Fifty years and counting

The maple leaf. Hard to imagine us having anything else as a flag. Even when only half the design shows, it's totally recognizable.

But that maple leaf wasn't always on Canada's flag. Until fifty years ago today, we had several over the years including the Red Ensign which turned out to be just a little too British for some. Since then, that red maple leaf has proudly adorned backpacks, hats and even Olympic mitts.

Still, I worry now and then that the next fifty years may see this no longer be the case.

So many changes have taken place over the past decade, it's getting harder and harder to recognize our country. Peacekeeping is no longer a priority. Now we seem keen to be leading the pack into combat in Iraq. Safe haven is also no longer the case. Witness those seeking asylum who've been refused.

Exactly one month ago today, I jotted this in my notebook:

Today is the day I stopped feeling special for being Canadian.
Target closed.
Cuba opened.
We're done.
Amen. 

Nonetheless, it's far too beautiful a day to not get out into the Canadian landscape -- quick, while it's still something to call our own.

Endangered

No, it's not the roses I'm worried about. It's the postbox in front of our house.

You're wondering, am I worried about vandals? Not yet. Thieves have never seemed much interested in individual delivery boxes. All that walking, door-to-door is likely too much work for anyone looking for a fast buck -- or, as is more likely the case, an identity to steal.

It's the new 'community' group boxes that get all the action, witnessed in this news report from the weekend. [Warning: You have to put up with an ad before you get coverage about the extreme measures thieves are taking in breaking into the new boxes.]

Deepak Chopra (no, not that Deepak Chopra), the somewhat-ironically-named CEO of Canada Post, has determined -- almost single-handedly -- that the future of home delivery is doomed.

Supposedly a cost-saving measure, letter carriers will no longer walk their routes, but will drive from group box to group box, tucking whatever fits into the tiny cubicles. As someone who subscribes to a number of magazines, art ones included, this in itself presents a problem.

But that's the least of the problems. I certainly doubt Mr. Chopra's prediction that people will walk to their letterboxes. They'll drive, even if it's only a block, especially if the weather isn't perfect. What a way to encourage us to get out of our cars.

I can hardly wait for the parking mess that's just about sure to ensue in our neighbourhood.

Foolishness. Lack of foresight. Extreme lack of vision.

What else can I accuse him of?

Failing to see that his supposed 'cost-saving' measures will end up costing everyone a whole lot more.

And they call it the 'safe' way?

I've always wondered why they call our supermarket the Safeway. And for most of this winter, it's been even more puzzling.

For a couple of years, the store has supplied germ-killing wet-wipes near the entry to the store. I liked using these to wipe my hands -- but even more for the fact that I could wipe down the handle of my shopping cart. How many hands touch those each day? Yech.

But for the past few months, there haven't been any wipes at the door. Although I've spoken with both the manager and his assistant manager several times, each of them has always explained that they haven't received them despite their trying to order them.

When I've gone so far as to suggest one of them just go back into the store and bring an alternate supply to the front, they've replied that they couldn't do that. I've not really understood this, but the gentlemen in charge just shrugged and smiled and walked away, leaving me wondering. Could it really be that the store's discretionary budget can't deal with such an expense?

So today, because we're still in the midst of flu season (and experiencing a flu that this year's vaccine doesn't afford protection from), I decided to buy the poor grocery store a pack of cleansing wipes. After all, if their budget can't look after this, I can.

Gesundheit. And stay safe.

A blip?

When I saw that the price of gas had dipped below a dollar, I had to snap a photo. Quick. Before it went back over the loony line.

On Thursday I actually saw 98.9 in Vancouver, but I know these low prices won't last.

Last autumn, Steve Harper was touting the importance of oil to our country's economy, using that as an excuse to barge through the countryside with pipelines. This week, despite massive layoffs in the oil fields of Alberta (and, for that matter, across the country in all sorts of venues), he's changed his tune.

I'd like to consider believing him when he says our economy is based on much more than the extraction of fossil fuels. But it would sure be easier to do so if he'd set up some programs for ordinary people to access some of the interim methods we're going to have to explore as we wean ourselves off our addiction to oil. Rebates on electric cars? Subsidies on solar or geothermal installations?

