Just a little too tidy for me

Whoppers. That's what I've always called them. Fish stories is another term that some might use instead. Whatever name it might go by, this is one story I'm not buying into easily.

Like just about everyone else, when I heard that a pastor in Florida planned to burn a copy of the Koran, I was shocked and disgusted.

And I'll admit, early on I wondered how a guy who apparently can only attract a congregation of 50 (we had more than that at a literary reading in our local coffee house last January) could be getting such a high profile on the news.

This morning when I read that the White House might be getting involved, I saw a line credited to Sarah Palin's Facebook page, "...although people have the constitutional right to burn the Qur'an, doing so would be an 'insensitive and an unnecessary provocation — much like building a mosque at Ground Zero'." That made me shake my head. What a stupid thing, I thought, to toss into the mix of an already simmering situation. It looked like a case of fanning the proverbial flames, even though the book-burning fire hadn't actually been ignited.

Only, now the latest seems to be that the bonfire-loving Jones has changed his mind. But -- and here's where my spidey sense starts to quiver -- he's going to fly to New York and meet with an imam, as he's part of a plan that will ensure no mosque gets built near the dramatically-named Ground Zero.

Go ahead. Call me paranoid. It's a name I've learned to be comfortable with. But watch.

This story seems stinkier than last week's garbage left out in the sun. This kind of trade-off deal seems far too conveniently tidy. If it turns out to be true, I'm not promising to eat my hat, but I'll hate it like hell if such deals might truly be real. I'm not yet calling it a set-up, but it sure looks fishy to me.

And if you're into things like seeing Jesus's face on a piece of burnt toast, take a look at the photo that banners this post. If you scrinch your eyes just so, you might think you see the devil. But if you see him, I say scrinch a little harder. You might find you even see an angel in there.

I did it!

Not enough words to really stand as a novel, maybe not even enough to qualify as an official novella.

Still, after the 72 hours that were available to me, I'd managed to crank out over 15,000 words for this year's 3-Day Novel competition.

Amazingly, my batch of words even seems to exhibit a beginning, an end, and a bunch of somewhat-related bits that make up a middle.

How did I get through it?

Besides relying on coffee and Rice-Krispie treats, I was supported by my wonderful partner, who made sure that I had meals, complete with freshly-made (freshly-picked, no less) salads.

He even took me out to a nearby restaurant Saturday night. The break (especially the walk there and back) really did a lot to clear my head.

And yes, that mess at the top of this post is part of what evolved over the course of the three days. As I compiled the various notes, they served as the guideposts (though crampons rather than guideposts may be more descriptive of the traction they provided) that helped me make it to my goal.

36 Frames

That's how many frames are on a standard roll of film. And that's how many pieces, taken with standard cameras, are in the current photo show at the Semiahmoo Arts Gallery.

The opening, last Thursday, kept viewers entranced -- not only with the prints hanging framed along the walls, but with the old cameras on display there.

Some of us even played around with View-Master reels, shot and created for the occasion by the artist.

There was lots about the night that was fun. Heck, even most of the food was in shades of black and white.

Friday Night, Night Market

Again it was a cool night, but one that called for doing something outside. Since we'd managed to miss out on going to the Asian Market last year, we headed for Richmond and a late supper of dim sum treats and whatever else might turn up on the menu. As we expected, there were lots of skewery treats, from octopus and squid to pork and beef and tofu and fish and...Japanese crepes with ice cream.

Each year, the Market seems to have some new 'hot' item. In that respect this year's no different. Foodwise, it was clearly hurricane potatoes, a swirl-cut potato that's deep-fried and comes out like a series of hot chips. The line-ups for these were crazy, as it seemed nearly everyone wanted to try these. I must say, I was glad to be wearing my glasses, as long skewers seemed to be pointing everywhere.

Take-home treats were a last-minute purchase. These included fresh rambutan, a hard-to-find tropical treat.

Of course, there's more to the market than food, but frankly, it's mostly junk. Waaaay too many cell-phone covers, bargain socks, and false eyelash kits. There are still the goofy clothes for pets, though not as many outfits as I've seen in previous years. Disappointingly, there weren't any household sundries, as I was actually hoping to find a new bug zapper. Oh well, since the season for bugs is nearly over, I guess I'll have to wait until next year.

