Too much hope

Apparently that’s what our group of ‘outmates’ brought to our fellow writers, the inmates at Matsqui Penitentiary.

The powers-that-be at the institution have decreed that our occasional retreat weekends, where insiders and outsiders get together to workshop samples of our current writing, have forthwith been cancelled.

This was a program that cost the institution almost nothing. Okay, the prison provided us with lunch on both Saturday and Sunday. But really, these meals could not have cost a lot, as they were usually grilled cheese or sloppy joes or hot dogs – the same fare given to the men for their midday meal. Further, we brought our own supplies for making coffee and tea. We even brought doughnuts for all (including a separate box of doughnuts for the guards).

Reasons for the program’s cancellation? Several petty-sounding issues have been cited, but it mainly seems yet another way to punish the inmates.

It sounds mostly as though the men were getting too much out of it. Especially too much in the way of self-respect.

Yet, if inmates don’t get the chance to develop self-respect while they’re incarcerated, how – when they’re released – can they be expected to reintegrate themselves back into society as self-respecting, law-abiding citizens?

Styrosnow?

We've had some more snow, only this time it looks less like snow than some sort of packing material.

Not hard like hail (though that's what it looks like), just perfectly round 'flakes' (er, pellets?) that look like snowballs so G.I. Joe and Barbie could have themselves a party.

And no, Virginia, there's no such thing as climate change.

First snow

...of the year, first snow of the season.

After a successful evening in Vancouver, as part of SFU's TWS series, when I got off the bus at our local park 'n ride, a few flakes were just starting to fall.

By the time I drove home, it was really starting to fall, and I just had to walk outside and look around. The photo is a picture of our street. No tracks in the road yet, all fresh and white and new.

And no flash, just my trusty little Nikon Coolpix set on auto 'scene' and me holding my breath for the duration of the exposure. There aren't any streetlights on our road, only a few porch lights burning -- I guess for just such an occasion as this.

Dead Poets Come to Life

While that header looks a lot like the plotline for a zombie show -- think: The Walking Dead -- the event in question couldn't be further afield.

Every other month, a dedicated group of Vancouver poets host readings in which they celebrate the work of -- yes, dead poets. They call themselves the Dead Poets Reading Society, and should not be mistaken for the similarly-titled film with Robin Williams.

Yesterday's event had series founder David Zieroth reading from the poems of Thomas Hardy. I'd known Hardy as a novelist (Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Jude the Obscure, etc.), not a poet, and Zieroth offered just enough in the way of introduction and backnotes to really make the poems (if not the poet himself) come to life.

Diane Tucker then presented poems by Christina Rossetti. Again, I was surprised, especially by the underlying sexuality in the poems. As I said to Diane afterwards, 'I'd always pretty much dismissed Christina Rossetti as being kind of an old fart.' Hardly poetic, but that's what I'd thought.

Miranda Pearson then read poems by Stevie Smith. Pearson's lovely English accent made it almost seem as though Smith might be in the room. And yes, she read the most famous of her poems, "Not Waving but Drowning" -- the phrase Janet Frame picked up in her great(est?) novel, Faces in the Water.

Garry Thomas Morse (pictured above) did a similarly eerie reading of work by Jack Spicer. This wasn't too surprising a choice for Morse, as his 2010 collection, After Jack, is a kind of transformational homage to Spicer.

The event ended with John Donlan presenting examples of the lifework of Edward Thomas, a poet I'd never heard of. Like, duh. I'm supposed to know these things, aren't I? Thomas was killed in World War I, only three years after he'd turned to poetry. It's interesting to imagine what he might have written had he lived.

Several of the afternoon's presentations seemed almost like channeling -- but maybe I was just getting into the spirit of things.

The next reading in the series will celebrate the poetry of Irving Layton. The event will take place on March 11th, the day before what would have been Layton's 100th birthday. Maybe see you there.

Good intentions, at least

No, I don't take the plunge at the annual Polar Bear Swim, but I do my best to always attend, at least cheering on the crazies -- er, participants.

Still, this is part of my resolve to walk more this year. A walk along the promenade at White Rock beach is always a great way to start the new year. And a good way to put one resolution into practice.

Year of the Road Trip

I like looking back at year end, to see what happened, what registered as being important. It's all part of setting myself up for a new year, new adventures.

Biggest of all in 2011 had to be the road trip in The Rattler. Coast-to-coast and then some, exploring North America. If you'd like to follow along with our travels, click here to see where they began.

