You should not liberate balloons because it upsets the people in the basket.

A simple enough statement, but a great metaphor for my life. I say my life, because often the things I hear are not the things people say nor what they mean. Just yesterday a female friend was explaining to me a conversation that she ought to have someone. This is what she said:
"I should just say to him, 'I would like to sleep with you and we can just remain friends.'"
I didn't hear the first bit. What I heard was,
"I would like to sleep with you and we can just remain friends."
Nearly choking on my drink, I spluttered and asked her to repeat that last bit. Which she did. Thus, clearing up any tiny misunderstanding on my part. It's those tiny misunderstandings on my part which have led to the most astounding results. Some good, some bad, often very funny.

At University, I got a job with the IITS department, which meant that I worked behind a counter lending out audio-visual equipment to staff and students. It was a secure job. It was at a university. It wasn't too taxing on the brain. It wasn't rocket science. I boasted to all my friends that it was a job you could have for as long as you cared to live. I got fired two weeks later.

I went on living (thankfully) a little baffled and embarrased. That's okay. I learned alot from that experience.

1. Never boast about getting an easy job or any job in fact.
2. If you think someone's instructions are stupid and misleading, they probably are -- always clarify.
3. What is my vocation other than noticing the blinding errors that pummel, bombard and flummox me?

The week leading up to my dismissal, had me scheduled to work a couple of evening shifts. The evening shifts are slow, and in such times the long-standing employees (those who got the job as a stop-gap measure 10 years ago and never seem to have left) tend to chat about the latest digital audio and visual equipment, and disappear into their computer screens eyeing the latest updates to their various geeky obsessions. In short, not much is happening. So, I was asked to go and move office furniture from one room (call it A418) to another (C472). These two rooms were on the same floor and about 3 doors apart. As with all institutions of higher learning, the numbering system of rooms defies all logic. (It turns out that it's okay, because apparently, I do too.)

I did as I was instructed. I had a mission. I wanted to please. It was EASY. Move this furniture from that room to another. That's all I was thinking. I did it. I went back to the IITS room and invariably lent audio/visual equipment until the end of my shift.
The following day I got a call at my home from the guy on shift at IITS, who was inquiring as to the whereabouts of the office furniture that I had been instructed to move. I told him where I moved it, citing the room numbers as I remembered them. He called back a half hour later to say that there had been a tiny misunderstanding and they had found the 'missing' office furniture. I thought no more of it, until I came on shift later that day and was told that I had got the room numbers confused. Personally, I think it was the 'long-standing' employee who had got the room numbers confused. It didn't matter anyway, because the big boss couldn't for the life of him understand why anyone in their right mind, would move furniture from a store room into an office space.

I couldn't stop laughing. I thought that was the funniest thing I had ever heard. I assured him that it would never happen again. He was assured by my reassurance and made sure of it by canning me a few days later. I recall sitting outside the IITS office, bewildered and chagrinned at having lost one of the easiest jobs I had ever gotten, wondering how I would tell all my friends of this misfortune.

It is worthy to note however, that in the same spirit of wanting to please, having a mission, performing an EASY task at a new job for a bicycle shop, I went (as instructed with the address given to me) into what I thought was a photocopy shop, but turned out to be a gay sauna and demanded from the proprietor behind the counter that he give me the FAX he had received on behalf of the bicycle shop. He blinked and looked at me, uncomprehending. He probably thought this was some kind of joke. It was. But it was I, not he, who was at the butt of a very, very big practical joke.

I can't help but feel that if there is a God, he/she/it is laughing out loud, in their godly kitchen, cooking up a new experience to bewilder and amuse me.

The Space Marauder

I'll tell you something about her.

The Space Marauder was born on the west coast, but she doesn't actually come from there. She comes from space. She is one of those beings who appears unexpectedly when you are on the sky train and everyone is zoning out because it's the morning rush hour and you look up and you see her standing with her back to you and you notice her, but you don't why you didn't see her before. Maybe you are at a call centre in a cubicle and you stretch your arms above your head, taking the opportunity to look around at all the other operators. There she is, with a headset on, talking to some hapless fool on the other end of the phone. You don't notice everyone else as much. There's something about her which draws your gaze. You think to yourself,
"Hey, who's that?"
Nobody answers of course, least of all the Space Marauder. She's talking on the phone and you don't know if she noticed you.
Later, while taking a smoking break with a colleague, the Space Marauder appears. She appears so casually, you wonder if you had your baseball cap pulled too low over your eyes and after adjusting it, she popped into view. And you say,
"Hello."
The Space Marauder replies,
"Hello."
You think to yourself,
"Oh, you're actually human. Amazing."