And, while he's so busy giving tax breaks to the wealthy, might he consider giving a tax break to anyone who could prove that they'd voted? That might be a way to get out the vote -- and with luck -- see a change in government for Canada. Quick, while we've still got a country.

Flowers for Charlie

These are my small attempts at bringing spring into the house. Tulips which I bought for myself -- a small extravagance to offset the dark week that has just passed. Interesting, I think, that they get their name from the cloth used to wrap a turban. And pink ones are supposed to indicate 'caring'.

The paper-white narcissus companions have joined the tulips, though they're in their own vase. These are the ones that I forced early in December. They bloomed, but then started sagging under the weight of their blossoms. So I cut their stems and put them into water. Their sweet fragrance fills me with hope that spring is near, as do the bulbs poking up their tips in the garden.

Today, Charlie Hebdo has published a new edition, this time depicting an image of Muhammad under a banner of forgiveness. In the image, he is proclaiming (as we all have been saying), Je suis Charlie,

More than ever, the words that guided the French Revolution -- liberté, égalité, fraternité -- are echoing through the streets of Paris, and all around the world. It's time to erase our differences, or at least thoughts of fighting over them.

Something new for a new year

Because I'm a person who likes things that are 'broken-in' it's often hard to part with items that others might consider worn out, or at least well past their 'best-by-date'.

New clothes feel scratchy, new shoes can pinch. Second-hand pillow slips are softer and often prettier. Garage sale cups and serving plates are sometimes hand-painted, and nearly always more charming than those that are brand-new. Even a new book needs its pages turned before it gets good.

Still, sometimes I have to admit that an object or item of clothing has served beyond its duty. Sadly, this seems to be the case with my beloved carry-all bag from Duthie Books, a locally-owned chain of shops that closed down for good in 2010. The letters are nearly worn off and the handles are frayed enough I sometimes worry that they might break.

The bag has worked overtime as a purse for me for many years, never complaining about dragging around an oversized wallet filled with library cards and receipts. Or my camera and glasses, and often an umbrella. Not to mention various notebooks, magazines, water bottles, combs and Chapsticks that may have ridden around in its black folds.

Sentimentalist that I am, I won't be throwing it out, but I do plan (yes, for the new year) to transfer those glasses cases and gloves and assorted paraphernalia to a newer bag -- this time, navy blue, one from Word Vancouver. At least it'll still be in the literary theme. And I can only trust it'll be as faithful to me as the black one has been.

The world in pieces?

Sometimes it feels that way. Wars, the threat of climate change, random shootings and more. You know what I mean, I am sure.

And I realize the images here are only of an elaborate jigsaw puzzle. Still, I want to think of it as a metaphor for starting out the new year. Besides, it was certainly calming to take a break from all that's hectic and work on assembling it.

My wish is that 2015 will be a year where we see the people of the world coming together and working towards finding real solutions to the changes we need to accomplish.

Onward.    

Peace on earth

Wouldn't that be the most wonderful gift? Even as a child, when I used to hear beauty queens stating 'world peace' as their greatest wish, the cynic in me would quietly sneer. Doubt, even then. Or was it fear that prompted those 'as if' feelings.

Thankfully, we no longer have to rely on beauty queens to promote the idea of world peace. Think about Malala, not afraid to speak her truths, including the goal of peace.

Considering the mess the world is in, that outcome likely isn't in the cards for the very near future. Nonetheless, I can still wish for peace, especially when I consider such a peaceful image as the one of my wind chime outside the back door.

And I can at least send wishes of 'good will to all'.

However you celebrate, may it be with kindness.

The parade has begun!

 And no, I don’t mean the Santa Claus parade. That took place at least a month ago, back when the messages to ‘Buy, buy, buy!’ went into full swing. Nor do I mean the “Parade of the Wooden Soldiers” (one of the songs the choir I’m in performed earlier this month, though not at all the version in the link). This parade is the annual one that takes place here, the parade of the holiday goodies.

The banana breads are full of walnuts and will go as gifts to friends and neighbours. The butter tarts (below) are a Christmas tradition which I still make with the ‘secret recipe’ given to me years ago by Betty from the Soo.

The apricots are more of the special treats that only appear once a year. They’ve been soaking in brandy for quite a few weeks and they retain enough spirits that they probably don’t make for safe driving. Dipping them into chocolate makes them festive. I was glad to be able to make them earlier this week for the first day of Hanukkah. 