I saw so many places I’d never seen before - Amelia Earhart’s birthplace, the Grand Canyon, the Outer Banks of North Carolina, the Royal Tyrrell Museum...

Even better, I saw so many friends I hadn’t seen in years – Bob, Betty Joan and John...

Best of all, everyone in my family stayed healthy - with appetite, desire to go places, do things.

And as kind of bonus, I had a new book published, fiction at that – a new step for me.

It seems a good time to count the good things that have happened. It's probably a good way to start gathering more good things for 2012. Try it.

Puzzling

A quote in a friend's Christmas card has had me puzzling for an answer. The query she posed (from a novel by Colm Toibin) was this: "Tell me something you are sure is true..."

At first it seemed easy enough, but the more deeply I thought on it, the more difficult it became.

But because one thing is pretty-much-true -- this is my week 'off' -- I've been playing at another kind of puzzling. I'm hoping by week's end, I'll be able to reclaim my table for more substantial things than 'puzzling' with pieces of jigsawed cardboard.

Return of the light

In this time zone (PST) the winter solstice occurred twelve hours ago. From here on in, so long as the clouds aren't too thick, there'll be more light in the sky each day, leading us into spring towards summer.

Those of us who observe the Solstice aren't the only ones lighting our homes. The menorah candles are casting light for Hanukkah (Chanukah); trees and windows and eaves bear coloured lights.

These traditions seem to be so ingrained, it's almost as if they're part of our genetic heritage. But whatever reasons we have for illuminating our homes, light brings hope and joy to our celebrations.

Whatever you choose to do this time of year, enjoy!

An early visit

Look who I spotted!

He was just arriving at a local day-care centre. I must admit I was a little surprised to see him stepping out of a car (snowy white, at least), and I asked him where the sleigh was. He explained that the reindeer weren't feeling very well, so he'd let them stay home to rest up for the big night.

This sighting was almost as exciting as when I was little and came home from the Santa Claus parade with this lie for my mother: Not only had Santa waved to me, he'd called out my name in greeting. Wasn't I the lucky one not to get a stocking full of coal.

The good, the bad, and the sometimes-ugly

The past week has seen the deaths of three people who represented each of the attributes above.

The good, Vaclav Havel. Man of the arts, leader of his country as it moved out from under the Russian thumb. If ever there were a combination of intelligence, creativity and integrity in a leader, he'd get my vote.

And then there's the matter of the unquestionably bad, Kim Jong-il. It's hard to think of a leader who might present a greater contrast to Havel than this man. Dictator, suppressor of human rights, threatener of nuclear war -- how awful could one person be? And oh yes, the propaganda about him was always amazing, like the story of his first game of golf, when he shot the Superman score of 38.

And then there was Christopher Hitchens. Although he was no world leader, he certainly exerted a broad-reaching influence with his books and other assorted writings. And though his work was always thought-provoking, he did express a few sometimes-ugly opinions. To my mind, the worst was his support of the unnecessary war in Iraq that G.W.Bush created. (If only that trillion dollars could have been put to better use.)

And while Hitch certainly didn't expect any kind of afterlife, who knows what conversation might be if these three were to meet up? Wherever they may be (or not be), may they rest.

What's so smart about smart meters?

I haven’t been able to figure out what, exactly, is supposed to be so dumb about the old ones.

They seem to track our power use just fine. BC Hydro hasn’t complained that it’s not tracking accurately, so what’s the trouble?

Supposedly the new ‘smart’ one will let me know when I’m being wasteful. Only hang on, I can figure that out. Or, if I’m not sure, I can go outside and look at the meter. If it’s whirling too fast, I know there must be something on that’s eating the power. The clothes dryer? an electric heater?? something to check, or maybe turn off?

One goal of the new ‘smart’ ones might be to make a bunch more human jobs redundant. Yet even that won’t be much of a savings. Meter readers don’t make big-time wages, and most of them now serve double-duty, reading gas meters at the same time they check the electricity consumption.

Oh, Hydro's got their promo up and running (what did that cost us?) and even claiming this will make our power cheaper. But if that's the case, why were they seeking a rate hike? Maybe to pay for these? Meters that a lot of people seem to not want?

Many groups and individuals have posted information about the perils posed by these new devices. Here’s a link to more information. Here’s even one with information about how to replace your ‘smart’ meter with an old one; this same article also contains links to forms for making official complaints to Hydro – and more.

The old meter that’s outside my house still seems to be working just fine.

