A basket of world peace?

I don't suppose a basket of mangoes looks much like a recipe for world peace. Still, I think they have possibilities.

Yesterday at the produce store, I found myself drooling (only mentally, I promise) over the boxes of mangoes that were on sale. Buying by the box was a lot cheaper than buying individual ones would have been, but a dozen ripe fruits seemed like too many to buy at one time. After all, there are only two of us.

When I noticed another woman who appeared to be making the same mental calculations, I turned to her and asked, "Would you like to share a box of those?"

She thought that was a great idea, so we chose a box. She bought it and I handed over the right amount of cash to close the deal. We split up the fruit and voila! Each of us had what we wanted.

Maybe it wasn't exactly world peace, but it felt as though we'd taken a small step toward 'community' -- that network of people who look after each other and help out, so often in small and simple ways.

This morning's news has a piece about 100-in-1 Day, an event scheduled for June 7th in Vancouver. Lots of friend-making and other community-building actions are being set up. While this sounds as though it requires a formal approach (devising an event, registering it), it does seem a good step.

As for me, I think I'll stick with the little, spontaneous things that present themselves in the course of the day-to-day. But first, I'm going to take a lunch break and eat a mango.

Death of an (another?) industry?

The boxes in the photo are paper products -- about to be recycled by a Vancouver publisher.

The way this works is that the publisher (a small business person) phones the recycling guy (another small business person) and arranges for the recycling guy to come and pick up the boxes of paper product for shredding and pulping.

At least that's how it worked in the past.

But now, Victoria (they don't even much bother to call it 'the government' anymore) has determined that BC residents will be better off if our recycling needs are met by a new kid on the block, MMBC. Although their business address is listed as North Vancouver, payments made to them go to Toronto. Huh?

Even though the new system isn't scheduled to come into effect until next week, our small business publisher has not only been billed, he's had to submit the first quarter payment (it sounded as though there might be penalties if he failed to do so) and the next quarter's invoice has already arrived.

So now, because he's paid his 'sin tax' (think carbon tax?) he's basically off the hook. If he feels like it, he can toss all that spare paper into any old garbage bin. Recycling? Why bother? It'd cost more. He'd have to phone the shredder/pulper guy, wouldn't he...

So now, the shredder/pulper guy will probably go out of business. And as for the publisher -- well, with postage rates and now this latest gouge, who knows?

As with too many decisions made by 'Victoria' these days, opposition doesn't seem to make a difference, even when some of it is coming from the very people who helped get this crew elected.

Erasing borders

This is the flag of the not-yet-in-official-existence Cascadia, a country/nation/region that extends from Northern California up through Oregon, Washington, Idaho and British Columbia.

The idea has been around since at least the 1970s. Boundaries of Cascadia are based on geography and geology rather than on wars or political decisions that might have been made half a continent away.

I first encountered the notion (or something similar) in the works of Ernest Callenbach, a Pacific coast author. He called the region Ecotopia. The basis of that nation was the will of its people to live in ecological harmony with the earth. Shortly after Callenbach's death in 2012, a kind of manifesto of farewell was published -- a document found on Callenbach's computer called "Epistle to the Ecotopians". It's an important document and worth taking the time to read. If you click here and then scroll down, you'll find it. I'd recommend waiting for a time when you don't have to simply skim it. Have a cup of tea at your side, and settle in for words that will likely echo long after you finish.

This past weekend, I participated in the Second Cascadia Poetry Festival, held in Seattle, Washington, the heart of Cascadia. I say the heart, as that's where David McCloskey, a geographer known as the Father of Cascadia taught for many years. As part of the festival, McCloskey presented a session explaining the many unique characteristics of our region.

And the poets, well they certainly demonstrated some of the artistic attributes and elements that make this region so special.

The two most remarkable panelists (for me) were Stephen Collis, who spoke about innovation in poetry, especially as manifested by work in our region and Derek Sheffield, who gave the most lucid explanation of eco-poetry eco-poetry

The festival was an extended weekend (Thursday through Sunday, with follow-up on Monday morning) that will remain lodged in memory for a long while.

The idea of Cascadia is an important one. One man I met takes its message and goals seriously enough that he's decided to wear one of its emblems on his skin for the rest of his life.

Hmm. I'm not ready to go as far as a tattoo. Still, I'm ready to start counting sleeps until next year's Cascadia Three. That will happen this side of the invisible (geographically, at least) border, in Nanaimo, BC.

Poetricity

This has been the week – okay, the month – for celebrating all sorts of ‘poetricity’ – or, as the League of Canadian Poets dubbed the month’s theme, “Poetry City.”

Earlier this month, there was another of those oh-so-fun ekphrastic poetry events. The poems were based on watercolour paintings of sights in the city of Vancouver.

Last week meant a trip to Gabriola Island, where three of us read poems that more or less related to the theme of Poetry City. Naturally, each of us took our own route.

On Saturday, the winner of Surrey Public Library’s poetry contest read her work as part of celebrations to open the new City Hall. The birds in the photo soaring above the ever-so-high foyer are the latest in Surrey’s art acquisitions. Apparently, at night, they’re illuminated by coloured lights. Considering how beautiful they are during the day, they should be spectacular in the evening.

Monday was another in the locally sponsored Readings by the Salish Sea series. Our poet, Joanna Lilley, who has a brand-new book out, brought the idea of ‘Northern City’ to our City by the Sea. In addition to reading her poems, she told us about the circuitous route she took (buses, bicycles, more) in finding her current home, the Yukon.