There are still a few more treats that need to be made, but it’s a good feeling that I’ve managed to make a good start. We’ll be able to do some sampling for Solstice. Convenient that it will occur just after 3 in the afternoon here. 

So yes, the holiday preparations are in full swing here. And yum, does the kitchen ever smell scrumptious! 

12-13-14

Today is the last day in most of our lifetimes when we'll be able to write the date as a consecutive set of numbers. Next time this opportunity comes up is more than 88 years from now, on the second of January, 2103.

Even then, to make it work, zeroes will have to be incorporated: 01-02-03,

It's likely by then no one will even notice the zero, as digitization of everything will have long occurred.

I'm not sure whether I'm disappointed or relieved to discover I'm not the only one who's considered the importance of this date.

A numbers nut I'll admit to being, but I suspect there are worse things to be.

Better late than never?

If I'd been serious about having bulbs in bloom for Christmas Day, I would have got started on this project much sooner. Unfortunately, too many sad things have slowed me down the last little while, the saddest being the death of a very dear friend.

Still, where she was such a skilled gardener (and especially fond of items that were exotic), it seemed important to at least start a few pots of bulbs for forcing even if they might not bloom until the new year.

The ones in the photo are one of the most traditional (and easiest) bulbs for this, paper-white narcissi, and despite how they might resemble a pan of yummy roasted onions, they are definitely not an edible.

I also planted a couple of hyacinths, each in their own Christmas-themed cup. They're so very fragrant when they bloom, they can't help but bring sweet thoughts of springtime.

My wildest experiment (also in a cup) is the Acmopetala Fritallaria. It's supposed to be easy to grow (though that may only apply to outside in the garden or in the Middle East, where they're from). Whatever, it's a species that's got to be easier to grow than to pronounce.

And just to ensure a showy display, I've got an amaryllis with a pretty good start. Those showy trumpeting blossoms are guaranteed to brighten the darkest day or mood.

I'm looking forward to having all these flowers in bloom to help me to celebrate, whether it's Christmas or New Year's or for that matter, Australia Day. Something bright and sweet to remind me of Jane.

Change for the better

Last week when I was up on Burnaby Mountain, the mud was deep enough to nearly go over the tops of my boots. This week things look much different up there.

Nearly all of the protectors/protesters have gone home. Why? Because Kinder Morgan has left.

Thankfully, they’re not all that’s gone. So are the charges against nearly all of those brave souls who were arrested. It seems that KM didn’t set their boundaries correctly, or had some problems reading their GPS devices, so their injunction was completely compromised. If their engineers can't read a GSP, it doesn't exactly bode well for the thought of their running more pipeline, or boring through the mountain. 

But the difference this week isn't just because hardly any people are left in the camp up there. The weather has also played a huge role in the change.

That ankle-deep mud has now frozen into solid earth and been covered with a thin layer of snow. Even with footprints in the snow, the ground appears to be healing from all that human traffic.

The frozen mud makes me think of Kurt Vonnegut’s brilliant book, Cat’s Cradle, in which an experiment to rid battlefields of mud goes terribly wrong.

It’s the book that's raised my hackles over fears about the kind of grand-scale water-poisoning that might occur if the frackers have it wrong when they say their actions won’t see oil or gas leaking into the water table.

At first glance, water and oil and pipelines may not seem to be related. But, just as all of us are related, so are all of those concerns. 

Civil Disobedience -- a Civic Responsibility?

Now that more than 100 people have been arrested on Burnaby Mountain, questions are being raised about how many of those arrests may have been illegitimate. The BC Civil Liberties Association has posed this question, basing it on possibly inaccurate boundaries of the area under injunction -- an area Kinder Morgan is challenging in court today. The company is hoping to expand the area that's blockaded and to extend the days they'll be allowed to do their exploratory surgery in the forest.

As far as I'm concerned, all the arrests should be tossed. It seems to me that the protesters (whom I prefer to call protectors) are only performing their duty as citizens, defending an area that's a City of Burnaby park, one that's been deemed a conservation area at that.

The history of civil disobedience is lengthy, and instances of it span the globe. It has made the difference in many situations where injustice needed to be revealed (think, for one, the work of Gandhi).