Whatever happened to the concept, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ Or, is this just some deal cooked up between BC Hydro and the company that supplies these? Because if it is, I suppose that might qualify as some kind of (even if dirty) ‘smart’.

Not-quite-winter walkabout

The calendar says December. The morning sun is so low in the sky, it enters the window almost horizontally. Easy to see that Solstice is near.

Today was cool, but without a breath of wind -- perfect for taking a long, lazy walk.

Sneaky

I’ll bet there’ve been times while you’re paying for a purchase when someone has asked, “Would you like to give $2 to the food bank? ...breast cancer research? ...your local hospital?”

Of course you would. You’re a good person. But wait a little minute before handing over your money.

Next time a cashier asks whether you’d like to donate a couple of bucks to X or Y charity or noble cause, think about where it’s going and why they’re collecting it.

The first place it’s going is into a bundle of dough handed over by kind-hearted souls like you. And the supermarket (or Post Office or other fill-in-the-blanks corporation) is holding onto it, counting it, and getting ready for the day THEY get to donate it to charity. Such presentations are often accompanied by plenty of frou-frah – frequently, even a photo op for the local paper.

They’re using YOUR money, then getting the credit. And that credit is not only of the feel-good variety, but also the tax credit for making a charitable donation.

If this practice annoys you, don’t take it out on the cashier. That person has been directed to ask – in fact, MUST ask every single customer, and can be reprimanded for not doing so.

These days when I’m asked, I say: I’m sorry you have to ask me to make a donation. I prefer choosing my own charity and then making a direct donation – that way I not only know where it’s going, I’m the one getting the tax credit, not your employer.

And where it’s just turned December, this is a good time to think about who you’d like to share with, where you’d like your charity dollars to go. Without the coercion of yet another corporate ploy.

Power out, wicked thoughts

It was windy last night, and this morning the power was out, knocked out sometime before dawn.

Wickedly, one of my first thoughts was that with the router down, I wouldn’t be able to get on the Internet. No emails to read or answer, no intrusions from Facebook. A morning to do whatever I felt like, not what anyone else might be asking. 

Even now, typing the words, I can feel my shoulders going down, as I think about crawling back into bed and reading by the light coming in through the window...

Oh, and the significance of all those phones? I bet if any of them were hooked up to a landline, they’d work, even if the power were out.

Writing down the demons

Dawn. You can almost see the spirits, rising in the cloud.

This was another of those weekend writing retreats at Matsqui penitentiary.

The word 'penitentiary' -- a place for penitents to deal with their sins -- in other words, a place for showing regrets.

One of the most interesting aspects of this weekend's discussions was the nature of the issues facing writers, both the inmates and those of us who live outside the walls (are we 'outmates'?).

The number one demon facing all of us is the many-headed monster of doubt. I call it many-headed because it whispers to us in so many ways, telling us we have nothing to say, that our thoughts are far too mundane. How it tells us we should give it up, that it's pointless trying to put our feelings into words.

But that's where the strength of group enters the scene. We were able to remind each other that we do have things to say, and that we each have our own way of doing so.

So, those spirits rising out of the clouds -- were they malevolent? Probably not. Were they real? Absolutely.

But we dealt with them, harnessed them so we can carry on, after the group experience comes to an end.

And with that in mind, today is a day for using that harnessed strength and putting words to page again. Simply because that's what we do.

Chasing the snow away

Transit is usually my mode for getting to Vancouver. Only, sometimes it just doesn’t work -- the bus or train doesn’t go where I need it to go, or the timing means the car’s the only way.

Last night was one of those times – only wouldn’t ya know, it turned out to be the day for Vancouver’s first dusting of snow.

It’s always a treat when that first icing of white decides to decorate the North Shore mountains or Mt Baker. But when it comes down onto the plain that is the city and environs, the thrill quickly fades.

The day's trip was for a cause – a downright writerly one. An afternoon meeting with my ever-helpful writers’ group, supper together, then a dash across town to the delightful Prophouse Café for an event in the Twisted Poets Series.

It felt like a heck of an honour to be reading with Michael Turner who is, after all, the only writer I can think of who’s had a book of poems made into a feature film. And of course, he didn’t bite. In fact, he bought me a drink. He was a perfect gentleman and read from a range of work that encompassed the whole of the city and then some.