Bright moon, summer dreams

Last night’s big moon was very close to full, and so bright it woke me at 3 a.m.

The photo above is one I took by moonlight. If I’d used a tripod, it would have been less blurry. Still, it gives you an idea of just how bright it was.

When I went back in I had dreams of my girlfriends as super-heroes, one of them running as fast as a car, another running up a wall like Angelina on special-effects.

But there were more summer dreams on the weekend. Pandora’s Collective sponsored its seventh annual Summer Dreams Festival.

Their events started Friday evening, with an honours ceremony recognizing many members of B.C.'s literary arts community. Among the presentations was a Lifetime Achievement Award for Susan Musgrave.

Although the recognition event went on too long, there was a kind of magic in the air. Even traffic out on Granville Street seemed to fit the occasion, contributing its own particular rhythms. And when Jamie Reid read poems, with Mike Peacock accompanying on keyboard, it seemed proof that summer dreams really do sometimes come true.

I still don't get it

So the ruling has finally come through that seems to permit the anti-HST petition its due. Failing this, the whole initiative/recall established in our province would have been pretty much worthless.

But the part I still don't get -- about the HST issue and about the census kafuffle -- is how matters that appear to require legislation get passed by virtue of cabinet's saying so.

It's sure getting hard to remember that we're supposedly part of a democracy.

A remembering

This week has been complicated. There’s been an extraordinarily beautiful wedding, the burial of a young man whose genetic inheritance caught up to him much too soon, a 40th birthday celebration, and the observance of a sad anniversary. But the cloud that’s hung over the last few days has been for a longtime friend whose cancer, despite months of treatment, got the best of him.

Mike was 15 when he came to Canada – alone – escaping the ’56 invasion of Hungary. He spent some time in Montreal at a range of menial jobs, but soon, like so many others back then, he started heading west. He learned English, got himself through a degree at UBC and forged a career as an entrepreneur, ever the independent man, both in action and in thought.

He loved nothing more than a good bout of arguing. And even though English was his second language, his vocabulary was one of the richest I’ve known. He may have pronounced words with an accent, but he knew how to pull out the most precise, the most elegant choice for the occasion. Or, as was more likely the case, the cause.

A visionary he was, but like so many visionaries, ahead of his time. It’s interesting to think about how the city of White Rock might be different if Mike had won a seat on Council when he ran for office. Marine Drive might now be a pedestrian walkway with a market-style mall; shuttle buses would run up and down State Street, providing pedestrians easy access to the beach.

Dear to my heart was his love for good food, especially if it was a bargain – or better yet, free. He loved to fish, dig for clams, set a trap for a feed of crabs.

One of my favourite companions for mushrooming in fall, he’s the only person I know who could find truffles without the help of a pig or a dog. He had a great eye for spotting a patch of helvella at the side of the road – only trouble was, when he was on the prowl, he’d drive while looking at the verge, rather than watching the road. This led to the occasional slip of wheels onto the shoulder, and more than one offer to take over the driving. Not a chance, especially with his beloved Fiero. But I suppose the occasional slip of the wheels must at least be good for the passenger's heart.

Anyway, next time I go for dim sum without him (especially if they serve chicken feet), I am going to miss him. Just as I am going to miss him when I have Greek food or crab or when I eat outdoors in the fading light of evening, especially if a boisterous discussion is on the menu. I am going to miss this man we mostly called Michael or Mike. Although in my heart I will always think of him by the name we used when we lovingly mocked his accent, and called him Der Mickey.

Pork 'n beans

Though these aren't exactly what you might expect.


I guess I must be missing the supper blog I kept last year, as here I am doing what I did then -- telling about what we had for supper.

The pork was something I'd found on sale, that had waited in the freezer for just the right night. The beans were ones I picked yesterday, when I was out picking yet another load of blueberries.

Still, this new twist on an old favourite seemed worthy enough of a post. Although, where we're having it with rice, maybe it should be known by the name of that other favourite dish, rice 'n beans.

The Blacks are Out!

Yes, I am happy that the first of the blackberries are ready for picking. They're going to play a big role in the dessert element of tonight's family supper.