Here's an article that will remind you of some important examples of civil disobedience in action. I especially love Richard Seymour's (author of the piece) concluding statement about civil disobedience: "It is the way in which progress is made."

Protectors of the Mountain: Standing up for all of us

Yesterday the arrests began on Burnaby Mountain. Kinder Morgan's injunction against the protest by the protectors was enforced by the RCMP, many of whom looked less than enthusiastic about the job they were required to do.

KM's lawsuit against some of the protectors certainly contains some absurdities. Consider this line from the Dark Mountain Manifesto, a document worth reading: "It is hard, today, to imagine that the word of a poet was once feared by a king." Yet, despite the fact that the 'king' is now a corporate 'king' rather than a person, that is exactly what has happened. A poet is amongst those being charged, and his poetry has been offered as evidence against him.

These photos were taken earlier in the week, when the weather was much kinder (that's 'kinder' as in 'gentler' not as in the name of Richard Kinder, the person who established the Kinder Morgan corporate entity), before the injunction was being fully enforced.

Today, even in the rain -- and bearing in mind the ongoing arrests -- people have gathered, this despite the road being blocked and the trek to the site being a steep uphill climb.

Fortunately, the City of Burnaby's mayor and Council are continuing with their own injunction in their ongoing attempts to protect the conservation area on Burnaby Mountain, where surveying and potential drilling are to occur. Machinery arrived on the mountain earlier today. I can only hope there is some way of blocking the kind of devastation that occurred earlier this month at the Blaauw Eco-Forest. When I head up there again next week, I will see for myself.

In the meantime, I can only pay attention to news reports and, I admit it, worty.

I fear that if Burnaby's court action does not result in protecting that city's bylaws (the ones that have been contravened by KM's cutting of trees), the laws of all cities and municipalities in Canada will experience the same fate -- that their bylaws (especially conservation ones) will be meaningless. Can you say (without choking) "pipelines in Stanley Park"?

A black day for green

This is the forest that was saved a couple of years back, in large part through efforts of the Han Shan Project. Since that time, the land was bought from Langley Township and put aside as a site to be protected in perpetuity, a place that would serve as a living laboratory for students from Trinity Western University.

As you step onto the path leading into the forest, you're greeted by a sign offering guidelines for using the preserve. Among these is the note that the path is designated for use by people, that vehicles aren't allowed -- even horses aren't permitted.

Last weekend, on the pretext of the Township needing to build a fence, at least one bulldozer was allowed to break these rules. It cut what's been called a  'swath' through the forest. But its track seems much broader than could have been necessary. It extends for at least a kilometre, and doesn't seem to make any sense in terms of being a fence-line -- I couldn't tell what it might have been protecting -- and from what.

I'm not sure who dropped the ball as far being in charge of stewardship, but someone sure did.Tomorrow is election day for municipalities in B.C. and somehow I suspect that voters in Langley Township have no idea the extent of the havoc that's been wreaked in lands that were supposedly protected. The current mayor, running for re-election, is using the taglines, "responsible leadership." But where, I ask, was the leadership required to look after this eco-forest?

I'm dejected, not only by the destruction I witnessed in the Fort Langley forest, but by today's decision from our provincial Supreme Court granting an injunction to Kinder-Morgan. The ruling means that the protesters -- who've been trying to protect parkland on Burnaby Mountain -- must break camp by Monday afternoon. So much for the right to protest, so much for protecting space that's been decreed as a conservation area.

It's hard to hold out much in the way of optimism, especially where, as if to top things off, the Keystone Pipeline Project passed today.

If you go out to the woods today, you're in for a big surprise. Those words are from a song that once seemed innocuous, The Teddy Bears' Picnic. Although I remember a surprisingly freaky version of that song, nothing could match the horror of the surprise I was in for today when I walked in the woods. If you care to see the short video I took while walking in the forest today, here it is.

First of the season?

I took this photo nearly a month ago, figuring it was likely the first of many more I would see over the course of this winter. Between fears of Ebola and the far less exotic (and easier to deal with) seasonal outbreaks of flu, this may well be the winter for the wearing of surgical masks.

