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.

Silly and fun

... and easy. Those are usually the best Halloween costumes. The ones that come together, often at the last minute. Bits of this, a little of that, with something in-between.

This is the hat I wore for my costume as The Magnetic Poet (yep, it's a metal colander -- will go back into service for pasta soon, I am sure).

With a small metal clipboard on a string as a necklace (with words magnetized onto it too), all I had to do was put on some silly clothes. A red sweater, an orange skirt, red gloves, a red-and-orange scarf...you get the picture.

Oh, and a bag of more magnetic words, which turned into a group-effort poem on my friend's fridge.

Happy Hallowheeeeen!

Bounty of an autumn walk

It's amazing -- all the treasures that pop out during this, the harvest season of the year.

Like one final push before the frosts get hard, these little beauties appear in multitude.

Today's walk revealed (front and centre) chanterelles, (behind those, towards the left and upward) several varieties of boletes, (far left and far right) parasols in various stages of opening. The curly black ones just behind the chanterelles are the wonderfully textured helvellas. The rusty-orange pile on the right is simply my scarf, which got pressed into service as a 'container' when I ran out of bags to fill.

Most of these mushrooms will get eaten fresh over the next few days. The rest will get dried (five racks of the dryer are already filled with parasols). They'll nourish our palates (and memories of forest walks) all winter long.

Tales of the 351

I can understand if you’re having trouble figuring out what the image is. I’m still scratching my head as to why these things have to happen.

It’s a pic I snapped the other night on the #351 bus home from town.

The Canada Line is all swish and swell, and the driverless trains just keep a-comin’ till somebody shuts 'em down sometime well after midnight. But because connector buses to the southern 'burbs have a drastically cut schedule (down to only one per hour) after 11pm, the line-ups for the buses just grow and grow as the trains blindly bring riders to the changeover station.

Plenty of concerts and other events in Vancouver start around 8 (movies often at 9 or 9:30), so it’s only logical to see that many riders will be starting to head home sometime after 11. But some brainy administrator (who’s obviously never stood outside in the cold waiting for a bus) seems to have determined that everybody who lives past Richmond must go to bed by eleven.

Sure, there’s a bit of an overhang for shelter while you wait, but that’s it. And nary a toilet in any Translink station, so hang on!

Because the bus I was on (11:50 pm) was only faintly illuminated, it was hard to tell just how many passengers were standing. My best count (I did it twice) was over 30. With the number of seats on the bus (47) and the number standing – even if my head count was off, we were well over the stated capacity (60).

I’m grateful the driver was willing to take all of us, and that he didn’t want to leave anyone behind in the cold. As he pointed out as he asked everyone to keep moving back, “We don’t want to leave them out there for another hour.”

He drove smoothly and carefully, and a number of us thanked him for squeezing us all in. I guess we were just lucky that pretty well everyone on the ride that night was nice and slim!

Translink doesn’t seem to think there’s a problem with their scheduling. As of last contact, they have ‘no plans’ to add more late-night buses. Guess we better get used to this – and hope that all the drivers on the line are willing to bend the rules for the sake of riders on the 351 route.

Theatre in the 'burbs

Despite the cleaner air and somewhat lower costs of living, life in the suburbs lacks a number of elements.

Number one on the list would have to be the choice (or lack thereof) in opportunities for professional theatrical productions.

Happily, the Surrey Arts Centre runs a satellite series of productions based out of Vancouver's Arts Club Theatre. Last night's show was the season's kick-off and wow, did it rock!

Buddy: The Buddy Holly Story starred Zachary Stevenson (whose pretty much note-perfect voice was certainly convincing as Holly), but it was the work of the whole ensemble that made the performance the event that it was.

One of the elements that emerges from the show is the depth of Holly's genius. You can't help but hear how much his music influenced the Beatles, a band who patterned their name after Holly's group, the Crickets. (And where do you suppose the Hollies got their name?)

I have to say that the sound in the newly renovated theatre last night sure beat the tinny speakers on the old 'hi-fi' record player I used to listen to, playing those 45s over and over while my mother quietly went crazy.

It's just too bad I couldn't take a photo of the performance, though I can't imagine my camera would have caught the high-end energy of all that talent. Still, for a preview, here's a link to the trailer.

The Surrey show runs until October 28th. A link to tickets is here, as are listings for other performances in other 'burbs and outposts in B.C.

Sometimes life in the sticks ain't so bad after all.

Occupy Vancouver

The movement I first witnessed last week in Taos has come to Vancouver, the city where it all started, with Adbusters Magazine. Crowd estimates vary, but when I was there in the afternoon, the people gathered outside the art gallery were definitely in the thousands.