But there's also another Black who's out. I have to admit, I never thought I'd be rooting for Conrad Black, but the piece he wrote for yesterday's National Post had me cheering. If you'd like to read it in its entirety, click here.

So much for a few thoughts on blackberries...

In it, he decries the absurdity of the US's War on Drugs, pointing out how ridiculous it is to have so many people in prison for marijuana offenses. He also reminds us of the injustice of penalizing sellers of crack cocaine so much more harshly than sellers of the rich man's nose powder. Okay, he doesn't put it quite it that way, but he makes it clear he realizes that the unbalanced sentences are a reflection of the institutionalized racism that seems to be built in to the US penal system. Sadly, our penal system is no different, even though those most frequently incarcerated here are members of our First Nations, rather than those of African heritage.

One thing I noticed in Black's article is his reference to computers in the Florida prison where he spent his time. And not only computers, but computers capable of email.

Sadly, the prisons I've entered here have no such access available. And yet, I always have to scratch my head: How can anyone in the year 2010 expect to reintegrate themselves into mainstream society without experience using the Internet? Where's the rehabilitative element in a system as backward as that?

Like I said, I can't say I admire Mr. Black, but I do have to thank him for using his position to publish an article that so clearly incriminates the prison system.

Now, if only Steve Harper and his crew could see the truth in Black's remarks and apply them to Canada -- if only they'd look at the evidence to see just how wrong-headed they are with their 'tough on crime' stance.

A day for special birthdays

It's not anything too special to have a celebrity born on your birthday. After all, every day is somebody else's special day too. Well-known people born on this day include Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, Beatrix Potter and Terry Fox.

But aside from those familiar names, a few others were born this day -- my niece, also named Jacqueline, and a stranger who came in and out of my life 43 years ago.

Tonight I was part of an important celebration, an observation of a different kind of birthday. The gathering coincided with a meeting of NA and was in honour of a friend who's now gone a year being drug-free. Considering he'd spent a lifetime ingesting drugs and booze, this is a major accomplishment and a step further into the new life he's established. I was proud that I got to meet his mum and his brother and to be included as part of his family.

Beyond language

When I used the website, Babylon, to translate the phrase above into Hungarian, it came out as Túl nyelv. But when I pasted that phrase into the Hungarian-to-English form, it came back as too language.

And really, 'too language' is about how I feel when I try to learn (or even hear and repeat) almost anything in the subtle sounds of Hungarian. To my western ear, it sounds like a series of swishes and other vocalizations that are impossible for my mouth to wrap itself around.

When I travel, I try to learn enough of a language to at least say thank you and hello. But when I travelled in Hungary, I was hard-pressed to acquire even that much. I found myself pretty well stuck with English only.

This summer, friends from Hungary have been visiting nearby. Yesterday, we took them on an excursion to the city. Five-year-old Hunor proved that English isn’t always necessary to enjoy an outing with a couple of Canadians. Science World with its many interactive attractions kept him (and the rest of us) happily occupied for the entire two hours we’d plugged the parking meter for. Who ever said science wasn’t any fun?

Outdoor pantry

Sometimes I laugh about the depth of our pantry -- the one that's indoors, just a few steps off the kitchen. It's usually so well-stocked, I even call it 'the store'. If we're out of mustard, I stroll over to the store, and most of the time, I'll find what I'm looking for.

This summer, we've expanded the little kitchen garden from its usual crop of herbs. This year it's grown to include the 'salad bar' -- an assortment of greens that have been providing fresh salads for quite a few weeks now.

There are enough individual lettuce plants (and of interesting enough varieties) that there are plenty of outer leaves, and those are all I've needed to pinch to make our evening salads.

Best of all, the hanging baskets are perfect for confounding the slugs. Until those creatures learn to fly, our greens should be safe. The wagon in the photo above works much the same way, too high for the creepy crawlers to make their way up to our leafy paradise.

Maybe it's just the laziness of summer, but I like not having to drive -- or even walk more than a few steps -- to go to the store.

Meanings and meanderings

I've written before about daisies and their meanings, both what they mean to me, and what they mean in the world of floriology.