But then yesterday I saw Interstellar and saw the same masks. To my surprise, characters in the film were using them for a completely different reason – dust! The future depicted is one where farmlands have again turned into a Dust Bowl. Crops have failed (can you say ‘Monsanto’?) and the Earth’s population faces starvation. Bleak, eh.

So, maybe my concerns over seeing a woman on a bus wearing a surgical mask shouldn’t be so great. After all, buses are likely a veritable Petri dish for sharing germs – breathing in each other’s faces, hanging on to straps (who knows who might have held on before you, and what they might have been infected with?), so maybe she had a good idea.

Not exactly wanting to go out on a limb (not even a big one) with any predictions, but I’m wondering whether we’ll see more of these masks blossoming before spring. 

Intentional?

Here in British Columbia, it's just about time for municipal elections, so signs have been popping up faster than autumn mushrooms.

When I saw this one, I couldn't help wonder whether the sign-raisers realized what they'd done by placing the sign where they did.

The man in the portrait has been our mayor in the past. I, for one, was not in agreement with many of the changes that came to our city during his tenure.

Now he's back, full of promises, which I'm not sure I can believe. High pressure gas line, indeed.

I like to think the sign-raisers did this intentionally, giving us not only a chuckle, but perhaps a bit of truth-in-advertising.

And, no matter who you might be voting for, be sure that on the 15th, you get out there and make your X.

A shirt named Dave

I was going to write about a shirt named Dave. Or else about an author named Kate. Or about a book called A Surrealist Alphabet. Or maybe even about Mashed Poetics, which just celebrated the Tragically Hip.

But all of that seemed less important after yesterday's miserable news -- that the CBC had fired Jian Ghomeshi. Huh?? He's almost single-handedly revitalized our public broadcaster, bringing it -- more than anyone else -- to an audience of people under the age of 50.

The Giller Awards have already joined the bandwagon, announcing Ghomeshi won't be hosting their upcoming award ceremony. And I think now of 'Canada Reads' -- yet another institution that's bound to trickle away into lassitude without the vigour Jian injected into it.

I'm reminded of Good Morning, Vietnam and its story of how a powerful entity -- in that case, the U.S. military -- got rid of Adrian Cronauer, a DJ who was actually connecting with listeners.

I'm also reminded of Pierre Elliott Trudeau's famous statement, presented (somewhat ironically, I suppose, on the CBC archive), "The state has no place in the bedrooms of the nation." Nor, I contend, does the CBC.

When I was little, I had my own terrifying way of understanding the term 'getting fired'. I thought you got set on fire -- and worried that might some day happen to my dad.

This weekend's firing might as well be that literal, though I don't think it's going to be Jian going up in flames. With this action it seems more that the CBC has set light to its own self-destructing fuse. 

Poetry, poetry, poetry!

Last week -- in my life at least -- was a week filled with poetry. Tuesday meant a little (and I mean little, only a ten-minute gig) reading at The Paper Hound, a bookstore that serves as a great reminder of what a real bookstore is. Heck, any bookstore with Tintin living there qualifies as special in my mind. But while I was there, people came in asking for everything from books on calligraphy to books en francais. Amazingly, the owner/proprietor was able to help -- a far cry from the often bored-looking, unengaged worker-slaves at the dreaded chain stores.

Then on Wednesday, I attended SFU's Lunch Poem series, with features Tim Bowling and Donato Mancini. I suppose two poets couldn't have been more different in their work. And that may have very well been what created such a great dynamic. I'm still playing around with ideas buried in notes I scribbled at the event -- and better than my night-time notes, these are even readable.

If three days in a row isn't too lucky for words, Thursday was an evening where ten poets performed, but in pairs. Each pairing had prepared some kind of collaborative work for the event. And each was totally different from the others.

Jude Neale sang (in full operatic soprano) part of the work she and Bonnie Nish presented. The poet who'd written a piece about the exclamation mark was 'answered' by a poem about the question mark. Another actually danced her accompaniment to a poem. And all of this in a brand-new branch of

Vancouver Public Library, tucked into a building housing a supermarket and condominiums.

Another pairing explored similarities and differences in where/when they were born and who they'd become. My partner and I experimented by writing a renga together, then riffing on it in a couple of new directions, an experiment that you might want to try for yourself.

A busy week? Yes. But if only every week could be as rich!

Non-traditional celebration

But then, that shouldn't be too surprising. We seem to often do things our own way.