It probably helped that the sun was shining. The day felt glorious -- like the start of a very good thing.

Speakers were amazingly eloquent, the crowd delightfully polite. One of the issues addressed was free (or much less expensive) post-secondary education, so graduates don't need to go out into the world with a debt load bigger than mortgages than used to be. The fact that government rarely seems to listen to listen to the people or even heed data was another (as in the current build-more-prisons-faster mania of the Harperites, or their tear-down the Ministry of Environment as fast as the ozone hole grows philosophy). Joblessness, homelessness -- the issues exist and can't keep being swept under the rug.

This movement may indeed be the change we've all been waiting for. Fingers crossed as we go forward, towards better lives for all.


And from the number of tents set up on the north side of the gallery, it appears that quite a number of people plan to be here for the long haul. As the old saying used to put it, 'Power to the People'. Maybe it's time.

Small beginnings

The lazy-looking little stream above is part of the famous Rio Grande. Hardly looks very 'grande' but I guess everything that's eventually big starts out small.

This tiny demonstration in Taos, New Mexico (yep, there were only three people when we drove past) is the first I've seen in the Occupy Wall Street movement.

I suspect that, like the Rio Grande, small beginnings will be leading to greater things.

On being led...

I like it when I seem to fall into good things, especially when each of those good things leads its way into another. That’s kind of how this trip to Santa Fe came about. The Dear Man was off to a photographic conference, and I managed to come along for the ride.

When we got here, one of the first brochures he spotted was advertising a writers’ festival. Since he knows I’m not a big-time shopper, he knew this would be exactly what I'd want to do.

Because Friday’s first reading didn’t start until 4:30, I had plenty of time to stroll around Santa Fe’s beautiful downtown. The place is almost an embarrassment of arts and culture – there’s far too much to take in on one short trip. Still, I did my best.

Although it’s probably best known as Georgia O’Keeffe territory, the galleries, museums and shops here are filled with all sorts of treasures. The handmade quilt in the photo above was only one of the many spectacular items I saw.

Walking through an underground mall of gallery shops, I spotted a number of fine Japanese prints. Falling into conversation with the shop owner, I learned that he was hoping to travel to Japan – and that when there, he hoped to make a documentary, revisiting sites referred to by the famous haikuist, Basho.

From there, it was on to the New Mexico History Museum, site of the writers’ fest. Owing to cold and rainy weather, the readings had been moved indoors, to a room holding an exhibit called From a Distant Road. It’s a remarkable exhibit of modern haiga by Santa Fe poet, John Brandi. The exhibit is rounded out by photographs from New Mexico’s Photo Archives, and these in turn are matched with excerpts from the work of – who else – Basho.

It was beginning to feel like an abundance of those serendipitous signs I love receiving; they always make me feel as though I’m in the right place at the right time. This feeling was only confirmed by the readers who followed.

Besides reading from her beautiful book, My Thin-Skinned Wandering, (even the title seems Basho-like), Piper Leigh showed us a kimono she had made. The kimono itself is a poem; the text is embedded within the sheer cloth – a gorgeously innovative way to present the work. More of what she'd probably call a "high-touch artifact" (a term she used in describing her book).

Then, when the next reader, Renée Gregorio (one member of the group Tres Chicas) stepped up, she took me only further into my day of happenstance. In fact, the coincidences were getting so thick, the day was beginning to feel like one of those Russian nesting dolls. She thanked the audience, then indicated her comfort in the venue, pointing out that the poet/artist whose work adorned the walls is her husband.

Today’s skies are blue, and the crows are calling for me to come out and play. Really, how can I possibly say no to them?

An e-Sign of the Times

Yesterday was a travel day. It was only two flights, but there were far too many airport shuttles, and way too much sitting around.

In the waiting area at LAX, I couldn’t help noticing how just about everyone was hooked up to some sort of electronic device. Most of them were talking on cell phones, texting, or playing games to pass the time. Several were reading – but from Kindles or other e-readers.

Aside from a couple who were reading from old-fashioned print newspapers, I only spotted one other person reading from a traditional print-format publication. Ironically, he was reading Wired, the magazine that's all about e-communication.

And then, later the news, with the day's final irony: Steve Jobs, the man who had initiated so much of this, had died.

Even if his devices mostly seem to start with an ‘i’, he certainly did a lot to extend the bounds of our physical world to the one we inhabit now, a decidedly e-world.

Peace in the forest

This was a weekend for a different kind of retreat – a getaway for doing nothing in particular.
Just the two of us, off and away. No alarm clock, no agenda, no computer.