I'm thinking of daisies today, not only because they seem to be at their peak out in the garden, but because they make me think of two different men, one who's too young to have really started his life, the other who's much older, but who's played an oddly important role in mine.

Even though I'm sure it's nothing but a waste of time, I've written to Steve Harper again. But no, Steve's not one of the men I'm thinking about. The reason I've written to Steve is because of Omar Khadr. Earlier this week, another ruling came down. This one gives the government of Canada a week to do something on behalf of Khadr who, it must be remembered, has not been convicted of anything.

The daisy plays into this for several of its meanings, youth and childhood innocence. As for youth, Khadr's is gone, disappeared to his bad luck growing up with the father he did and further to the confines of Guantanamo, where he's been kept since he was 15.

One of the saddest associations with the daisy is from a Celtic legend, claiming daisies as the spirits of children who died at birth. Khadr didn't die at birth, though metaphorically, the association seems apt.

But on a much happier note, today is the day my once-upon-a-time heart-throb Ringo Starr turns 70. For once, I guess my mother must have been right: he was too old for me.

And the significance of daisies as they relate to Ringo? I imagine, especially where he has Barbara Bach as a life-partner, that the daisy will still be true when it tells me ‘he loves me not.’ Oh well.

The cycle of the seasons

I know. I repeat myself. I've mentioned berries before. Even featured a pic of the very same red wagon.

But that's the thing about the seasons. They come and go, and then they come back again.

Happily, the same is true for the raspberries. Another sign that it really is summer.

HST -- yes or no?

I'm still puzzled about what kind of effect B.C.'s new HST will have on purchases I make. Apparently, books won't be subject to the tax (fingers crossed, they're my biggest vice), but newspapers will. Groceries won't be, but restaurant food will. Clothing? Office supplies? I think so.

My question for today is, what about magazines? Did I just buy my last magazine with a tax of 5%? Will the next one be subject to 12%? Or, better yet, will I simply pay the cover cost?

I guess, if I buy a magazine tomorrow, I'll find out.

Islanders

Last night I went into Vancouver to attend a reading. The double-bill consisted of what seemed like an odd combination – Steve Noyes, a writer known mostly for his poetry, and Des Kennedy, known best for his varied writings about gardening. About all I could see as a point of commonality was the fact that both men live on islands.

Steve lives on Vancouver Island, in the city of Victoria where he works for the province’s Department of Health Services. Rising each day at 4:30 (a regimen he described in response to a question), he thinks and reads and writes before heading off to his job.

He read from his most recent book, Morbidity and Ornament. The poems he shared (and the voices he did them in – c’mon, Steve, get with the program and make that CD!) covered a range of topics and styles, yet all exhibited a deep respect for and understanding of the nuances of words. Because he also speaks a dialect of Chinese, the presentation was even bilingual. Talk about stretching the boundaries of language!

Steve’s first novel is scheduled to come out this fall, so he’s moving beyond past accomplishments and poems and into a whole brand-new genre. Considering the power of his previous work, I'm curious about this next phase of his career.

And the idea of more than one genre was also true for Des, who read a piece from his memoir, The Way of a Gardener and then read the opening section of his newest novel (his third), Climbing Patrick’s Mountain. Even though rose-breeding (the gardener strikes again) seems to be a key element in the novel, it’s clear that Kennedy’s capable of writing about much more than gardening. Apparently, both Ireland and ghosts feature prominently in this new book.

As Des described his life on Denman Island, it sounded much more idyllic than Steve’s. He rises at a more normal-sounding time, then spends the morning writing before heading out onto his 11-acre property to garden or do whatever else might be required in the afternoon (with roof repair sounding like part of his ongoing roster of duties).

Jill Margo, host of the long-running Robson Reading Series, conducted a stimulating Q & A with the authors after they’d read. Her questions did much to highlight the fact that two writers who might seem to write in such different directions can have such a lot in common. She asked about the differences between writing fiction and non-fiction, and even applied the query to Noyes and his poems, some of which seem to be grounded in fact, while others seem to be products of his imagination.

And those thoughts lead me even today to think about those differences -- what’s real and what’s made up? Especially when, as Kennedy pointed out, events in our lives are coloured by the cloud of long-term memory…

Just how much of what we present as real is made-up, and how much of what we think we're making up is based in some niche of ourselves?

