up for my eventual return to my apartment where I would have a huge mess to clean up. I am truly exhausted from all of this, emotionally and physically. I already know that I will not be able to do everything that Mr. Bedbug has told me I should have to do to help keep the bugs away for the simple reason that I do not have the energy. I will do whatever I can and hopefully it will work and if it doesn`t I am not prepared to endure another one of his sanctimonious scoldings.
The mess is cleaned up. My apartment is back to normal and I am exhausted. I hope I never have to see Mr. Bedbug again, but if he did do his job right this time, I likely won't, and if not...well, let's just say that I might have a few choice words for him!
Even though I had done everything I could to go with Mr. Bedbug`s prior recommendations he still couldn`t seem to resist scolding me like I was a naughty child (it really does seem that when you live in a government subsidized building that a lot of people aren`t going to talk to you as though you are a responsible, working adult worthy of respect) After several minutes of this kind of treatment I pushed back, telling him that by his tone it is easy for me to feel like he`s punishing the victim. When the assistant building manager tried to intervene I mentioned that had Mr. Bedbug`s tone been gentle like hers then I likely wouldn`t be feeling defensive. That was enough to shut everyone up before I left. And once again I was feeling grateful for the gift of the snappy comeback.
On Mr. Bedbug`s recommendation (or should I say, orders) I took all my bedding and other covers downstairs to put in the dryer for an hour. He wanted me to wash everything but everything had already been washed four days ago (not five as he insisted) then went for a walk in the rain along the seawall. When I returned, I retrieved the laundry and put the two bags full in my bathroom (the rest of the apartment, reeking with sickly sweet pesticide that I could smell once the elevator door opened, was in complete disarray) then went for another walk. Two of my favourite places, Café Molli, Mexican, on Davie and Burrard, and Melriche`s café, funky old holdout on Davie between Bute and Jervis, were both full so I opted for a French bakery-café I had always walked by on Davie Street, the Baguette and Co. I was pleasantly surprised and occupied a window table with a decaf Americano a fancy schmancy pastry and a glass of water while working on a new drawing. Here is an image of the bird I am interpreting:
Nice birdie, eh? It's called a Black-Collared Jay, from Colombia and Venezuela.
A rather streetwise looking couple were admiring my drawing from the sidewalk and came in to have a look. They were so sweet.
The Davie Street sidewalk is almost always an exercise in the fascinating. There is always something going on, like it or not. There was also the other street-ish fellow who was smoking just outside the open door. Fortunately the wind wasn't blowing my way but the woman working in the hipster boutique next door came out to scold him and to ask him (or should I say, order him, to take his cigarette elsewhere) There was a bit of a yelling match. She called him a loser and he swore at her and replied that she had no right calling people names like that and said he wasn't going to move. (as much as I dislike second-hand smoke I felt by far the stronger sympathy for him instead of that horrible woman. He did go away pretty soon, only to come back and light up a joint and now the smoke was blowing into the café. Marijuana, Gentle Reader, I might remind you is somewhat more potent than it was when you and I were young and naughty. I could already feel my brain chemistry start to alter. Knowing not to confront the fellow I simply got the barista's permission to close the door till he went away again, which he did very shortly after I closed the door. An act of courtesy, perhaps?
I then took a longer walk in the West End, under the rain and under my umbrella, psyching myself up for my eventual return to my apartment where I would have a huge mess to clean up. I am truly exhausted from all of this, emotionally and physically. I already know that I will not be able to do everything that Mr. Bedbug has told me I should have to do to help keep the bugs away for the simple reason that I do not have the energy. I will do whatever I can and hopefully it will work and if it doesn`t I am not prepared to endure another one of his sanctimonious scoldings.
The mess is cleaned up. My apartment is back to normal and I am exhausted. I hope I never have to see Mr. Bedbug again, but if he did do his job right this time, I likely won't, and if not...well, let's just say that I might have a few choice words for him!
Wednesday, 6 July 2016
Consumed
I was just in the local Shopper's Drugmart buying milk and I noticed a rack smothered with gift cards. Then I began to notice all the various candies and crackers and treats and goodies beguilingly displayed to snare a few impulse buyers and I thought, how behind the times I am when it comes to shopping. I had never even noticed the gift cards by various checkout tills until someone recently pointed them out to me and it was only because I was asked by my supervisor to buy such a card to take one of our clients shopping.