Even the weather co-operated (mostly), allowing us to take lazy strolls through the bush. Aside from encountering several piles of bear scat, we appeared to be the only mammals around. We were on our own, alone in the midst of all that woodsy beauty. Even the air seemed to carry a tang of green.

The trees were filled with birdsong. The streams were full of salmon, splashing their way towards home.

And hidden under the softest green moss were the golden treasures of the season, the chanterelles. A bounty to bring home, to enjoy and to share.

Word on the Street was…

Windy. As you can see, the winds were so strong, the Poetry Tent was deemed unsafe and had to be dismantled. There it lies, collapsed on the ground, and while you can’t see them, the poets are mostly wandering around, wondering where and when their readings will happen.

Wet. Mid-afternoon, the rains began. Booksellers especially were scrambling to cover their wares. Protected venues and indoor exhibits saw bigger-than-ever audiences.

Waiting. This was especially for the poets – still waiting (and wondering) when the readings might resume, as various alternate areas each in turn proved to be unavailable.

Warm. There’s a special kind of bond that emerges when a group is oppressed. And while the 'oppression' involved was hardly worthy of the word, there was a lot of great bonding as the throng of poets gathered in Translink’s Poetry in Transit double-bus. The powerless vehicle served as rain shelter for over an hour while the powers-that-be continued trying to find a venue for the long-postponed readings.

Wonderful. And yes, the poets finally convinced the WOTS volunteers that even without light or amplification, we could each take our turns reading a poem or two.

Wildly successful – an assessment that would likely be echoed by any of the thousands who partook in this always well-attended annual Vancouver event.

Retreat means renewal – of spirit, body and mind

By definition, the word retreat suggests a withdrawing. In my case, it meant withdrawing from the mundane tasks of ordinary, everyday life: dishes, cooking, laundry, newspapers, phone calls, plants that need watering – you know how long the list can be.

It was a withdrawing with a purpose, as a way to make time to focus on writing. While it may seem extreme to get in the car and literally go away for such respite, it can be a hugely valuable experience.

Beyond selecting clean clothes for the day (from the limited wardrobe in my suitcase), there were pretty well no decisions to make.

And being freed up from making decisions is amazingly liberating. Even when the decisions are as small as ‘What should I get from the freezer for supper?’ they take up valuable mind space that could be used towards more productive ends. There wasn’t even the matter of deciding what to watch on tv, as there wasn't one.

It became easy to focus on what I wanted to accomplish. Aside from being lured toward the lake for contemplative walks, there were really no distractions. Besides, moving my feet often helps me move the wheels in my brain. Those walks were the source of many ideas and useful insights.

It probably helped that the site of this retreat was such a calming, peaceful place, nestled beside a lake, in amongst so many trees.

It probably also helped that the food there nourished not only my body, but also my sense of aesthetics, which in turn fed my imagination and creativity. The salad in the picture was only the first course in one of our many fabulous meals.

I also found it nourishing to be in the company of four like-minded companions. During the day we kept silence and worked intently.

After supper, we spent our evenings discussing what we’d written, offering workshop comments to each other.

But those evening also saw us engaged in spectacular conversations, the likes of which I probably haven't had since university days. God, the meaning of life, our views of an afterlife, secrets...These discussions were like the best slumber party I ever attended, and we didn’t even have to stay up all night to get to the good parts.

Getting in touch with ourselves seems a sensible thing to do now and then. Whether we have a specific goal in mind (such as writing) or simply want to relax and un-stress, quiet ‘away’ time can provide a remedy to the demands of everyday life.

Besides being a word that suggests a withdrawal or stepping back, it’s also worth considering the ‘treat’ part of the word retreat. I look forward to the next time I can ‘re-treat’ myself this way.

Still time

If you think you’re at the wrong blog, you’re not. This isn’t What’s fer Supper, it’s still the big limb. And the photo isn’t even supper, it’s lunch.


No, I haven’t gone all fancy with noonday meals. I’m lucky enough to be away on retreat, so there’s a whole staff of kitchen workers pulling off these daily miracles.

And miracles they would absolutely seem to be if any of us were unfortunate enough to live in the drought-stricken areas of Africa.

Yes, this writing retreat is all about being silent and still – experiencing ‘still time’ to quiet the thoughts of the noisy world and focus in on the writing.

But it’s also 'still time' in that there are still a couple of days when the federal government will match donations we make on behalf of the starving children, women and men who had the bad luck to be born across the world from where we live.

The CBC website serves as a clearing house for a number of charitable groups. Of course, you may well already have your own favourite charity.

We have until the 16th to get in on the promised matching funds from the government.

I hope you feel this cause is as important as I do. And that maybe you’ll look at your next meal a little differently, perhaps with more gratitude for all you have.

Celebratory!