Solstice, belated

Even though Solstice arrived here at 4:11am yesterday, the angel who usually announces it for me was late.

Okay, she's not really an angel (though who really knows what those creatures might be?), more an inspiration from a movie I loved when I was a kid. The story referred to a character named Arne Saknussemm, apparently a fictional alchemist. Since then, Saknussemm's apparently become a kind of cult figure, as now he seems to even have his own Facebook page.

Anyway, in the story of the film, he'd left a coded diary, one that revealed the route to the earth's core. The clue to discovering the passageway? Go to a particular volcano (luckily, one that was nicely cooled down) and watch for where the first beam of light falls on the summer solstice.

The idea isn't original. After all, it's what the design of Stonehenge is all about. That the dawn's light will shine in a certain spot on Solstice. A big calendar made of stone, one that never needs to have its page (or for that matter, batteries) changed.

My 'angel' is a lovely fluttery light that occurs when the first beams of sunlight come through a stained glass window in my living room. She usually lands smack dab in the centre of the door at just about 6:30 on Solstice.

This year, the morning was too overcast, but at seven -- and for only a few seconds -- she appeared. Thankfully, I guess that means we'll be getting a summer after all. Even if like my 'angel', it appears to be a bit late in arriving.

A Reading by the Salish Sea

Thursday night was the final event in the local Arts Council's series of readings.

Our guest, here from Saskatchewan to help us with our month-long celebration of National Aboriginal Day, was Louise B. Halfe.

Besides reading from her three collections of poetry (Bear Bones & Feathers, Blue Marrow, and The Crooked Good), she told stories. These ranged from her family's experiences in residential schools to the meaning behind her Cree name, Sky Dancer.

It seemed appropriate to have her with us this week, the same time Canada's Commission on Truth and Reconciliation is meeting in Winnipeg. The day was also auspicious for being the same day the residents of Haida Gwai officially 'returned' the old name for their home, 'Queen Charlotte Islands'. Even this posting today feels as if it offers some kind of closure, as today is the final day of the Truth and Reconciliation events, with Michaelle Jean in attendance.

It was evident from all she said and did that Louise is a firm believer in crossing barriers and continuing dialogue. To summarize her performance, I need to steal a line from her -- "the people were filled with mystery and magic." Yes, we were.

Burmese and Other Lessons

Last night saw a different sort of literary event. This public event saw two highly intelligent authors in conversation – Nancy Lee interviewing Karen Connelly. Lee is the current Writer-in-Residence at the Historic Joy Kogawa House and the questions she posed made for a lively exchange.

Connelly’s a writer whose life got shaken up at 17 when, thanks to a Rotary Club exchange program, she lived and went to school in Thailand for a year. Two books that resulted from that experience were The Small Words in My Body which won for its then-21-year-old author the Pat Lowther Award for Poetry and Touch the Dragon which also earned prizes, notably the Governor General's Award for Non-Fiction.

The focus last night was Connelly’s newest book, Burmese Lessons, but moved well beyond the words on the page. Lee guided the conversation so Connelly could also talk about The Lizard Cage, her novel about life in a Burmese prison. Both books were inspired by her experiences in Burma and by the many people she interviewed both in Burma and along the Thai-Burmese border.

Among comments she made, Connelly challenged writers (specifically Canadian ones, though I'm sure she'd include all artists) to "Be daring" and to follow the advice of June Callwood who said, "If you see injustice, act."

She reminded us that this Saturday, June 19th, will be the 65th birthday of Aung San Suu Kyi, the Burmese activist and Nobel Prize Laureate who remains under house arrest. Perhaps a good day to be daring, to act against injustice, even if that action might initially seem small.

Fake Lake Flake

Ah yes, here comes our very own prime ministerial Steve, defending the creation of Lake G8, Ontario’s most recent water feature. But for Pete’s sake, it’s not even worthy of being called a lake.

At only 10 centimetres (4 inches) deep, it’s more like the fifty-seven-thousand-dollar puddle.

Now, if someone would only toss in a packet of yellow dye, we’d be able to show the world another of the many ways our government keeps pissing away our tax dollars.