This morning I see a ray of good news at the site where a murder took place in my city this past winter. In an effort to humanize the spot, a group of community-minded citizens took the initiative to start a ‘Poet-Tree.’ The goal is to make it a place where people will stop and chat, maybe add a note or a poem of their own. The hope is that by greeting each other and visiting a bit, we’ll do a better job of looking out for each other.

And that, above all, sounds like a terrific result for the observance of Poetry City – or, as my clever friend who is so good at manipulating words has renamed it, Poetricity. Phonetics for that? Try poe-eh-TRI-si-tee. We may well have a new word on our hands.    

Good morning, Earth

This past weekend was, for many, a time to celebrate the ideas of resurrection and rebirth.

For us, it was a weekend away, camping in our own comfortable way.

What better place to be able to observe the inevitable recycling of life than in the forest.

Happy Earth Day!

Poems on the clock

You'd never know it, if you were judging by this blog of late, but I'm a person who's good at working to deadlines. I'll admit, there've been a few distractions recently.

Still, this past week saw me involved in two events that made me responsible to a deadline. The first was an event at Vancouver's Jewish Community Centre. I'd been invited to read poems as part of an art show. The trick was, I had to write new poems, ones that were based on the paintings in the show. In other words, I had to write to a deadline. Somehow, I came up with seven short pieces, none of which will likely stand the test of time. Still, I did what I needed to.

The other poem 'on the clock' was creating an entry for the weekend's 48-Hour Poetry Contest. This event, sponsored by CV2 Magazine, has been a part of my April weekends since 2002.

For that one, I was in Australia, travelling through the Blue Mountains, reliant on finding a cybercafe so I could participate in the contest. This was early days for public access Internet, at least that's how it felt in any small town in Oz. The one I found was in the back room of a Thai restaurant, so I had to abide by their hours -- all the while doing my best to pay attention to what time (and day!) it might be, back in Winnipeg, headquarters of the contest.

I survived then, and I survived this weekend too. Always a bit frantic, but always plenty of fun.

Fare thee well to someone dear

This is a photo of our wonderful uncle, Octavian, standing beside his beloved linden tree -- a tree that provided many offerings for the herbal tinctures and salves he made.

This morning, we received news that Octavian had died. But oh my, this was a man who knew how to live!

When he raised a glass of wine in cheers, his greeting was nearly always an enthusiastic 'Happy Birthday!'i

Because he is a strong believer in the existence of a wonderful afterlife, I find myself needing to wish him a "Happy Birthday!' with hopes that he has indeed been born into the place where he hoped he would be.

A coming out, of sorts

Today is the anniversary of my arrival in Canada, a country I came to by choice. That was an awfully long time ago, forty-five years to be exact. Startling.

All of my adult life has been spent in this country. I earned my university degree here, I had a sort-of-career (or, at least a long-term job) working in public schools, mostly as a teacher-librarian. My kids grew up and went to school here. I say 'zed' and watch hockey. I've learned to appreciate curling.

I make a mean butter-tart -- and every Christmas make 'em by the dozens. The only passport I've ever had says I'm a Canadian citizen. This is the only country I vote in. I'm even a reasonably well-respected member of Canada's arts community and have works published in books like the one above.

Yet now, the country where I happened to be born (trust me, I had no say in the matter) seems to be coming after me and my kind, claiming we need to file taxes there. Because the fines they're threatening are hefty, it seems I have no choice but to comply. Comply. Hmm. Isn't that the word the Borg used when they sucked away an individual's consciousness?

This makes about as much sense to me as if the Pope were to phone and tell me I have to start going to Mass again and that I better start saying thousands of Hail Mary’s to make up for all those years I missed doing so.

It's hard to imagine that the U.S. would tolerate similar claims being made by Canada on people who went the other way. Can you say "Alex Trebek"?

So here I am feeling disgusted and disheartened. Some way to celebrate an anniversary, eh.

Worth it, eh?

The last of Canada's troops have left Afghanistan, with a sorry toll to tell. One diplomat and 158 soldiers, male and female, for a total of 159. Too many.

Earlier this year we learned that Veterans' offices in many parts of the country were being shut down, and already we're seeing the sad results. Two suicides in the past week -- deaths that should have been preventable with proper support services in place.

But rather than ramping up services to veterans, our brilliant government wants to celebrate the Afghan mission. Apparently they already did some hurry-up focus group work and determined that a ceremony observing the 12 years on duty in Afghanistan would not be desirable as part of Canada Day celebrations in Ottawa.

So instead, they've set May 9th as the day when the country will 'honour' these veterans.

But funds for this observance will be taken from operational budgets for the military -- sort of like giving someone a medal, then telling them they'll have to pay for it themselves. As Joyce Murray, Member of Parliament for Vancouver Quadra has put it, it looks like "...prioritizing parades over people."

And where did the May 9th date come from? It's the Friday before Mother's Day, so maybe it's supposed to rub salt into the wounds of those mothers whose daughters and sons are dead or wounded or scarred. Or, maybe 5/9 is as close as they could get to a date with the number 159 in it.

And wait a minute, whatever happened to our role as Peacekeepers?

It's been a week for resignations. First, Jim Flaherty. Then today, Alison Redford. Maybe Steve could get off the plane long enough to do us a favour and follow their lead.