I very rarely spend unnecessarily and it is probably so long since I last bought anything on impulse that I can't even remember. I sometimes wonder just what is it that has spared me from the demon frenzy dance of Shop-Till-You-Drop. I think there could be any number of good reasons. For one thing I have never been a materialistic person. But I think this has to do with some other active factors in my life. I am a very strong Christian and I have long sought to align my values with those of the Gospels and the New Testament. This includes eschewing wealth, riches and greed and using the money we have to share with those who are without and to also live modestly, knowing that our reward is in living in the reality of God's love and truth. I have also been strongly influenced by alternative and countercultural values from the late Sixties and Seventies. I read and cultivated friendships and liaisons from a very early age, fourteen, with persons and resources that taught me the importance of living with integrity and a sense of community responsibility. At seventeen I was already an environmentalist, decades before it became fashionable. In my early twenties I made up my mind to shield myself as much as possible from the false gods of consumerism and materialism and I have faithfully lived this way ever since.
I am also an artist. Creative people tend not to be consumers. People who shop a lot, unnecessarily, who binge shop, who rack up piles of debt are really not much different from or better than junkies and alcoholics. They are spiritually and ethically empty and shopping and accruing unnecessary stuff helps satisfy that itch, if but for a few seconds and then they are hitting Amazon, eBay and the mall all over again. It is axiomatic that we live in a culture of debt.
I can't really offer any solutions. Perhaps I might learn to acquire a little more compassion for people I find too easy and too enjoyable to judge. I do feel sad for all these sad, soulless drones who cram the sidewalks fixed on their little rectangles of plastic and metal, shopping, consuming, and isolating themselves from real contact with others. As for myself, I simply look for whatever way I can reach out to others in a way that is possible, positive and non-threatening. I also silently pray for those around me. And for myself, given that I am not always in the mood for prayer.
I very rarely spend unnecessarily and it is probably so long since I last bought anything on impulse that I can't even remember. I sometimes wonder just what is it that has spared me from the demon frenzy dance of Shop-Till-You-Drop. I think there could be any number of good reasons. For one thing I have never been a materialistic person. But I think this has to do with some other active factors in my life. I am a very strong Christian and I have long sought to align my values with those of the Gospels and the New Testament. This includes eschewing wealth, riches and greed and using the money we have to share with those who are without and to also live modestly, knowing that our reward is in living in the reality of God's love and truth. I have also been strongly influenced by alternative and countercultural values from the late Sixties and Seventies. I read and cultivated friendships and liaisons from a very early age, fourteen, with persons and resources that taught me the importance of living with integrity and a sense of community responsibility. At seventeen I was already an environmentalist, decades before it became fashionable. In my early twenties I made up my mind to shield myself as much as possible from the false gods of consumerism and materialism and I have faithfully lived this way ever since.
I am also an artist. Creative people tend not to be consumers. People who shop a lot, unnecessarily, who binge shop, who rack up piles of debt are really not much different from or better than junkies and alcoholics. They are spiritually and ethically empty and shopping and accruing unnecessary stuff helps satisfy that itch, if but for a few seconds and then they are hitting Amazon, eBay and the mall all over again. It is axiomatic that we live in a culture of debt.
I can't really offer any solutions. Perhaps I might learn to acquire a little more compassion for people I find too easy and too enjoyable to judge. I do feel sad for all these sad, soulless drones who cram the sidewalks fixed on their little rectangles of plastic and metal, shopping, consuming, and isolating themselves from real contact with others. As for myself, I simply look for whatever way I can reach out to others in a way that is possible, positive and non-threatening. I also silently pray for those around me. And for myself, given that I am not always in the mood for prayer.
Tuesday, 5 July 2016
The Blessing Of Mixed Blessings
I can't really say that this is much of a vacation. This will be my second and last week off. What have I done? To begin with, I have been working from home. I could of course use the income and the activity is of interest to me: I am researching for a series of art classes I will be facilitating in the fall about the Group of Seven painters, Canada's first definitive artists, for some of our clients in one of the mental health/addiction units I work in. This takes up approximately three to four hours a day. I generally work for an hour or two in the mornings, before and after breakfast, and two hours in the evening, before and after dinner. On top of this I have been on the phone with various co-workers no less than six times and have received an email from a supervisor who either forgot or didn't realize that I'm on vacation. Out in public I have had to inform two of our clients, when they wanted to engage with me, that I was not available for anything related to their health situation or therapy needs, and they have both taken care to respect and avoid me.
Ah....The Stay-cation. Nothing like it, Gentle Reader.