For too many months, the city of White Rock has felt grey and dreary -- and it hasn't had anything to do with the weather. So many shop windows are papered over, the place sometimes feels like a ghost town.

But today the sun was shining -- and not just in the sky. The brightness was reflected in the faces of the many people filling the walkways and streets.

Musicians played in several venues (in fact, it was difficult to take everything in), vendors were demontrating their wares along the sidewalks. There was even a 'bouncy castle' playground for kids.

One of the day's activities was the official opening of a month-long fibre arts festival, Outside the Box. Lots of art to look at, even a dance in celebration of the medium. 

No one can complain that there isn't plenty going on in White Rock these days. It's a treat to see the place so vibrantly alive.

An opportunity to be heard

It isn't very often that ordinary people get to play a direct role in decisions about their governance. But yesterday provided just such an opportunity.

This July, Skip Triplett was chosen to conduct a series of public gatherings that would allow such input to occur. The focus of these sessions is the current state of gaming grants to community groups in British Columbia.

Anyone who visits this blog knows that I often write about the arts and that I frequently find myself needing to advocate on their behalf -- especially since there have been such deep cuts to funding. Heck, I've even 'gone out on a limb' and stopped buying lottery tickets!

Yesterday's session, held in Surrey, drew presentations not only from a range of arts groups, but from crime prevention groups, athletic organizations, and associations that offer child care programs or shelter for women and children escaping violence.

In every instance, the message was the same. Our community is assisted or enriched by the services we provide. Our funding has been cut. We don't know how we can carry on.

Nearly every group shared accounts of having to vacate premises, lay off staff, reduce or cancel services. 

But on the other hand, every group offered concrete suggestions for how the situation might be improved.

There was a wonderful atmosphere of cooperation and understanding. It felt as though we were really all reaching for answers.

Best of all, Mr Triplett actually seemed not only to listen, but to care. He's keeping a blog of what he learns at these sessions. And he's also willing to hear from others who aren't able to attend the hearings.

All I can hope is that the spirit of positive change in the air at the session will translate into real change for arts and culture groups in this province.

[Vancouver residents, please note: hearings are scheduled for that city on Saturday, September 17th.]

School's in!

Today's the day students headed back to classes. But here in B.C., teachers are in the unenviable position of being without a contract (again). They've initiated a mild-sounding variety of job action, not doing tasks that are considered administrative ones. Among requests from teachers are a pay raise that will bring them to equity with teachers in other provinces -- provinces where it's less expensive to live than here -- and considerations to permit them input on class size.

Neither prospect seems likely to happen, as there's been a wage freeze here for public sector employees for far too long. Oh, unless you're a Member of the Legislature, in which case it wasn't that long ago you got a 29% increase in your pay.

As for class size, that consideration was taken away in 2002, the last time this province had Christy Clark serving as Minister of Education. This time, she's in office again, but as Premier of the province, so it doesn't seem like a good time to be looking for class size consideration. All of this despite the fact that she poses as being all in favour of whatever serves to benefit family.

On another educational front, two of Canada's universities, McGill in Montreal and Toronto's U of T, made it into the top rungs in a world ranking of top schools. Toronto inched at number 23, while McGill earned number 17.

These rankings are based on a number of factors, but one of the key criteria (constituting 20% of the points allotted) is faculty/student ratio.

It's a shame to think such a factor is important to evaluators doing world-wide ratings, but that it doesn't matter much to the powers-that-be around here. After all, the only losers aren't yet old enough to vote.   

Launched

Last night finally saw a BC launch for my novella, Shrinking Violets. The flowers were a gift from a friend who couldn't attend.

It may seem odd to consider that the book was launched in Montreal way back at the end of April, in Toronto and London (Ontario) in May, in Saskatoon and Red Deer in June, and only now (finally) out here on the coast where I live. Best of all, it was at White Rock's Pelican Rouge Coffee House, the site of so many local literary events.

In part, this delay had to do with the fact that so many people (including me) like to get away during the summer.

But it also had something to with the fact I like to think of September as the time for going forward with new beginnings. So, in that light, if September 1st is the 'true' new year, I guess last night was a great time for celebrating New Year's Eve, along with all the promise a new year should always hold.

Plenty of books were sold and signed -- a very nice omen for launching not only a book, but a new year.

In praise of hope

There's something courageous about a flag at half-mast, especially against the blue of a summer sky. It's a combination of sadness and joy, probably the same combination of feelings so many of us are experiencing today, the day of Jack Layton's funeral.


The words of the letter he left for us have already been championed as a manifesto for change, as impetus to go forth and change the world to the better place we want it to be.


The CBC has taken his words to heart and put out the challenge on their website, How would you make the world a better place?