The Space Marauder comes in different shapes, sizes and sounds. Sometimes, she's 15 feet tall and walks along the street toward the grocery store to get some trail mix and some toilet paper. She ducks her head to avoid tree branches. You walk next to her and your head comes up to her knees. Residents slowly turn and stop conversations in mid-flow and gape. The Space Marauder smiles, nods to them and greets them with a friendly 'hello'. Her stride isn't too exaggerated but you have to take three steps to her one. After a block, you don't even notice the resident's stares. That's the effect of the Space Marauder. You feel calm and everything is the way it needs to be.

Other times, the Space Marauder is just a voice that comes down the telephone line, with a friendly
"Hi, this is what I am doing. I think you're great and oh by the way, how's THE PROJECT coming along?"
She is referring to a radio documentary that I have been trying to get off the ground for about two years now. Or should I say, that she has been trying to get off the ground for two years now. She continues with her message,
"So, you know I'm here in the capacity as a friend to light a proverbial fire under you're butt and help you get moving again."
I know. I grunt an excuse about not having the right equipment, not having time, money or incentive. She is very patient with that. 'That' being my ability to shirk responsibility for the project and keep it in the tickle-trunk of ideas and plans for the future.
Then there are the messages on my answering machine which keep me informed of the matters at hand, the movements of the universe, who has a cold and what the monkey has been up to. She has a gentle voice, one that lulls you. Her voice is not often raised and you might wonder what it would sound like, if it was. Expression of annoyance, stupidity, lateness of the hour, and general malcontent come in one audible form: a sigh.

The Space Marauder is a story-teller, a writer, a friend, a mother, a wife. A wife? Hmmm, have to think on that one. She is definitely the female half of a family unit with a male half and a daughter half. (Three halves I know.) Well, maybe she is the 'other half'. Her stories resonate with the rhythm section in your head, so that you begin to nod and move your torso back and forth in agreement as you read them. She tells children's stories, she tells adult stories, but most often she listens. Her attention to your ranting is comprehensive. Nothing shocks her. An ex of hers told me not long ago, that the 'stranger they were, the more she wanted to bring them home'. I remember those days and some of them were shockingly weird.

I once received a letter in the post. In the envelope next to the letter, was a piece of cardboard. On the cardboard, were the printed words 'Insert fingers here, for easy opening'. Referencing the many interpretations of this istruction, the Space Marauder had scrawled underneath,
"Who comes up with this stuff?"
I found the piece of cardboard the other day and put it on my fridge.

The Space Marauder has a knack of seeing things the way they are. Not judging differences, just noticing them. This is what makes her so easy-going and easy to be around. You could probably be introduced to her at a party wearing a suit, a baboon mask and a wooden leg. She might comment on your enormous lips, the comfort of your prosthetic or the choice of tie you are wearing. Chances are, she'll just say,
"Hello."

A little Christmas message two years out of date in the summer time

The Christmas greeting is a bit late this year. Well there has been much to do and much to think about. Isn't there always.
The last two years, I haven't spent Christmas with my family. That's to say that we haven't all been together in the UK, getting in each other's faces and pretending we don't care. Or wearing a tea-cosy and wading through our emotions as we try to recount how to get to know each other again. That's what I do. Time, distance and finances have once again proved to great a barrier for me. So this year, I miss my friend Sam and my families in London, Ottawa and Bristol. Indeed I have missed and am missing my families in Montreal and Vancouver. I am in Vancouver. (For those of you who didn't know.)
GET ON WITH IT!

This next bit surrounds an adventure I had by bike and sheer will, starting from Vancouver at noon on Boxing Day. I headed out to Horseshoe bay, caught a ferry to Gibson's on the sunshine coast and in the dark, rode two hours to Sechelt on the sunshine coast. I pitched my tent in a field, had some dinner and went to sleep....
READ SLOWLY.
Ahem.