Green, green

This morning, I swear, green was in the air. The scent of soil and growth was so strong, I thought I could 'taste' green.

The robins were whizzing around the cedars, no doubt trying to find the best spot for this year's nest.

To top it off, by a stroke of good fortune, I caught the sound of Elizabeth May's voice on the radio. Now, how much greener could a day (and not yet St. Patrick's Day) be?

It's over

Last week meant another round of Canada Reads. I know I'm not the only one who looks forward to this annual debate. Face it, it's a tradition, and the place where I've discovered several books I'd never heard of before. Most notable of those would have to be Rockbound and lullabies for little criminals.

Since the theme for this year's competition was "One novel to change our nation," the book I figured would (and should) win was Margaret Atwood's Year of the Flood. It's the second in her three-part dystopian trilogy with its predictions of GMO-ed just-about-everything, including people. I thought that might well be the best book to shake things up, maybe even get us thinking about getting off the oil teat sooner than later. And really, with Stephen Lewis defending it, I figured Flood was a shoo-in.

But it turned out to be the first book voted out -- gone at the end of Monday's discussion. I guess my choice was based too much on my particular biases -- some of the things I think we need to change to save ourselves -- like stopping all this mucking around, playing God with genes. 

Still, Wab Kinew did a masterful job of convincing the committee -- and listeners -- that Joseph Boyden's The Orenda was the book to bring about what we most need, reconciliation. And really, if a book could accomplish that, who could possibly complain. 

Censored!

Canada's Freedom to Read Week takes place annually during the last week of February. Dates of this year's official observation ran from February 23rd through today.

The strangest part of writing about this is that no matter which route or back door I try to take, I'm unable to open the Freedom to Read website, thus no link embedded in this post (for future efforts, their site is generally available at freedomtoread.ca). Every time I go there -- even just trying to check on scheduled events -- I get an 'authentication required' box telling me to fill in a user name and password. Huh??

On Wednesday, I was part of a Freedom to Read event at the Gibsons (BC) public library. (I'm relieved to see that their link at least still exists.)

Readers at the event presented portions of books that have been challenged for various elements of their content. These ranged from a children's picture book, Maxine's Tree, to Margaret Laurence's Jest of God and The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls.

As I always do at these events, I presented news items I'd gathered over the course of the year, including one reporting on "a slump in global media freedom." This article stated that, of the 197 countries and territories rated, Canada ranked 29th, a number that didn't give me much cause to cheer.

But to me, even worse than this is the fact that our government -- while not exactly banning materials -- is limiting (to put it kindly) access to materials in DFO libraries. Seven of these libraries across the country, many of them holding records going back over a century, are having their materials "consolidated," a move that has been labeled by many as a "disaster" and a "national tragedy."

As if that isn't enough, this country's scientists -- especially those who study environmental concerns -- are being prevented from speaking out or publishing.

So, it's not too surprising that winners of this year's Freedom to Read Award (presented by The Writers' Union of Canada) went to scientist Eric Marshall, namesake of the Eric Marshall Aquatic Research Library, one of those DFO libraries that's been shut down. Co-winner of the award was Chris Turner, author of the book, The War on Science: Muzzled Scientists and Wilful Blindness in Stephen Harper's Canada.

It will be interesting to see what news next year's Freedom to Read Week will bring. It'll also be interesting to see when that website will again be open for anyone to view.

Okay, enough of this winter thing!

This little snow guy seemed to be waving as I walked by, as if saying one final Hurrah for the Olympics and Team Canada.

You can trust me, I wasn't cheering when I woke up to this surprise dump of snow. Barely the previous day, I'd been cursing myself for not having my camera along -- so many hellebores and crocuses were showing their pretty little faces.

This morning has restored my faith -- not only in the beauty of nature's many faces (even snow), but also in reminding me that spring truly is on the way.

It's not all that easy to see, but towards the end of this little video, you'll see what looks like a glittery sprinkling of fresh snow. Only, that's not what it is. It's a tiny little avalanche falling down from the branches of the cedary forest that is our front yard. Frozen confetti, celebrating the end of winter.

Beyond the Olympics

After more than a week of watching too much tv (but hey, the Olympics only happen every four years), yesterday meant it was time to get out of the house for some other kind of event.

Okay, not all that different an event, still it wasn't on tv, it was live. Our local hockey team, the Surrey Eagles, had a game on Sunday afternoon.

After standing in some of the worst weather we've had in months, we finally got our tickets and entered the arena.

Not packed, but full enough -- especially considering the weather and the line-up on tv -- the place had a nice atmosphere.

Between periods, when the Zamboni came by, little kids jumped up and down as if it were the best part of the game.

No concerns about security or overpriced souvenirs. Nobody complaining about judges who might be unfair. Nobody even complained much when the home team lost.

All in all, the real thing: sports as something to be enjoyed.

Too many questions

...not enough answers.

Too often, my head is full of what-if's and how-come's. There've been so many lately, I haven't been able to bring myself to write a simple post.

We've had such a string of sunny days lately, I've wondered why we don't see ads for solar power set-ups. Why there don't seem to be any subsidies to encourage us to go in that direction. Why, when we know that oil is a finite resource, we aren't at least starting to explore other options.