That might seem like an awfully big question, but it's manageable if each of simply looks within and asks, What will I do today to make the world a better place?


I'm taking Jack Layton's final thoughts seriously, especially the parts about Hope being better than fear, Optimism being better than despair.

One of my greatest hopes is that his death won't have been in vain. I'm hoping that it will serve as a rallying point for the Left to take a page from what the Conservatives have done (aligning the voices of the Right). I am optimistic that the various socially conscious factions -- be they NDP, Green or Liberal -- will find ways to heal their differences and join together.


Coming together seems like the greatest way to honour the memory of Jack, and the best of way of fulfilling his desire that we change the world. And what better time to start changing the world than now?

PS Lipstick Press has been honouring Jack Layton by posting poems.

A better-than-fair day at the fair

Despite being regular fair-goers, when the PNE celebrated its centenary last year, we somehow managed to not get there. But yesterday we made up for it and as a reward, even the weather cooperated.

The food is always a highlight (little doughnuts, soft ice cream, perogies…), but this year the real treat was the performances we saw.

Chris Isaak and his always-hotshot band rocked a sea of people out under the stars (we even got to see the space station fly over).

The night’s tribute band Revolver peformed the music of the Beatles. I liked the fact that they didn't try to look like the original Fab Four (what could be worse than middle-aged men in tired wigs?) but offered some remarkable renditions of the songs.

For me, a dyed-in-the-wool survivor of Beatlemania, it was very cool to overhear snippets of conversation on the midway, especially from teenagers: “Hey, that’s a Beatles’ song!” Yep, the Beatles remain a band that’s pretty enduring. Nyah nyah to those all those dorky guys who used to criticize my girlfriends and me for loving the Beatles -- I guess we didn’t have such bad taste in music after all.

But the best show of the evening was another PNE freebie, the Peking Acrobats. As would be expected, all the acrobats were lean and fit and omigod-flexible; they'd probably been in training since they were tiny children.

The fellow balanced on top of all those chairs managed a number of stunts once he was up there. (To note: the legs of the lowest chair were balanced on four bottles that looked like they might have once held champagne; those in turn were on top of a very tall table).

After tilting the topmost chair, balancing it on only one of its legs, he then did a single-handed handstand while extending his legs most elegantly.

It must have taken years to become so skilled (and apparently, fearless).

As for me, I figure I’m doing well if I can balance on one leg while I’m reaching for a casserole dish on the top shelf of the cupboard.

A Ferry Tale

Once upon a time in a kingdom by the sea there stood a series of islands, treed and green. These islands, so resplendent, especially when bathed in the golden glow of sunset, tempted the folk on the mainland, who toiled through the week at their weary-making tasks.

Long ago, in the springtime of the realm, the people from the mainland used to enjoy taking short trips to visit the dreamy islands. To get there, they would ride on sturdy ferries which in turn rode the sparkling seas, as if the waves were logical extensions of the roadways.

But as so often happens – especially in tales – change came upon the kingdom. Dark clouds of greed gathered along the horizon. A new emperor named Gordon came all smiling amongst the people and occupied a castle on the largest of the dreamy islands.

Gordon grinned to the friends he had brought to the castle and told them that he had plans to rearrange the kingdom. First, he’d appoint a new steward who would take charge of the lovely boats that plied the waters to the dreamy islands. And he appointed none other than a prince by the name of David.

Soon after Prince David took charge of the fleet, little things began to change, amongst them the fares. Though they’d steadily gone up in the past (hadn’t almost everything, save for wages?), they now rose incredibly – 40% on the main routes, 69% on the ones deemed as minor, and even higher yet in those in the northern reaches of the kingdom. But these things didn’t matter to Emperor Gordon and his friends, as they didn’t much enjoy having to wait in long lines, so they usually took a helicopter or plane anyway.

And Prince David didn’t think much about the fare hikes, as he kept getting raises and sacks-of-gold bonuses for all he’d done to do his part in privatizing the people’s network of transportation.

But then one day it suddenly occurred that not so many people were taking the ferries any more – not even the ones who’d learned to leave their cars behind and trek over as foot passengers, lugging their goods in backpacks and rolling carts.

When someone told Prince David that his fleet was losing money, he pointed out the shining window of his tall glass tower towards the sky and said, “Ah, but the weather is to blame.”

Then, when the sun continued to shine, he looked out another gleaming pane of glass, towards the towers of his old friends at the nearby bank. A small line creased his face, giving him an air of concern, and he pointed again, this time saying, “Ah, but it’s the loonie – much too high.”

The cleaning woman, who happened to be in his office, polishing one of its many windows, dared to look upon the prince, and said in a voice that was quiet but clear, “The fares are too high."