This Thanksgiving was no different. No big turkey roasting in the oven. No pile of dishes and pots to wash up.

It was an order-in takeaway supper instead -- barbecued duck instead of turkey. The non-traditional accompaniments of chow mein and tofu were good companions to the duck.

But so was the completely traditional side of Brussels sprouts, though even they arrived in a less-than-conventional format -- still on the stalk, fresh as they can be.

Much to be thankful for. Always.

Gathering wild mushrooms

It's something that goes with autumn. Harvesting an assortment of wild mushrooms. Over the years, we've refined our skills -- learned about mushrooms we didn't know about before, explored new places, tried new recipes.

We've also learned a few things about the right and the wrong ways of harvesting.

The photo above shows how NOT to gather them. Those aren't some fat cigarette butts resting around the leaf. The black 'fuzzy' stuff on the cut-off mushroom stems is soil.

The harvester who left these behind has jeopardized the odds of mushrooms growing there again next year. They've pulled them up by what you might want to call their 'roots' -- that critical connection which links them to the mycelium, hidden beneath the earth.

The parts we 'pick' are the bits that poke their heads up through the soil.

It's important to slice the base of the mushroom in such a way that the link to the fruiting body isn't disturbed.

It's also a good idea to not try to clean out the forest, but to leave some for other harvesters who may be coming along in a day or two. A good way to ensure you're doing this is to avoid taking small mushrooms, and only harvesting those that have had a chance to grow into mature specimens.

Of course, it's important to know what you're harvesting. Our friend the Internet can provide many answers, but even Google's images of chanterelles contain at least one look-alike, one you won't want to ingest.

A book with clear photographs can be a useful companion in the forest, and will be easier to use if its focus is specific to your geographic region. An even better way is to tag along with a knowledgeable harvester.

But even if you don't feel like learning which kinds of mushrooms are edible, the experience of walking in the forest this time of year is one that can only inspire wonder. Get out there.

Looking forward

I've been staring at this autumny tree, trying to take in some of its calmness.

It's been kind of a crazy month -- not one to complain about -- nearly all of it happy-making, culminating in this weekend's Word Vancouver. Still, I'm ready for a less hectic time.

Maybe tomorrow, when the calendar turns to October, life will slow down a little. But for now, I need to get dressed, as I'm heading off to a literary event, exactly the sort of thing I love to do.

And no, I will never complain about there being too many literary events going on, or too much art in the world, or too many beautiful sights in nature to inspire me.

Sweet homecoming

This past fortnight has been a series of homecomings. There've been reunions of various sorts -- with relatives, some whom I haven't seen in a decade or more-- with friends that go back even more years.

I've also revisited places I haven't seen in years. I even got to visit my gramma's old house.

But the best homecoming of all has been returning home today. It's been one of those rare September days when the air is warm and sweet, hot as any day in July.

The berries still on the bush are continuing to ripen (I picked enough for a pie for the freezer and for a dessert for tonight).

The quince are nearly ripe, but autumn is clearly nearby.

Something I suppose about the angle of the light, the way it seems to break into disparate beams. The spiders are weaving their oversized nets, hoping to catch the last of the summer insects. The floppy autumn crocuses have opened their pale blossoms to these last days of warmth.

The clues are here: change is in the air. But oh, it's sure beautiful right now.

Once upon a time the sky...

...was filled with flocks of passenger pigeons. The empty sky in the photo marks a sad anniversary -- 100 years since the last passenger pigeon, Martha, died.

It's startling to think that a species could go from being the most numerous bird population on the planet to extinction, and all in the space of not much over a century. As late as the 1800s, the sky was said to darken, sometimes for more than a day, as masses of these birds flew overhead. 

And somehow I don't find it completely reassuring that scientists are considering ways of renewing the species, using DNA from the feet of specimens in the Royal Ontario Museum. Such birds wouldn't be the same, as they would be crossed species with another breed of pigeon. Besides, really, what's the point.

The best lesson we can take from the passenger pigeon is a cautionary one, reminding us of the fragility of life -- even when it seems to be in abundance.

Imagine whirled peas...

Saturday was a day that proved to be all about community. It started with an event sponsored by the SOFIA Collective, an interdisciplinary group of artists based in the north end of Surrey, the city where I live.