I've also noticed that for the duration of the Olympics, the CBC isn't permitted to offer podcasts of the news. Oh, I know it all has to do with the sweeping corporate powers protecting all things Olympic (I probably wasn't even supposed to type that word without previous clearance). Still, I wonder what the next corporate power will be that is able to enact similar restrictions, especially where changes to our Elections Act appear to take so much power away from the body that's always been there to protect voters.

And now, my questions are more difficult. A very dear friend has informed me that she has cancer. The word I can't get out of my head is the one she used, inoperable. So the thousand-and-one questions that are in my head today are ones that truly don't have any answers.

Time for forgiveness

Although now that I have that title and a blank scene staring back at me, I find myself examining the word 'forgiveness'. It looks as though the word was made 'for giveness' -- for the purpose of giving.

And if I haven't lost you with that convoluted piece of an idea, it seems that we are in a time when forgiveness is in the air.

Maybe it's because we're shedding one skin as we depart the Year of the Snake and moving into the Year of the Horse (tomorrow). Maybe it's because enough of us are starting to wake up to the fact that all we've got is each other, so we better find some ways of forgiving each other and moving along in more positive directions.

Last Saturday was the dedication of Joy Kogawa House, an important Vancouver heritage site, as a place of reconciliation.

Speakers at the ceremony represented a diversity of perspectives, ranging from victims of sexual abuse and torture to those who contributed to the victimizing. Powerful is certainly one word to describe the event.

In the midst of it all stood the bravely quiet Joy Kogawa, drawing names from a box, calling people forward to bear witness to what they or members of their family had experienced -- or done.

And now this week, Pete Seeger, a man who never wavered in speaking out and singing about the principles he held fast to, has died. I love the words written on his banjo: "This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender."

Even the roots of the tree that grows in front of the Kogawa House
seem to be reaching out, as if extending a
hand in conciliatory friendship.

Or perhaps in surrounding hate and forcing it to surrender.

This is what compliance looks like

Well, it's been a long road, but our house has finally joined all the others in our neighbourhood, and now bears a 'smart' meter instead of an analogue one. If you look closely at the photo, you might see that its sign-in logo reads 'i-Tron'. It's not an i-Phone or i-Pad, but looks to be my very own virtual world of a video game (whichever film version you prefer, 1982 or 2010).

The saga has gone on since 2011 and has involved meetings, letters, online groups and altogether too much time, especially in light of this, the end result.

To give him credit, the installer was to date the most mannerly person I have dealt with over the course of

this story. And when I asked him whether he had any sort of job security, his answer was the unsurprising 'no'. That he didn't anticipate he'd be employed much longer, as they are now installing meters at many of the homes where we were holding out for sanity. Thus, his position (just as the jobs of all those meter readers) will disappear as being 'redundant'.

He also didn't seem to mind when I said I needed to go inside to close down the computer. He agreed that such action would be a good idea. The way they were slapping these up on their first time 'round, I doubt whether I would have been afforded that sort of luxury.

Even though I explained that my partner is an artist who'd hoped we'd be able to keep the old meter, for use in a project, he said he wasn't allowed to leave it behind. Hmm. Somehow I thought we'd have paid for it by now. Where will it end up? The landfill??

Anyway, we went as far as we could with challenging this bullheaded corporately dictated change, and finally gave up when their bullying went over the top and seemed to turn into out-and-out blackmail.

All we can say from here on in is the usual, I guess: Onward.

WWNYD?

Yesterday and today have seen (heard) Neil Young talking about his current tour, Honour the Treaties.

After visiting Fort McMurray, he's speaking out about the oil sands, and how our government is letting the world down with its pro-oil actions. He claims current government actions (and inactions) are in violation of long standing treaties with Canada's First Nations.  

Rather than having so many workers reliant on the oil patch, he'd prefer to see people employed in jobs developing clean energy sources. 

And it sounds as though his grandchildren are a big part of his reasons for all that he's saying and doing.

Young was a feature interview this morning, and video will air on Wednesday night's The National. 

He urges people to seek out the facts for themselves. Sounds like we all have a responsibility to do exactly that.  

Sign for a new year

When I saw this sign painted on the road, I thought, Wow, there's a good idea -- for all the pedestrians who forget to look when they're crossing the street. Since they're always looking down, fiddling with their devices, they might even see the reminder to "look".

Beyond that, I think the image provides a reminder to find ways of looking at the world in fresh ways. Rather than only looking straight ahead, consider what's coming from either side. Who knows what you might find?

Part of this idea of looking at things differently requires rethinking priorities, figuring out what matters most and trying to ensure that those things are what gets the best of our attention.

I've recently been introduced to the ideas of home architect, Sarah Susanka. She's all about 'small' rather than 'big' and has a number of interesting ways to make not only our homes, but our lives, more comfortably livable. She recently presented a TED talk on ways to rethink our lives. If you can spare 13 minutes, here's a link to that talk.

Or, a shorter experience, but again an example of doing things differently, this time the annual Cooperative Poem, as published by Leaf Press.

With wishes for a happy and productive new year, one that's full of fresh ideas and better ways of doing things.

Books: the year's best titles

I'm not kidding when I say the best titles, as that's exactly what I'm talking about. A few of these are books I've read, but truthfully, one of them is a book I've never even held in my hand (or, for those who prefer the world of e-life, downloaded).

I would have loved to include Words the Dog Knows, only it was published way back in 2008, so I can't really count it, even though I only got around to reading it this year. It's a fabulous title and a pretty darn good book inside as well.