“Oh no,” laughed Prince David, “what could you possibly know? You’re just a simple cleaning woman and I am a prince.” And with that, he pointed his finger again, only this time at the door.

Emperor Gordon has gone away, off to live in a castle on another dreamy island, one that’s much too far to reach by any ferry. In the meantime, Prince David continues to offer his elaborate excuses. And while no one knows yet whether anyone will live happily ever after, one can only hope that at least this year Prince David won’t be receiving his usual bonus sacks of gold.

A great day for poetry

Yesterday was the 8th Annual Summer Dreams Literary Arts Festival. Sponsored by Pandora's Collective, it's held at Lumberman's Arch in Vancouver's beautiful Stanley Park, and with all that sea and sky and tall trees around, it's a setting that's hard to beat. 

The only bad part about it is that there are so many different things going on -- readings, panel discussions, open mic sessions, workshops -- it's hard to get around to see and hear all that you might want to.

The performer above, Mike Johnson, is a talented performer of slam poetry. He's part of a group that takes part in Monday night sessions at Cafe Deux Soleil.

The photo to the side is one of Vancouver's most dedicated mentors, Betsy Warland, just after she's received an award from the director of the Vancouver International Writers' Festival, Hal Wake.

Great weather, wonderful poems, what a combination. But really, shouldn't every day be a great day for poetry!

The intangibles

I've been reading a pretty darn grim (but great) novel, Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin. It's constructed as a series of letters written by a woman to her ex-husband. As parents, they share the horror of having a son who's gone on a rampage and killed a number of people at his high school.

I'm not giving anything away by saying this much -- these bare facts are revealed almost immediately. The layers of additional information keep getting peeled back for an unbelievably gripping 400 pages.

But despite all the darkness you might imagine to be found here (and yes, you'd be right, there's plenty), there are occasional glimpses of the brightest sunlight, one of which struck me as I was reading this morning. 

The narrator mentions the 'intangibles' as being the "...stuff that makes life worth living."

The passage struck me as terribly important and then, when I was eating my lunch, I realized I had a concrete image of one of the 'intangibles' in my own life: a beautiful meal of leftover salad, enhanced by some wonderful salmon, accompanied by a pitcher of cold water, flavoured by mint I'd picked from the garden along with a few rings of lime. Small pleasures, but surely one of those elements that makes life so worth living.

Prisoners have rights too

Because we live in a country that still adheres to the principle of respecting human rights -- that is, the rights of all human beings -- we are expected to treat all people humanely. I, for one, believe this is a good thing and indicates that we are a civilised society.

Yet, even though we have standards when it comes to respecting human rights, we often seem to slip when it comes to the treatment of those who dwell behind bars.

Today is Prisoners' Justice Day, and I can't explain it any better than this small excerpt from a webpage about the day. It explains that it is:

...the day prisoners have set aside as a day to fast and refuse to work in a show of solidarity to remember those who have died unnecessarily -- victims of murder, suicide and neglect.

...the day when organizations and individuals in the community hold demonstrations, vigils, worship services and other events in common resistance with prisoners.

...the day to raise issue with the fact that a very high rate of women are in prison for protecting themselves against their abusers. This makes it obvious that the legal system does not protect women who suffer violence at the hands of their partners.

...is the day to remember that there are a disproportionate number of Natives, African-Canadians and other minorities and marginalized people in prisons. Prisons are the ultimate form of oppression against struggles of recognition and self-determination.

The shirt pictured in the image above is from Matsqui Penitentiary, an institution where I sometimes take part in writing workshops. It was a gift from one of the men in the program.

I understand that this year, the men at Matsqui weren't allowed to sell the shirts they've made, nor were they permitted to wear them. A small violation of rights, perhaps, but the denial of small rights only leads to the erosion of other ones. But then, all of this is easy for me to say because I live outside the confines of those walls.

For an eye-opening look at life 'inside', check out I. M. Grenada's weekly blog, The Incarcerated Inkwell. It's well-written and a great look at a very different way to have to live one's life.

Popomatic fun

If you recognize the phrase above, chances are good that you remember the game it came from, Popomatic Trouble. And if you click on that link to the game, you might be amazed at the vocabulary the copy contains – capricious, liberated, reciprocate – hardly the stuff of 140-character u r 2 cool messages.

But tonight’s experiment in Popamaticism comes in a different form, an innocent-enough looking cob of corn, only this cob contains popping corn.

The directions actually say:

Place ear in the centre of your microwave. Be brave! You don’t need a container or paper bag. You can’t see the fun if you do.