I woke up in a tent. I fell asleep in a tent before I woke up in a tent. I woke up in a tent in almost complete darkness. I got up to pee (the third time that night) and I can tell you that at 3 degrees in my underwear and a t-shirt, it was goddam cold. I got up to pee, but I was awoken twenty minutes before by the howling of coyotes, loud and long into the night. It might have been a dog, but I heard other dogs barking against the howling. After about two minutes of this I began to seriously believe that my tent was going to surrounded by coyotes seriously soon. I began to have images of me stabbing and killing coyotes as they lunged at my tent or me, and I wondered how do I kill a coyote. I have never done it before. It's not like stepping on a worm or telling a car driver to piss off, this is an ugly dog shaped thing with teeth and malice. While all these images of violence and fear were flashing through my head, I discovered that I still needed to pee, rather urgently. Crap, crap, crap. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay, okay. I'm gonna go. I'm gonna go pee now. This is me getting out of the tent aggressively and powerfully in my jockey shorts and tee-shirt that says 'More Cowbells'.
Watch out.
There was no one out there. No coyotes. No people. No cars. No bears (phew). I could still hear the coyotes. Whatever. There are probably more afraid of you than you are of them. Blah, blah, blah.
A thought struck me about territory. Aha. That's what I'll do. Judging a 20 yard radius, I peed in certain locations around my campsite. I shivered my way back to my tent. By the time I got back into my sleeping bag, I felt frozen. I wondered about that theory about staying warm by removing clothes and getting naked into the sleeping bag, which was roughly what I had been doing before. This is clearly bunk. I put on my long underwear, my flannel shirt, my cycling tights, my hoodie and my hat. I was still cold, but sod it, I am tired and the coyotes can smell my pee and bugger off. I did actually fall asleep, I don't recall when exactly, but at 6:30am I woke up and looked at the illuminated dial on my watch and saw the time. I fell back asleep. But briefly.
Kally, come here. No here. Kally! Kally! Kaaalleeee! No. Here. Kalleeee! Come Here. Kalleee c'mere! Kallee! KALLY! COME HERE!
Yah, that doesn't bother me. Yah, I can totally sleep through someone disciplining their dog outside my tent at 7am. Uh-huh. Get out of bed Vaughan. No.
Get out of bed. No, I wanna sleep.
You can't sleep. But I want to.
You can't.
Shut up.
(in a sing-song, gloating voice) You can't sleep.
Bollocks.
Okay. God I have to pee. Christ, not you as well. How many Vaughans are there? Jesus!
There's just one and it's you Vaughan and you are alone in a tent mentally ranting to yourself.
I lay there for another ten minutes and ranted some more. I did get up and squared my things away and surveyed the day and the rain which had begun falling at about five, to replace the blissfull silence left by the wearied coyotes.
I can deal with rain. I'm okay man. I know what rain is. I live on the west coast for God's sake.
I put up the tarp my friend Daragh had loaned me and sat under it and made a breakfast of ramen noodles with tomato soup and left-over turkey which Siobhan had given me on Boxing Day morning at around 2 am. Thank you Siobhan. It may not sound good here, but when I was cold and tired, damp and slightly annoyed by my bout with non-existent coyotes, it was soooo goooooood. Tea in the morning?
Tea can go hang. I'm going to have soup and turkey. I sat under the tarp, outside my tent and ate in silence. I cooked in silence, I ate in silence. I slept (if I can call it sleeping) in somewhat silence. It was amazing actually. It was empowering. Not eating soup and turkey in the damp pitter-patter of the rain. But observing the simple things around me. There's not a lot to take up space in my mind when I'm camping. At home, I'm surrounded by things that need straightening, bills that need to be paid, cards that need to be sent, careers that need to be furthered, people who need to be called. Whatever it is, it's all there. Outside a tent with a bicycle, panniers, clothes, food, there's not much I can do to address the mental ranting, so I don't think about it. I concentrate on things I can actually do. Make breakfast. Eat.
I placed the small camping stove on the ground and watched with satisfaction as the three partitions of the burner slowly lit up. With my last remaining water, I made the soup. The only sound was from the propane being released through the burner. I watched and I listened and I idly wondered if my brother's house had burned down. Just one of those things that pops into my head when everything else is said and done. Not because I had left the stove on or not unplugged the fan or the toaster. I recalled that everything had been moved away from the radiators. I had not done anything to facilitate such a prospect, but the thought trundled across my brain, like an ant carrying a piece of wood roughly the length of its own body, slowly and wearily across a footprint.

After much deliberation, I decided to head home. I was deliberating because of the time factor, the lack of people factor and the rain and cold factor. Most of all though, I discovered that I didn't neet to be out here deliberating. I could be back in Vancouver deliberating where there's heat and less effort. The trip was more of an adventure and I wondered whether I would like to be in a tent, possibly quite tired and possibly quite wet at the end of the day. The answer was no. I was happy to turn back. I was happy to take the time to stop and take pictures along the snowy road. I was happy to make a decision and feel good about it. Someone once said something to me when I was in Germany and I was thinking about coming home, but I didn't want to give up...She asked me why what other people thought of me, mattered to me so much. It was a good question. It took about five years, but I got the answer. It doesn't matter. I'm going back.