I think a lot of authors were inspired to better titles after Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time came along (an excellent read, by the way, worth digging for).

Still, contenders for this year's Best Title include:

The Oil Man and the Sea -- not only for its delightful punniness, but for its timeliness and courage, speaking out about the precarious times we are experiencing in BC and exactly how much is at stake.

We Are Born with the Songs Inside Us -- it's hard to beat the sheer beauty of these words in combination. Besides, this book holds some good news for a change, as it's Katherine Gordon's gathering of hopeful words for the future of First Nations Peoples in our country.

Another book with a beautiful title and wonderful insides is Stephen Reid's A Crowbar in the Buddhist Garden. A collection of Reid's writings from prison, it's a book you won't soon forget.

One that I still hope to get to is Milk Spills and One-Log Loads (and we think traffic is hazardous today), written by a fellow who began his career as a truck driver when he turned sixty. This guy's life sounds like one that won't be repeated unless something puts us back into horse-and-buggy mode.

And my list wouldn't be anywhere near complete without the inclusion of Douglas Coupland's latest, a title distinguished by its use of punctuation. Worst. Person. Ever. Despite the fact that not everybody likes this book, Coupland continues to hold appeal for me. Sometimes, with his irreverence and steady pointing out of the world's ridiculous ills, I think he's become my Kurt Vonnegut surrogate. The book was one of my Christmas presents, and I've purposely made it last to today, which happens to be the author's birthday, and he's turning the magic number, 42. (Er, no, bad arithmetic. Make that 52.)

Read any good titles -- or, for that matter, books -- lately?

Merrrreeee...

reeelax-mas.

The gifts have been opened, the mounds of glorious food consumed. All's well.

Time for a break. Time to slow down to recuperative mode. Time to be thankful. Time to enjoy the last few days of the year.

Here's to doing plenty of nothing for a while.

In darkness

It's the time of year when the darkness seems to want to take hold. Not only on the sky, but on life itself.

The light has been elusive, with today's sun finally rising at 8:01 and then setting again at 4:14. How many people spend their entire workday inside and miss the few hours of light? Go to work in the dark, come home in the dark, do it all over again the next day.

It hasn't helped the mood of things that government officials seemed to be running amok, out-Scrooging Scrooge with their meanness. Immigration services grabbed a man who'd spent the past 37 years of his life as a contributing community member on a small BC island. That story has at least seen a temporary resolution.

And though he's now apologized, when he was asked about child poverty, Minister of Industry James Moore remarked that it probably wasn't his "job" to feed his neighbour's children.

Another story -- and one that unfortunately still remains unresolved -- is that of Rodney Watson. He's the US war resister who's been in 'sanctuary' since September 18, 2009.

For being the season of supposed generosity, it's hard to see much of it in action.

Maybe with Saturday's Solstice, the light will be begin to return on more fronts than merely the sky.  

Brrrr...

Freezing. The temperature on our little weather station is one that we don't see very often, especially not exactly zero-point-zero.

Only now it's even colder than it was. No one can pretend it isn't winter around here. It's been cold for about a week now, colder than I remember it being. Mind you, that may not mean anything, as I'm pretty good at blocking bad memories, cold being one of those conditions I like to avoid (and thus, forget).

When I put gas in my car the other day, I thought it might be a good idea to wash my windscreen. Only thing is, the squeegee wouldn't come out of the bucket where it's kept. The water had frozen around it, making a

veritable Popsicle of it.

Since then, the temp dropped further over the weekend, but has 'warmed up' today to a whopping -2 C (29 F). In fact, it's warmed sufficiently that we're getting a little bit of snow.

Pretty though that may be, I am hoping it doesn't decide to accumulate.

Looking to some facts from The Canadian Weather Trivia Calendar, I find that things certainly aren't as cold as they might be -- that on this day in 1906, it was so cold in Lethbridge, Alberta that the sheep "started eating the wool off each other's backs" and that the situation became so bad that ranchers had to make "them coats from sacks to help them survive." And yet, despite this, "About 25 sheep died a day." Temp that day was recorded as -32.2 C. According to my trusty conversion website, that's -32.96 in Fahrenheit. Yikes.

So yes, I will stay inside today, not too far from the cozy fire and write some more of those Christmas cards to friends around the world -- in places both colder and warmer than my thermometer tells me it is here.

Happymess is...

Not quite Santa's workshop, but a great place for cutting and pasting and getting a head start on Christmas. 

This is the time of year when my office gets taken over by stamps and stamp pads and little bits of paper. It's become an annual tradition to make cards with a good pal of mine. 

She and I started off on this adventure about five years ago, but then we only had about half-a-dozen stamps and a few samples of decorative papers. Since then our supplies have grown, but so has the diversity of the cards we make. 

Besides, making the cards is FUN. So, early though it may seem, we've already started enjoying Christmas in our own cut-and-paste happy-making way. 

Giving in to bullying

Yes, that's a picture of my apparently not-smart-enough electrical meter. I guess it's soon going to be going the way of the dodo, replaced by an enhanced, supposedly smarter cousin.

In my dictionary, the definition of the verb 'bully' suggests that bullying occurs when a weaker or smaller person is intimidated into doing something they don't want to do.

That's exactly the position I feel I am in.

Our electrical utility in British Columbia has determined (not via legislation, but someplace) that those of us who don't want a smart meter installed may 'opt out' by paying a fee of $35 a month to keep our old one. That's a smooth grab of $420 every year, more than I am able to justify paying.