So, obedient type that I am, I did as they suggested. And while it wasn’t heaps of excitement to clean up the after-mess, I’ll admit it was fun watching it do its thing. Besides, I got a bowl of one of my favourite snacks as compensation for any inconvenience.

Would I do it again? You poppin’ bet I would.

Ripening

Another perfect day for picking a load of berries, this time the easiest to pick, blueberries. All the perfectly ripe ones nearly picked themselves, pretty much just rolled off into my hand.

The rows were full of people who had the same idea for a good way to spend the day – plenty of families were picking, with kids of just about every age in tow.

Maybe it’s part of being out in the open air, or maybe it’s the illusion of privacy afforded by the rows of tall berry bushes, but whatever it is, lots of chatting goes on amongst pickers. Inveterate eavesdropper that I am, the conversations I enjoyed most were those of the kids.

Sure, there were plenty of burp and fart remarks, lots of laughing. But there were also some treasures: “After you get your tonsils out, can you still sing?” Or, “Every day someone dies and someone is born.”

And on the thought of someone being born, today is the hundredth anniversary of Lucille Ball’s birth. As an enduring performer, she has to be one of the funniest. I’m sure if I were to watch a rerun of just about any episode of I Love Lucy, I’d find something to laugh about. Today’s paper ran a nice piece about remembering her, and referred specifically to the chocolate-factory episode, a memorable one, to be sure.

But back to those fields, where I heard other conversations. Several languages rose into the morning sun – Spanish, some Eastern European sounding language I couldn’t identify, a Chinese dialect, and just in the next row, the softer-sounding (to my ear) Japanese. I remembered that today is the day Hiroshima was bombed and almost wanted to say to them, “I’m sorry.” Instead, we chatted a bit about the berries, about how big and sweet they were, how impossible it was not to keep sampling them. And I can’t help wonder, had the times been different, could it really be that we would have needed to be enemies, rather than being strangers who could laugh together and enjoy the day in a field of ripening berries.

Nice timing!

This morning I discovered that an African violet I'd rescued from a fifty-cent table some while ago had finally decided to bloom. The blossom is just the first on a curled stem of buds that look promising.

Later in the morning, I received word that the first review of Shrinking Violets had shown up. And in the most wonderful place -- the Globe and Mail.

But then, a couple of friends who've read the book said, "Oooh, spoiler alert!"

So, if you've read the book (or don't mind a possible spoiler), here's a link to the piece which considers four current novellas from Quattro Books.

I can only hope that with the rest of the blossoms to come, there might be even more such good news.

Now's the time

It seems appropriate that today, BC Day, should be when I finally get to sending off my ballot in the HST referendum.

Besides representing a heckuva lot of paper (four envelopes, if you include the one the whole schmozzle arrived in), this entire exercise seems like such a huge waste. But if the Liberals hadn’t pretended this wasn’t coming down the pipe and raised the issue during the last election - and then people had still elected them, it would have been different.

Only now it’s all feeling so ridiculously after-the-fact, especially the threats the government keeps tossing around, about how BCers will have to pay back the Feds for the billion-plus in bribe money that Ottawa ‘gave’ us to enact the HST.

It all seems a lot like someone’s blustery uncle decided to call a family reunion and ordered a catered banquet of baby beef liver. Only said uncle chose to ignore the fact that a) the family wasn’t even asked if they wanted a reunion, and b) they’re all vegetarians.

So then, when the whole meal has to go back to the kitchen, the uncle blusters over the fact that the family doesn't want to pay for it.

Yet that’s exactly the situation the people of BC are in – and that’s no matter what the results of this vote might be. We’ll at least have to pick up the tab for all those envelopes and postage.

I’d like nothing more than to turn over the bills for all of this to those who ‘ordered the banquet’ on our behalf – Gordon Campbell and his gang. Only, oops, Gord’s already sailed to calmer (and more lucrative-sounding) waters, so he won’t get dinged for this.

Anyway, it’s time to walk up the street to toss these yellow envelopes into the box. If they get picked up tomorrow, I am hoping that they’ll make it to their destination by Friday’s deadline.

No matter which way anyone votes, the fact that this issue has earned itself a referendum indicates that the message these ballots are carrying is pretty important. I’ve got my fingers crossed that postal workers will give these look-at-me yellow envelopes the priority attention they deserve. If you haven't filled yours out yet, now would be a good time to do it.

Industrious

It's hard to see the work that's going on here, but there's a bumblebee toiling away in the flowers out on the deck. He's certainly doing more than I feel like I've been doing, as his little 'saddlebags' look nearly overflowing with bright orange pollen.

The flower is probably happier too, knowing it's been 'serviced' so well -- and on such a lovely summer day.