The ride back to Gibson's was comparatively relaxing. It was daylight. I knew the road. I had the whole day. The hills were pretty tough I tell you. HOLY CATS!
I stopped at a bike shop in Gibsons and talked to the kindly proprietor. I bought some more water and cycled down the hill and it began to dawn on me why it didn't look familiar. It wasn't. I turned around and cycled up the hill. Oops. That was dumb. Yes, these panniers are heavy. Yes I saw you shovelling your driveway a moment ago, when I thought I knew where I was going. It is now abundantly clear that I didn't know where I was going and that's why I feel foolish and have begun talking to myself to prove it. Oh, these panniers are heavy. Who cares. Who cares. I don't care. If anyone cares, it's not me. I don't care.

Okay, we're on the right road now. It's snowing. Oh, it's a bit slippery. Wow that's a big truck. Goddam that was close. That's a big hill. There are people at the bus stop, you're going past them at the same pace it takes to walk. Just smile and say hi and try not to talk to yourself too much. I am in the mountains and my God it's beautiful.
It's amazing. Take some pictures. Okay, that's a steep hill. Taking pictures versus getting down the hill before the snow sticks to the ground. Uhh. Bye.

I got to the bottom of the hill in time to see the ferry exit the harbour and head out to sea. I was in time. I was in time to spend some time. I parked my bike, took out my portable stove and made some Tetley tea. I went inside the waiting room area, took off my waterproofs and placed them on the radiator and ate Cocoa Camino chocolate. I ate Jelly Belly Christmas present Jelly beans from Montreal. I listened to other people complain about the two hours we had to wait for the next ferry. I barely noticed the time go by. I was happy to sit down again. I was happy to do nothing. I was happy to have no deadlines to meet.

I did arrive in Vancouver some hours later replete with fatigue and extreme hunger. I inhaled a large bowl of granola and sat down to assess my state of mind, but I was too tired...So I put on a movie I had seen many times before and made up my bed and passed out and woke up at midnight. I wasn't in a tent. I wasn't cold. There were no coyotes. I peed in the bathroom wearing underwear and a tee-shirt. I came back to bed and turned on the TV, set it to the fireplace channel which broadcasts a fire burning in a fireplace over and over again. I peeled oranges and decided that I wasn't going to sleep. I listened to the silence. There were no deadlines to meet.

Three days after Christmas 2007 in Jen and Noel's flat with the sounds of Sigur Ros and the help of a gray laptop, I write to you. To all of you who know me. I write to you all because you are all my family, some by blood, some by choice, some by both. It is a seasoned greeting. Seasoned by your influence, seasoned by your support, seasoned by your love, seasoned by your friendship. I always try to iterate how affected I am by your friendships. Know that across the distance and time that separate us, you are always in my heart.

Lots of love,
Vaughan.
December 28th 2007.

Inner Yoda

My inner yoda sez to me "Look after yourself and lead by example." and then he stumbles off and has a slice of pizza.
Inner Yoda looks like me except that he has elvish ears and a beard and sticks out his lips and waggles them like a fish. He sleeps evenly and snores a little. He is wide awake long before I am drinking tea and snorting at the rubbish articles in the morning paper. He opens the fridge and pulls food out at random and leaves a mess, after he has finished eating his strange concoctions. He giggles throughout the day. He pats me on the back for having a shower and shaving. He pulls me aside and whispers words of support when I go for exams or job interviews. He goes shopping with me and shouts out the prices of items he finds too expensive, at the grocery store. He sits on the back of my bike and gives me pep talks on how to deal with people's behaviour and personal struggles. He massages my arms when my tendonitis is acting up. He reminds me that I am grouchy when I have to work, and says that I prefer a good snooze to anything approaching decision-making. He makes me chuckle about my eccentricities. He goes to sleep at least an hour before I do. He brings me peace through meditation and shows me how to listen to my heart.

For the truth lies in each of us. Our task is to recognize our truth.

My Family’s Bananas

In those days the family I knew best were: myself, my older brother and younger sister, my mom and my aunt Dorothy. My parents separated when I was young, leaving my father stranded in Ottawa. Summers, winter holidays, Thanksgiving, Easter break, were all spent in West Chester PA with my aunt and uncle when he was still alive. The pilgrimage to Cape May was made every June for as long as I can remember. My aunt Dorothy who was somewhat older than my great-aunt and had been going there every summer since she was a child.