I have also had to visit the passport office on three occasions and bother my guarantor (the fellow who signed my passport photo) twice. The first time I was given the wrong form, as I didn't know at the time that my passport would be classified as damaged (it had been through the washer) and that therefore I had to reapply instead of simply renew my passport (I love you too, Federal Kafka Government of Canada!). So after filling out the first form, after waiting in a longer line than I would care to talk about, I brought it back in, after waiting in yet another long line (but not as long as the last one), to be told that I would have to take home with me the proper and longer application form and do everything all over again. My guarantor, also a good friend, was fortunately very good natured about it and we also got in a half decent coffee visit as part of the bargain). This morning I stood in yet another line up in the passport office with all the material they needed. It wasn`t very long this time, then I had to wait another hour and three quarters to see one of their workers to process my passport. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to spend most of that time working on a drawing. I also chatted briefly but pleasantly with a couple of other applicants. One is a mother of a near newborn. I asked her how old and she said six months and I instinctively smiled, no longer a grumpy old man who hates kids, and said that is so sweet. I said that when we are very little and when we are very old we are the best. She agreed, adding how much we come to resemble ourselves when we were babies once we become old. Then I warmly thanked a man behind me for mentioning to someone that in some countries you have to wait five years for a passport so that a couple of hours in a Canadian passport office shouldn't be bad. He did wonders for my sense of proportion. I have also just been listening to a radio broadcast about that poster child of failed states, Haiti. Boy, do I ever feel lucky to live in Canada.
On top of everything else, last week I had to run back and forth for a couple of days with my building managers as we got together all the documents needed for recalculating my rent. Now we are dealing again with the bedbugs in my unit and finally they have contacted the exterminator who should be here in a couple of days. Just when I was getting ready to go to CBC Go Public and publicly shame my housing providers for their slowness in helping me deal with the bugs.
But this too shall pass.
In the meantime I am getting out for long enjoyable walks, despite the unsettled cool weather this early July, and getting a lot of art done. I am reading a lot and sleeping a bit better. Even though I feel almost as busy as I would be if I was at work right now there is something about the variety and the various creative challenges that really feeds my spirit. Tomorrow they expect nicer weather and I plan to spend much of the day happily wandering.
Ah....The Stay-cation. Nothing like it, Gentle Reader.
I have also had to visit the passport office on three occasions and bother my guarantor (the fellow who signed my passport photo) twice. The first time I was given the wrong form, as I didn't know at the time that my passport would be classified as damaged (it had been through the washer) and that therefore I had to reapply instead of simply renew my passport (I love you too, Federal Kafka Government of Canada!). So after filling out the first form, after waiting in a longer line than I would care to talk about, I brought it back in, after waiting in yet another long line (but not as long as the last one), to be told that I would have to take home with me the proper and longer application form and do everything all over again. My guarantor, also a good friend, was fortunately very good natured about it and we also got in a half decent coffee visit as part of the bargain). This morning I stood in yet another line up in the passport office with all the material they needed. It wasn`t very long this time, then I had to wait another hour and three quarters to see one of their workers to process my passport. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to spend most of that time working on a drawing. I also chatted briefly but pleasantly with a couple of other applicants. One is a mother of a near newborn. I asked her how old and she said six months and I instinctively smiled, no longer a grumpy old man who hates kids, and said that is so sweet. I said that when we are very little and when we are very old we are the best. She agreed, adding how much we come to resemble ourselves when we were babies once we become old. Then I warmly thanked a man behind me for mentioning to someone that in some countries you have to wait five years for a passport so that a couple of hours in a Canadian passport office shouldn't be bad. He did wonders for my sense of proportion. I have also just been listening to a radio broadcast about that poster child of failed states, Haiti. Boy, do I ever feel lucky to live in Canada.
On top of everything else, last week I had to run back and forth for a couple of days with my building managers as we got together all the documents needed for recalculating my rent. Now we are dealing again with the bedbugs in my unit and finally they have contacted the exterminator who should be here in a couple of days. Just when I was getting ready to go to CBC Go Public and publicly shame my housing providers for their slowness in helping me deal with the bugs.
But this too shall pass.
In the meantime I am getting out for long enjoyable walks, despite the unsettled cool weather this early July, and getting a lot of art done. I am reading a lot and sleeping a bit better. Even though I feel almost as busy as I would be if I was at work right now there is something about the variety and the various creative challenges that really feeds my spirit. Tomorrow they expect nicer weather and I plan to spend much of the day happily wandering.
Monday, 4 July 2016
If Life Is Not Fair...