I've talked about this before, including times when I felt there might be a chance in this David v. Goliath situation.

Only now it's come down to my giving up.

Wikipedia puts it pretty clearly in their article about bullying. And the way they describe it sounds exactly like what's going on here in B.C.

In the grand scheme of things and of inequities that go on in the world, I'm sure most would consider this extremely small potatoes.

Still, it's the kind of thing I don't like giving in to. Residents of other jurisdictions haven't been penalized nearly so harshly for not wanting a smart meter installed.

Only in B.C. are the penalties this extreme. Welcome to the brave new world where corporatism sets the rules we are coerced into living by.

More remembering

While last week was the official day for it, Remembrance Day, today is also (for me at least) a day of remembering.

It was five years ago today that my mother died.

Visitors to this blog will have seen the little angel in the photo before. Still, it's one of those small gifts from my mother that will always remind me of her.

The flowery cup in the photo is another gift from her. I can remember times when I'd go shopping with her, so she could buy me a present for my birthday or other occasion.

She'd generally want me to like something more 'girly' or decorative -- jewellery or a fancy, fitted sweater. It took many years, but eventually I was able to convince her of my tastes. If it's clothing, I prefer something second-hand and baggy. Jewellery; not even the second-hand store usually turns up much for me.

It took years, but we finally struck agreement on a gift I would both enjoy and use: something for my seemingly-endless cups of coffee. Still, what kind of cup might that be? Ah, our quiet disagreements dribbled on...

She'd want to buy me a dainty little cup, often one with a saucer. To me, saucers are best used as small serving plates, not as something extra to cart around (or to wash) as accompaniment to a cup.

So the hardest part was convincing her that I was a 'mug' person. But I persisted long enough that she finally agreed.

Compromising on the degree of 'cutesy' or 'pretty' aspects were yet another hurdle. The cup (er, mug) in the photo serves as an example of one of our best compromises. Bright and pretty, not too 'pinky' or delicate in its design -- an item that I still enjoy using.

Something she and I more easily agreed on was good literature. One of the writers whose work both of us admired was Doris Lessing, the Nobel-winning author who died yesterday. If you click on the link at her name, you'll get one of the best overviews of Lessing I've been able to find on the web. I really like and am a firm believer in the quote posted at the header of the article. My 'best reads' are often books I've found by a method I call my 'radar' and no, I'm not afraid to not finish a book that keeps losing me.

Choosing the article I linked onto does, I admit, reveal some bias on my part, as I'm a longtime fan of science fiction, a genre Lessing sometimes called 'space fiction'.

One of the aspects of Lessing's work that isn't always referred to (though it is mentioned in the piece I've linked to) is her belief that many of the ailments referred to in contemporary society as mental illnesses are really just a kind of clear-eyed sanity that comes with seeing how crazy the reality of our world is. I've actually had more than one therapist agree with this observation.

For years, I was criticized for self-prescribing when I experienced depression, a condition my mother experienced as well. Happily, I see now that I wasn't so far off the beam and that my self-treatment (sleep) did not justify the derision I took for 'taking to my bed' again. Especially in wintry times (and here in Northern climes, where our days are now getting so short), maybe a kind of hibernation is just plain good for us.

And with that, I'll say Sweet Dreams. Maybe my mother will visit tonight.

Art and war: a remembrance

This isn't the usual statuary one envisions when Ottawa’s war memorial is mentioned. Still, it's the one I prefer, as it honours our country's longstanding tradition of serving as a peacekeeper. 

I've spent much of the weekend thinking about Remembrance Day and thinking as well about War Art.

In ways, the term seems almost contradictory, as what can be beautiful about war?

And the more I thought about it, the stronger I grew in my conclusion that War Art mostly turns out to be Anti-War Art. 

Last week at the library I picked up a DVD -- with no forethought or plan -- it was just one of my usual 'radar' grabs. This was truly the right weekend to watch it, with its hugely powerful statements on the horror that is war. 

It's a 1957 film by Stanley Kubrick called Paths of Glory. I'd never seen it before, but thought the title sounded familiar. I guess I must have confused it with another war-themed film, Tunes of Glory. Though both are worth seeing, they're not at all the same, and don't even focus on the same war. 

The trench warfare images presented in Paths of Glory aren't particularly graphic or nightmare-inducing. The horror lies in the details of the story, one that illustrates the pointlessness of war and also the ruthless nastiness that power can inspire. 

Oddly, this weekend also turned out to be when a cousin of mine died. I hadn't seen him since we were kids, but have terrific memories of him, a once-in-a-while pretend little brother to me. When he grew up, he followed about as different a path from me as any two people could. He attended the U.S. Military Academy, West Point and chose to spend his whole working life in the military, a career that included a long stint at the Pentagon.  

And now, I can only hope that he has found peace. 

Stinky business

Or, more accurately: Stinky businesses.

I'm getting tired of walking into stores where the only means of entering means I have to pass through the perfume department.

You'd think with all we've learned about allergies to scent, that merchants would have found it necessary to shift these potential death traps to some area of the store where customers wouldn't have to walk through them.

More and more places post signs that ask patrons to refrain from wearing scent. It's not just my doctor's office that's posted this request. My local pool has joined the movement. Hotels and other buildings with elevators often encourage the avoidance of scents.