They've sponsored a couple of these events, forums exploring ways the arts can contribute to the health of the community.

Even though I only attended the afternoon panels, I came away filled with hopeful thoughts for our city.

The first panel, "Intersections: Art Practice in Convergent Communities" raised many questions (and comments) about the broad multicultural spectrum represented in our city. Racism, the elephant in the room we all seem to choose to ignore, was key to the discussion -- and rightly so. According to the last reliable census figures (2006, the last census to employ the 'long form' which asks respondents to identify their ethnicity), 46% of our city consisted of 'visible minorities'. No doubt, this figure is higher now, but thanks to Harper's fact-denying agenda, such numbers will no longer be available. Not that such numbers are necessary to see who we are. Attendees were united in wanting all of us, artists and others, to go forward together, regardless of what we might look like.

The second session, "Lessons Learned: A Survival Guide to Establishing an Artist-Run Centre" was much more light-hearted, even fun. And this is likely where I found the most to take home with me.

All of the speakers talked about getting together with other artists, and surprisingly, the notion of potluck dinners came up more than once. Yes, say I, food can serve as the glue (even when the food isn't sticky!) that brings us together.

So, later in the evening, when we went to nearby New Westminster for their second annual festival of food trucks, I couldn't help notice the way everyone was getting along. It wasn't a potluck supper, but the atmosphere was similar. There were lots of conversations, comparisons of food items (Oooh, where'd you get that sandwich??), good-natured kidding while standing in line, people snapping pictures with cameras or phones.

Maybe food really is the answer, even the way to world peace.

Everywhere is Anywhere is More...

It isn't very often that an art gallery has signs that encourage you to take photos of the exhibit. But then, there aren't a lot of exhibits quite like the current one on the main floor of the Vancouver Art Gallery, a wide-ranging show by Douglas Coupland.

Yes, there's plenty of Lego, not all of it quite as wildly assembled as this piece. Still, I love the ways he uses it, even when he's pointing out the mundaneness of contemporary suburbia: row upon row of identical houses. All that's missing from his show are the identical people who must inhabit those houses.

One of my favourite parts of the show is a section of Canadiana artefacts -- everything from hokey-looking lunch kits and thermoses to a tin of Uncle Ben's beer.

But don't think for a minute this exhibit is all about trinkets and toys.

Coupland's paintings and sculptures reveal an artist who's committed to interpreting art history. Some of his paintings serve as homage to the Group of Seven and Emily Carr. Others hearken to the era of Pop Art, with obvious tributes to Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol -- or, to their predecessors, Mondrian and Miro.

He even plays around with his own forms of Op Art, with pieces that require you to view them with a Smartphone, for almost a 'magic eye' effect.

It's hard to imagine anyone having this much talent, but yes, he also writes fiction. So, it's not surprising that some of his art is text-based. One section of the show, called Slogans for the 21st Century, consists of signs with Couplandesque sayings on them. An example? "It's not an illusion. Time is moving faster." Fans of his books will recognize some of these as part of the marginalia from Generation X.

Those living in or near Vancouver should try to get to the gallery soon, as the show closes on September 1st. 

It must be summer...

 ... for me to be so lazy. Already the 11th of the month, and nary a blog post.

And not only have I been staying off the blog, but clearly I've not even been using the car enough, as look at that spider who's decided to build a home on the mirror.

Maybe he (she?) just got sucked in by things appearing closer (and larger?) in the mirror. Tasty bits of tiny bugs must be looking like much bigger feasts.

Even today's drink of choice is one that's lazy. Sun tea, a recipe that makes itself by sitting outside in

the sun for the day. This batch isn't actually tea, it's more like lemonade, but is made from the much more refreshing fruit, quince.

Cheers to summer and to keeping cool!

A presentation by France sets me thinking...

Sometimes I wonder why I love fireworks. It's a fact though. I can't help it. I do.

And really, with all that's going on in the world, I wonder whether I'd feel the same way about all that fire and noise if I lived someplace else, where the sounds of rockets flying through the air might mean imminent destruction or even death. Even though I love them, fireworks sometimes make me think this way.