Aunt Dorothy was my mom’s half-sister, that’s why she was so old. She used to ride horses and teach as well as being an accomplished sculptor. I only ever knew her as old and wrinkly with bowed legs. My brother and I joked that you could open an umbrella underneath her without touching either knee. My mom was always careful to encourage us to be nice to Dorothy, because she was so old. That’s just the way of things: parents teach kids to be nice to old people.

My aunt sat huddled in the passenger seat of the 1977 Chevy Nova, partly because her back was stooped, but mostly because my mom had piled everything under and around her. There she was: old and fussy, but barely able to see over the dashboard. My mom sat in the middle. It was one of those bench seats that you find in old cars. One of her feet was on Dorothy’s side of the floor and another one a little too close to the foot that was on the gas pedal. My brother had just got his license and was driving. I was about thirteen. My younger sister and I were stuffed into the back seat, surrounded by garbage bags filled with who knows what --- towels, flippers, sandals, flip-flops, a mask and snorkel, probably a plastic shovel as well --- packing is my mother’s specialty.

I don’t know if you know the summers in Pennsylvania, but they’re hot. A dry hot. The kind of hot that burns your fingers when you put your hand on the car door handle. You can’t wait to start driving so that some air, hot or cold, will start moving through the car. In that car on that hot, hot day, with my grumpy sister and my mother a bit nervous of my young brother’s driving, my aunt regaled us with a some of her senility which proved to be the antidote for all the forces against us.

The car was so full of junk, you could barely roll down the window for fear of ‘luggage’ falling out. One of my legs was trapped between the seat and a garbage bag, the other was at another location which momentarily escapes my memory. Grahnia my sister was sleeping. Only visible through the bags because of her long curly black hair and the occasional light-hearted snore. Most of us were asleep. Due to the unfortunate packing job that so often paralysed my mother’s organisational skills, some of the stuffing began to leak out. To clarify, I think that my mother had brought plates and cups with us, because we were renting a three-bedroom apartment for our three week stay.


Sometimes the stuffing was towels or newspaper that my mom had wrapped around the dishes. On this occasion, she used packing kernels: those little Styrofoam shapes that act as a cushion for valuables when shipped in boxes. Through a hole in the box and on a cushion of air, some of the packing kernels start floating around the inside of the car. I woke up to find my brother laughing as these Styrofoam shapes started getting caught on faster currents of air and whipped themselves out the window.

My brother’s laugh is very contagious. It starts as little giggles, and then he gets redder and redder until he makes a sound like he’s constipated and explodes in a paroxysm of tears and gusts of ha aah ha haha aaaaaaaahaahhhhhhhhh, followed by some high-pitched wheezing, repeated by the constipation sound and more hahhahahahaha. By this time, I found the cause of this uncontrollable force of noise. Dorothy had started to nibble on some of the floating pieces of Styrofoam, thinking (God knows what) that they were a free treat that had finally come her way. I could just imagine her pleased that little nibbles were now able to be plucked from the air, instead of having to open up a packet of food. My mother turned to her to make some concerned and helpful comment, as she would to a child, when my aunt blurted out “It tastes just like jam.” There was nothing to be done after that. There was no reason that could be applied to the situation. My mother, against all her maternal instincts to protect, roared with laughter. My brother in such a fit, his spasms of laughter making me laugh in my silent uncontrollable giggles, did his best to keep control of the car. I think we even woke up Grahnia. That was the first time I saw my mother laugh so openly, honestly and loudly. It was enough to wake us up from the tired heat and hot metal and remind us of what the situation really was, a family trip of young and old, and of how we were all slightly bonkers, just like everyone else. On our way to the beach.

As I sit and write this, tears of laughter come to my eyes again, though at the time being squashed against the seat, surrounded by plastic bags and cookie crumbs, it was the funniest thing in the world. I don’t know if Dorothy knew that her behaviour was the source of such merriment. She might have guessed that her actions were questionable in retrospect. Honestly, who knows what happened in her head. She was a direct person, kindly in some ways and partially bananas. Which we all had a fondness for.