A sign to remember

I suspect this will be the last time I see this low a price for fuel. It was on our way home yesterday, and no, we couldn't resist the thought of less than a buck a litre, so put some into The Rattler's big tank.

Sure enough, only an hour down the road, everyone else was selling it for at least a quarter more. Lucky timing!

And we even got some of the fresh seafood while we stopped. Nothing beats Fanny Bay oysters.

Sailor's delight

Sunsets at the dock are one of the reasons I love coming back to Hornby Island. Ah, those red skies at night!

Not a solution

You've gotta hand it to the folks at BC Ferries. They've come up with a new way of saving paper.

No longer do they print out schedules for travellers to consult. Instead, they print cardboard notices that direct tourists to go to their website. But they don't just print one notice and post it for people, they print out hundreds (probably thousands, but this photo -- from one station on just one of their boats -- only bears witness to hundreds).

When I made queries at the head steward's office about sailing times for the ferry I hoped to link up with later in the day, I was told to go to the website for the PDF of all routes. "But," I explained, "I'm on holiday, so my devices are at home. I can't go to the website." Further, when I asked whether a single printout could be posted someplace on the boat for benefit of such travellers as myself, the answer was no.

But I wasn't going away, and when they saw they weren't going to get rid of me so easily, they asked me to come back in a few minutes so they could look up the route in question.

After browsing the shop and using the washroom, I came back to see if they'd found the info I needed. I'll admit they were somewhat sheepish when they said they hadn't been able to access the site.

Later during the crossing, I found a brochure about Hornby Island and there, among its informative tidbits was the schedule of ferries that would take me there. Hurrah!

Remember too, this is the same service that has signs once you leave the boat, saying "Thank you for sailing BC Ferries". The brilliance of it all -- like, how else were we supposed to get the car from the Mainland to an island?

And how welcoming is this new policy for other tourists who might not be wired up as we're all apparently supposed to be?

Clearly, a bright idea

No, that isn't a brain in a bottle. Just the result of some fooling around with the distortions a bottle of clean water can create.

For the most part, I’m not too keen on bottled water. The more I learn about it, the bigger a scam it seems to be. It sounds like an awful lot of it is just overpriced tap water. I think there used to be a joke about selling ice cubes to Inuit (though the joke is old enough they were probably called Eskimos). Anyway, I’ve pretty much put bottled water into that category – something most of us really don’t need.

But a news article brought my attention to an idea that's made me at least rethink some of my disdain for the bottles the water comes in – it’s an idea for using them to make a kind of skylight/solar-powered light bulb.

The idea is simple. A one-litre bottle gets filled with water, then a few teaspoons of bleach go in with it. A hole gets cut into the roof and the bottle is fitted into the hole in the roof, along with some bracing and sealant. Then, when the sun shines, the light gets diffused into and around the room. No power bill and, thanks to the bleach, there’s no accumulation of algae. So the water remains clear. The fixture is apparently good for about five years.

This is the sort of invention that excites me and makes me believe there is promise for our crazy human race. I want more of these good ideas – simple, inexpensive, non-polluting. General Electric used to have the slogan, Progress is our only product. Ha. The recycled plastic bottle as solar light fixture – that’s something I can really call progress.




 

An odd sort of wish

Because I’m trying to break my habit of taking endless photos – you can’t believe how many gazillions of images I need to delete – today’s garden shot is one I took way back in Newport, Washington, the town where we bumped into the rodeo.

But the reason I’m thinking about gardens is a walk I took yesterday. Yes, the flowers in everyone’s gardens were beautiful, but the part that really got me was the smells! It seemed that nearly every yard had its own particular fragrance.

It made me want a camera that could take ‘snapshots’ of scents – something like the ‘odorifics’ machine owned by Ruth Gordon’s character in the cult classic, Harold and Maude.

I guess I’ll just have to take a walk again today, and fix some of those lilting scents in the odorifics file cabinet of my mind.

Fruits of a long weekend

This is what happens when three women get up early on a Saturday and head for the strawberry fields. In only two hours, we picked nearly 80 pounds of fruit. It's probably a good thing we ran out of buckets, as the little Honda couldn't have held much more -- at least not unless one of us had decided to walk home.

I've spent part of the weekend dealing with my share, but made the most headway today -- ten jars of Christmas-gift jam and a few trays of chocolate-dipped strawbs.

Besides these, and the ones we've already eaten (plenty, trust me), there's still one more bucket left in the fridge. And look out, the raspberries can't be far behind!

Happy birthday, Canada

Even the newspaper says that it's a day to celebrate! The front page is full of newlywed royals and best birthday wishes.

Canada's 144 years old today -- and we're home again.