Well Gentle Reader, when did any of us last complain bitterly either aloud or to whomever was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of our cold, dark whining, that life just isn't fair? Well, hello Sunshine! So, what else is new? And really when has life ever been anything but a very dirty, nasty, rigged game of chance that only those who are strong and smart enough are going to survive and do well and the rest of us can be rendered as fertilizer for their rose gardens? Twice today I found myself muttering this imprecation, life is not fair. I said this while complaining about the bedbugs that still are hanging around in my apartment and the apparent lack of motivation on the part of my building manager to do anything about it. Then I complained about the Kafkaesque bureaucracy (I had to consult Uncle Google because I had forgotten completely how to spell that word) involved in getting a passport. I had been given the wrong form, and I had to go home and fill out the new form and then bring it back and wait in line again. They are not kind.
I explored that theme of life being unfair this afternoon while enjoying a long walk in the wealthy and beautiful neighbourhood, Shaughnessy Heights. I was talking in Spanish on my cell phone to my imaginary friend, Fulano, which I have found to be a particularly effective way of practicing the language of Cervantes. So I talk on and on in my imperfect Spanish. People nearby will think either that I am a native speaker (if they do not speak Spanish) or that I am on the phone with a Hispanic friend. For me it is like keeping a spoken diary but in another language. Today I was talking about the unfairness, the absolute unfair cruelness of life. We are not born into a lovely welcoming Earth where it`s all things bright and beautiful. We are born into a very harsh and bitter struggle to survive and without our human community we are simply not going to cut it.
Life isn`t fair and we, each one of us, has an obligation to do our part to make the world a little less unfair and a little more hospitable for one another and for the rest of the web of life of which we are integral members. Whether through grand and sweeping projects of reform and human development on a massive scale, or through small individual acts of kindness we all have a role to play. Many of us default on this high calling. Sometimes when I hear on the news just how absolutely mean, horrible and evil human beings can be, I want to cry out and hide my head in despair and shame. Tonight on the CBC I heard about this horrible white racist on a streetcar in Toronto berating a couple of black women and when one asked him to stop because he was upsetting her he became even nastier. When a man of colour tried to, in the most civil way, intervene the young white piece of racist shit pepper sprayed him with mace and then the pale little coward ran off the streetcar.
There is so much garbage like this going on these days, especially in the US and in Europe where kneejerk right wing reactionary behaviour is making life an absolute hell for immigrants and people who belong to visible minorities. I am not even going to try to square this horrible darkness with the idea of a loving, just and merciful God. What I am going to suggest Gentle Reader is this: we are the presence of Christ in the world. Our acts of love, mercy, justice and kindness alone are going to make a difference. We need to do more, much more, but every time we perform a loving and kind act we are lighting a candle in the darkness.
Today, a dear friend with whom I had coffee mentioned to me that he has to perform at least one act of kindness for someone every day if he is going to feel right. I would like to second the motion.
I explored that theme of life being unfair this afternoon while enjoying a long walk in the wealthy and beautiful neighbourhood, Shaughnessy Heights. I was talking in Spanish on my cell phone to my imaginary friend, Fulano, which I have found to be a particularly effective way of practicing the language of Cervantes. So I talk on and on in my imperfect Spanish. People nearby will think either that I am a native speaker (if they do not speak Spanish) or that I am on the phone with a Hispanic friend. For me it is like keeping a spoken diary but in another language. Today I was talking about the unfairness, the absolute unfair cruelness of life. We are not born into a lovely welcoming Earth where it`s all things bright and beautiful. We are born into a very harsh and bitter struggle to survive and without our human community we are simply not going to cut it.
Life isn`t fair and we, each one of us, has an obligation to do our part to make the world a little less unfair and a little more hospitable for one another and for the rest of the web of life of which we are integral members. Whether through grand and sweeping projects of reform and human development on a massive scale, or through small individual acts of kindness we all have a role to play. Many of us default on this high calling. Sometimes when I hear on the news just how absolutely mean, horrible and evil human beings can be, I want to cry out and hide my head in despair and shame. Tonight on the CBC I heard about this horrible white racist on a streetcar in Toronto berating a couple of black women and when one asked him to stop because he was upsetting her he became even nastier. When a man of colour tried to, in the most civil way, intervene the young white piece of racist shit pepper sprayed him with mace and then the pale little coward ran off the streetcar.
There is so much garbage like this going on these days, especially in the US and in Europe where kneejerk right wing reactionary behaviour is making life an absolute hell for immigrants and people who belong to visible minorities. I am not even going to try to square this horrible darkness with the idea of a loving, just and merciful God. What I am going to suggest Gentle Reader is this: we are the presence of Christ in the world. Our acts of love, mercy, justice and kindness alone are going to make a difference. We need to do more, much more, but every time we perform a loving and kind act we are lighting a candle in the darkness.
Today, a dear friend with whom I had coffee mentioned to me that he has to perform at least one act of kindness for someone every day if he is going to feel right. I would like to second the motion.
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