The poets who read at the open mic were amazing as well. From Dennis Bolen’s explosive work to the night’s closing reader, Miguel Burr (a finalist in the 3-Day Novel Contest, a poet who even provided back-up tunes), it was not your average open mic event. Many were very skilled poets, poets I know we’ll be hearing more from – Eva Waldauf, Shannon Rayne, Timothy Shay and of course, the evening’s organizer, Bonnie Nish.

I’m grateful for venues like the Prophouse and White Rock’s Pelican Rouge. Especially in these arts-endangered times, they provide a lot more than coffee. Food for the mind, food for warming the soul. Warm enough that when I came outside to leave, although there was a dusting of the white stuff on my car, the roads were clear and fine.

Food from Mars?

No, but it sure looks as though it’s from someplace other than earth. Don't you think so?

Although there seems to be some dispute whether it’s cauliflower or broccoli, the experts at least agree that Romanesco is in the family brassica.

It was just one of the treats I found at Port Townsend’s winter version of their famous Farmers Market.

I offered the Romanesco as crudités to accompany homemade homous, then used the rest of it in a stir-fry.

So far at least, no little green horns growing from my head…

Ones of a kind

When we started our big crazy trip last year, the place we began in was just across the line in Washington state. We’re taking advantage of the long weekend, and gone back across that invisible line of the border, spending a few days in one of our favourite places by the sea, Port Townsend.

Readers of this blog will know that I often observe ways to make new beginnings – whether that’s observing the formality of January first, the beginning of September, or my birthday. Besides revisiting the spot where our tour began, today presents another kind of new beginning.

Unless our calendar starts over at zero again, or we get a new kind of year that contains 22 months, we won’t have another day where we can write the date with only a single digit – and not just in this particular lifetime – ever.

I feel especially hopeful for this particular round of new beginnings, partly because we attended a very different kind of ceremony to observe this always-significant day, November 11th.

We joined in with the locals and attended a midday observance at the local Legion. A fabulous band played wonderful music, the speeches were thoughtful and respectful – and best of all, every speaker seemed to focus on peace.

Peace, that’s my kind of new beginnings (and hey, the free lunch, complete with yummy desserts was pretty all right too).

November Ferry to (and from) Gabriola

I can’t think how many years it’s been that I’ve been meaning to read Malcolm Lowry’s novel, October Ferry to Gabriola. And I suppose for at least as long, I’ve been meaning to actually take the ferry there myself.

Yesterday, I accomplished one of those goals, finally visiting this seemingly hardest-to-get-to Gulf Islands.

It’s all but impossible to get there as a foot passenger, as the ferry to Gabriola is nowhere near either of the arrival points from the mainland. Luckily, I was travelling with a friend, so expenses were less of an issue and I drove.

We were there to take part in a reading for the League of Canadian Poets -- a benefit to raise funds memorializing the poet (and painter and writer of prose), P. K. Page. Here’s my colleague and co-reader, Sandy Shreve, hypnotizing the crowd with her poem about crows.

It was one of those crisply perfect autumn days. We even got a quick show from a few orcas in the bay.

From what I’ve been able to learn in reading about Lowry’s book, the main character doesn’t quite make it to the island. At least I’m lucky enough to say that I’ve finally set foot on Gabriola, even if this visit was much too short.

Anniversaries and other observances

There’s something about November that lends itself to remembering. And it’s not just the fact of Remembrance Day on the 11th.

Even the words form a kind of imperfect rhyme: ‘November / Remember’.

On a happy note, today is the day to observe the 75th birthday of our national public broadcaster, the CBC. Even people who don’t listen to it mostly acknowledge the value of having such a system in place – and commercial-free at that! I can’t describe the many things I’ve learned or been entertained by or fascinated by – just by the sounds that come out of that little black box in my kitchen.

Today is also the day we still celebrate our friend Miki’s birthday. We even ate some wild mushrooms with our supper in his honour.

But that flame in today’s image is also there to observe the anniversary of Norman Morrison’s self-immolation. Technically, he wasn’t the first to take such drastic action, but he did it outside the office of then-Secretary of US Defense, Robert McNamara.

Morrison’s death marked another turning point (or maybe it was a ratcheting-up point) in the rise of the movement that helped bring an end to the Vietnam War.

Thinking of that brave 31-year-old (far braver than I will ever be) renews my faith in the idea of hoping for change. And while I’m not extolling any more self-immolations, I am firmly believing in the power of the people, especially as represented by those who comprise the Occupy-Wherever forces. May they continue speaking out, and continue to do so with the voice of consensus.