This has been the week for observing 100 years since the start of World War One, a war once thought of as the 'war to end all wars'. Sadly, we know that hasn't been the case. In fact, some now think that WWI might have been the war that started a whole new round of wars -- that without it, and the divisions of lands it caused, World War Two might have never happened -- and with it, the countless other disputes, so many of which continue.

For someone who dreams of peace, the idea of loving fireworks might seem contradictory. Still, standing as part of a throng of nearly half a million people, watching the Celebration of Light beside the Pacific Ocean on a warm summer night is something that stirs me. And really, for a show that's free to watch, is pretty darn hard to beat.

 

Happy birthday, Amelia Earhart

When I was in Newfoundland, I took the time to visit Harbour Grace, the place where Amelia Earhart took off on her first solo trans-Atlantic flight on May 20, 1932.

The field there looked too tiny to be an airstrip, more of a place for launching kites than planes.

Her intended goal was Paris, but weather forced her to cut the trip short. Luckily, Ireland intervened. The story goes that she landed in a pasture near a small village in Northern Ireland, and didn't even know that she wasn't someplace in France.

So, why am I thinking about her today? It's her birthday, a day observed by some as 'Amelia Earhart Day'. She liked the colour yellow, so when I visited her statue in Harbour Grace, I stuffed a bouquet of fresh dandelions into her hand, an early birthday present.

Earlier this month, July 3rd, was the anniversary of her disappearance, a mystery that lingers, with occasional reports of evidence (often less-than-reliable) of what her fate might have been.

But I'm not the only one who still thinks about her. A woman named Amelia Rose Earhart recently completed the round-the-world flight path Amelia intended to make. Yet I doubt that even this will be the end of the news about this object-of-my-fascination, Amelia.

And oh yes, those feet of mine are standing on a rock in the field at Harbour Grace. I couldn't help but think that on that May morning in 1932, Amelia may well have thought to 'ground herself' for a moment before climbing into her plane, and that she may have paused for a few seconds, standing on this very same stone.

Melting points

In Fahrenheit, the melting point of ice is apparently 33 degrees (or, for those who are pickier, 32.1, and even that depends on your elevation above sea level). To make it simple, you can think about ice's melting point as just above the freezing point of water.

Apparently, the melting point for me is just about the same number -- 33, but in Celsius. This weekend, that's what it got up to, and not just on our thermometer. And no, I didn't melt, but taking a walk down the sun-filled streets, I felt as if I might!

This is hotter than it usually gets around here, but at least our house, tucked in behind our big trees, stays a few degrees cooler. 

If it's hot where you are, it might help to gaze at my artist-friend Marilyn's fountain in the photo above. Take a break and as they say, Chill...

The heart of summer

If you've visited this blog during summers past, you'll know that berry-picking is one of my favourite summertime activities.

This summer's no different. Most of the strawberries have now been eaten, save for two tiny babies
that live in a pot in the backyard. Those that might have not gone into our mouths have been frozen for winter use or made into jars of jam which will mostly serve as Christmasy gifts. I couldn't help but think that my big bowl of soon-to-be-jam strawberries (above) looked a lot like little hearts.

The other day, picking raspberries, I noticed how much easier it is to pick rasps than strawbs. Strawberries, sweet though they are, require all that bending, squatting or kneeling. They mean sometimes getting mud in your fingers, as you look for berries hiding out in the low-to-the-ground leaves.

Nature seems kind in this respect. We start the season having to work for our (straw)berries. By July, we get to stand, only needing to bend now and then, as we

seek and pick the red ones interspersed along the tall spikes where they grow. Later this month and into August, we'll go after the even easier ones, blueberries. Picking those can often be a matter of simply holding the bucket beneath a branch and rolling the berries off, gently 'milking' the berries into the waiting container.

This all makes sense in an odd sort of consider-the-land way. In a world more guided by the changing seasons, August might see us getting complacent about laying in supplies for the cold months ahead when fresh fruit might be lacking. Could that be a reason the last major fruit of the summer should be the one that practically picks itself? Just one more thing to think about, I suppose, next time I'm out picking.

Canada Day

The weather is perfect -- clear and sunny. The flag is a little bit wrinkled, but hopeful as ever. Hmmm. I suppose some may apply the same descriptors to me.

A day to be lazy, maybe turn pages while I lie about in my outdoor 'reading room'.

Happy 147th birthday, Canada!