It's no longer just something you need to do when you're visiting your crabby aunt who has asthma. It's become a widespread courtesy (think: airplanes, with their closed-circuit air systems, yech!) to avoid using scent.

Being shiny-fresh clean is all the scent you need. And maybe next time you walk into a store that assaults you by greeting you with a wall of scents, hold your nose and let the manager know that you think their policy stinks.

All decked out for Halloween

...and I didn't have to do a thing. This perfectly ghoulish draping comes free of charge, thanks to a hard-working spider.

Happy Trick or Treats!

Nothing to curse about

Not long ago a friend wrote to share a small rant of his own. Since it doesn't take much to put me into rant mode, here I go, taking up his cause and blathering as usual.

A friend of his had expressed concern to her child's teacher over the fact that the students weren't learning the art of cursive writing, or as we probably refer to it most of the time, handwriting. The simple act of connected writing is apparently a dying art, no longer even part of the curriculum in most jurisdictions.

And no, the term cursive has nothing to do with cursing (even though my frequently flying-away cursor often sets me off on a string of curse words). Origin of the word relates to 'running' -- the letters all running together in a connected line.

It's become a skill parents have to teach kids on their own -- a situation some parents might say also applies to arithmetic, spelling and grammar. Naturally, the Internet offers everything from animated teachers and practice sheets to patterned images you can follow to learn cursive handwriting, but as with anything, it takes time to learn.

Sadly, if you look at my page of notes in the photo, you'll see that somewhere along the way I seem to have lost the art of connecting my letters -- that my notes have devolved into the more common print scrawl we mostly seem to encounter these days.

About the only people I know who have retained their lovely handwriting are friends who are hovering near eighty. Both of them were elementary school teachers, who no doubt offered examples of evenly spaced loops according to the MacLean Method (or, for those in the U.S., Palmer Method) for their students to copy.  

Yet my pal and I aren't the only ones who wonder about this disappearing skill. Still, in the great end, at the rate we're going, will it matter? After all, how long can it be until all of our 'word' processing/writing and reading are done via voice-activated commands?

Thankful

Over the past few months, while driving to New Westminster, I've seen a large (too large for safety, I suspect) video signboard by the road. Often the message there says simply, 'Gratitude'.

Since the sign is beside a bridge where it's impossible to pull over and stop, I've never managed to take a photo of the sign. So, you just have to imagine it.

But probably more than any video sign, this Thanksgiving weekend has seen me grateful for where I live -- for the weather and for the beautiful spots where we got to hike in the past few days. Thus, today's photo represents just one of those many elements for which I express gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Books – a thing of the past?

Being a Luddite in so many respects, I am definitely on the ‘no’ side of this question. And though I admire the idea behind the 'book art' that was displayed in the window at Project Space, I still prefer my books as undesecrated works with words and pages that I can turn. 

Lately, I've been trying to weed some of my many (too many, even I will admit) books. It's a tricky business, as I keep running into treasures that slow me down. 

Oddly, one that I couldn't resist poking into (and keeping) is Frank Ogden's The Last Book You'll Ever Read. About all I can say to the challenge implied in his title is "No, Frank, not quite."

Sure, I have an e-reader, an object that beats the heck out of carrying an extra piece of luggage packed with holiday reading. But in truth, it's not the first place I turn when I'm looking to read something new. I still appreciate the smell of a new book, sometimes even the vaguely musty smell of an old one. And it seems I'm not the only one who feels that way.

Just this past weekend, the Vancouver Art / Book Fair took place at the Vancouver Art Gallery. And only the weekend before was Word Vancouver. Both events are all about books, magazines and reading. This

table at the Library’s concourse had crafts persons helping people make little books of their own.

This morning's newspaper (now there's a form that, sadly, could indeed become a thing of the past) reported community-bonding activitybased in mini-libraries. Again, books as the common denominator between people.

Hmmm. Maybe instead of getting rid of all these books I've put into boxes, I should start a neighbourhood library of my own.

And if you're still not convinced about the case in support of books, borrow or buy a copy of Lane Smith's It's a Book. Or, at least take a peek at the YouTube version of it.  

When is a lemon not a lemon?

When it's a leaky dishwasher, on extended warranty.

As part of a kitchen renovation we did in 2008, we bought a raft of new appliances -- from a company we trusted, one that (for now at least) shall remain unnamed.

Included in those items was a dishwasher, made by a company whose slogan claims to be "Life's Good." I think they ought to change it to "Life's Glitchy" -- especially if you happened to buy Model LDS5811WW. For fun, click here to read some of the reviews posted by others who made the mistake of buying this particular machine.

Over the years, we've amassed a stack of papers from the many repairs we've had to get. Nearly all of them (6 of 8) have been about leaking. The last repair took place just the other day, on Friday, and wouldn't you know, when I next ran the dishwasher (after supper on Saturday), it leaked. Yet again. Only this time, it wasn't just the same old leak from the bottom of the door. Looking closely revealed it had sprung yet another spurt.

Because the floor underneath the machine was clearly wet, we knew we had to get the machine out to prevent greater damage. And sure enough, it's easy to see that, in addition to leaking from the bottom of the door (where it shows) it's also been leaking underneath there, quietly pissing itself, for quite a long while.

I feel almost as though I know the people in the repairs department -- not only the repair guy who visits our house so often, but also the intake workers, the management team, and even representatives from the insurance company that provided the extended warranty we purchased. I could name you a raft of them -- Julie, Chris, Shane, Jodie, Tina...

To give them credit, they've been patient as they've tried explaining the world of extended warranties, though I'll admit, by the time I've finished listening to some of their on-hold tunes and jingles, I'm not always the most patient listener.

So, finally, going back to my original question: What does it take to declare a machine a lemon -- so that it can be declared hopeless and be replaced? Three repairs.

But wait a minute. That's not quite right.

Declaring it a 'lemon' requires three repairs for the same problem.

Only, oops, that's not quite right either.

Three identical repairs for the same problem.

Only no, that's not quite right either.

Even though the 'vent' mechanism has been repaired three times, (this, besides door gaskets being replaced twice) we don't qualify for a 'lemon clause' replacement, because one of those repairs occurred while the machine was still under the manufacturer's warranty, and only two occurred on the extended warranty. Thus, the extended warranty won't cover replacement, as not all three occurred during the extended warranty.

And now, of course, the money in the extended warranty has pretty well run dry, so, in effect, no more coverage for the continuing wet spots in our kitchen.

As for the manufacturer, they kissed us off years ago. Basically told us "too bad" and to go away.

So, for now it looks as though I'm washing dishes in the sink. While that's not as bad as washing them in the bathtub was, I'm not happy about it.

It would sure be nice to think there might one thing in this world of ours where straightforward answers and plain dealing would be the case, rather than artful weaseling and dodging behind the guise of 4-point font legalese. But apparently, that's simply not the case.

Why did the chicken cross the kitchen? To get another towel to wipe up the water on the floor.

It's official

Yesterday was officially the first day of autumn. For once, the calendar and the weather seemed to be in agreement.

Saturday was sunny, the perfect day for end-of-summer chores -- digging the last of the potatoes, tidying up the grape vines, pulling off the last of the berries for a fruity dessert.

But Sunday -- anything but a SUN day. The rains began in the night and lasted for most of the day, announcing with a kind of finality the end of summer.

Equinox, a time of balance, a time for change.

Silence is...

You can fill in the blank at the end of that sentence.

Chances are that 'golden' is the first word that pops into your mind. But that's become such a cliche, who even knows what it's supposed to mean anymore -- especially with the way the price of gold keeps flopping around.

One thing I can say about silence is that it is restorative. I know, because I spent the last week on retreat, again at the oh-so-quiet Bethlehem Retreat Centre on Vancouver Island. Our group observed silence throughout the day, and then shared what we'd accomplished (or not) in the evening.

The other thing I can say for silence is that it allowed me to be better able to 'hear' the words I needed to put onto paper during my retreat. After all, the goal of the time away was to accomplish more pages in a long-worked-on writing project.

It's a practice many spiritual seekers have relied upon to help achieve clarity and inner peace.

Take a chance (it doesn't even cost anything to be silent, the ultimate free trial) and see what a few hours of silence bring into your life.

A psychedelic anniversary

This week saw the 50th anniversary of the lava lamp. I had no idea anyone was keeping track. Most of the people who stared into them didn't seem very into making note of things like time.

But it must be part of a trend going on, as Boston's Museum of Fine Arts is currently featuring an exhibit called 'Hippie Chic' an exploration of fashion, and some of the changes that occurred in fashion, during the decade we call The Sixties (even though some of that decade apparently spilled over into the early '70s).

One oversight in the Boston exhibit -- or at least in the part accessible through the museum's link -- is the exclusion of dresses or fabrics by Peter Max. To me at least, his work epitomized the look that became known as psychedelia -- vibrant colours in surprising combinations -- patterns that often appeared to be moving.

It's hard to imagine I ever fit into the little dress in the pic, but lord knows, I did.

Oh, and if you want a view of a modern lava lamp in action, click on the video below. Maybe it's my sense of time that's awry, but I'm pretty sure the original lamps released their waxy globules much more slowly. One of the most hypnotic ways of watching it was to the accompaniment of Jeff Beck's instrumental, Beck's Bolero. For maximum viewing pleasure, we played our 45-rpm version of the Bolero on the stretched-out 33 1/3 speed. Long, drawn-out notes for extended pleasure. Probably some consciousness-raising inhalations as well.

Peace.

Seasonal adjustment

Yesterday, the first day of September, meant a trip to one of the final days of this year’s PNE. Sure, we did the usual strolls and walked through the animal barns, marvelled at the farming displays, yawned over the same old blenders and sponge mops in the Marketplace. But mostly, it was a day for wandering among the crowds – plenty of opportunities for people-watching.

Weirdest thing I saw all day was while I was in the per-usual lonnng line-up for the women’s washroom. Some of us were chatting, considering what would happen if a crew of us were to barge into the men’s where, of course, there was NO line-up at all. But then, a guy waltzed in there, carrying a large drink of some sort as well as a huge slice of pizza! None of us could figure out exactly what he planned to do upon entry. Pee with no hands? Or??

It was also crazy to see how many people must ignore the signs (posted at a number of rides) with the warning to secure loose items. Hard to calculate how many dollars must lie in ruins in these bins.

The day ended with a beautiful sunset sky, light cast on the PNE’s grandest feature of all, the old wooden coaster. Happily, the coaster has just been granted special heritage status. If you click on the ‘heritage’ link, you’ll not only see an article about this news, you’ll find a video that offers a sample ride. Wheee!