The Secret Banana War
We used to stay at her home in Pennsylvania. An apartment in a vast community of old, decrepit, dying people. Pleasantly situated in the countryside, surrounded by forests and farmland. Her apartment was on the second floor of a small two-storey building. My mother did all the food shopping. She used to buy tons of vitamins, sometimes from hippies who lived in buses and owned health-food stores. And with every shopping purchase, she bought bananas. My sister, ate little else in those days: cheese, bread, plain pizza, egg milkshakes and bananas. Dorothy ate bananas too. So in order to keep some bananas for my sister’s queer diet, my mother hid the bananas. As it turned out, Dorothy did too. My mother once commented, in a state of incredulity, that she had found nine banana peels secreted in Dorothy’s room. I guess Dorothy was just fending for herself in the secret banana war.

15 Rules for living...50 more to come.

I read on someone's blog just now, even though I should be working...about 35 things to do every day. I'll give some examples.
1. Make your bed first thing.
2. Go out of your way to say good morning to your neighbours.
3. Include a thank you note with your rent cheque.

Stuff like that. Some of the things are a bit too specific however.
18. Don't make any telephone calls after 9pm.
22. Listen to all your answering machine messages as soon as you get home and then erase them.
23. Go to bed early and read for 30 minutes.
25. Always eat your dinner on a plate and have a napkin.

My attitude, at this point begins to change from --OK, to WTF, to Who wrote this shit?-- So rather than be perplexed and annoyed, I thought I would write my own list.
Off the top of my head. No holds barred.

1. Get out of bed as soon as you wake up and don't lie there trying to change the world in your underwear from the safety and comfort of your blankets.
2. Eat something before you leave the house, because it's an important and easy way to love yourself at the start of every day.
3. Think of alternatives to swearing at the asspick who cut you off in traffic on the way to work. Maybe they weren't thinking, maybe their marriage is on the rocks, maybe it's not about you. Let it go.
4. Call your family once a week. It's a good habit to get into, and you'll need that habit when you're in your thirties and upward. Family is defined as people you love.
5. Don't think of yourself as a victim to life, to people, to work, to family. You are a participant in this place.
6. Don't pick your nose and then flick it at random when you're outside, you might just begin to do this inside and your carpet and floor will be littered with old bogies. (this hasn't happened in my house by the way :), it's okay to come over)
7. Let your friends and Cow Orkers know that you are a reliable, trustworthy and friendly lunatic who reads magazines while sitting on the toilet or sings while brushing his teeth, just like everyone else.
8. Not everyone will like you. It sucks, but there are somethings that are out of our control. Besides, there's other stuff to worry about. (see rule 6)
9. You are your own best friend. Stand up for yourself, love yourself, believe in yourself. As much as you can.
10. (This is from my brother)...Whatever opinion you have of yourself will make you who you are.
11. If you are single, have a wank before you fall asleep. It's a great way to expend some time, having fun in a hot and bothered way. It tends to take all the worries out life for a few minutes and clears the way to some serious sleeping.
12. Take pictures, send postcards, record, record, record. In memory, in music, creatively, randomly. Documentation is a fantastic way to live.
13. Listen to your body. It's not separate from yourself.
14. Fear is powerful, but fragile. It only takes a little to shift perspective. If you let it, fear and anger will rule you, and affect everyone you meet and love.
15. The most powerful person on the planet is the one who believes they can make a difference.

Okay, that's fifteen of my rules for healthy living.
Comment at Will. Or as Arthur Wellesley, The Duke of Wellington once said,
"Publish and Be Damned!"

Is it OK to sit and do Nothing?

I'm not sure that it's okay to sit and do nothing. I must first decide what that means. When I come home from work, I turn on the radio and listen to the tidbits of information about the daily grind. What is called 'news'. The 30 seconds of headlines, repeated every half-hour don't inform me particularly, they pique my interest, but just enough to make me wonder about the horrors of what other people are facing, while I concern myself with what I'm going to make for dinner at that moment, and do I have all the ingredients. Those are the real concerns.
Is my food organic?
Was it grown locally?
Who is not recycling?
Who is polluting?
Am I happy in my chosen job?
God I hate my roommate.
God I am tired.
I have to call this person back and I was suppose to do it two days ago.

Western Media outlets report British Prime Minister and French Foreign Minister and a number of other diplomats, summarily condemn a new law passed in Afganistan by the Hamid Karzai government. Those noble politicians, standing up for the rights of women in Afghanistan, by threatening all manner of aid to be withdrawn until the law is repealed. Is the law allowing rape within marriage repealed? Who knows, because the following day, I learn about Obama's decision to release memos of the Bush government concerning the wording of what is deemed to be torture. THAT'S A BIG HEADLINE. The Bush administration condoning and actively participating in the torture of prisoners of war, or anyone who is suspected of being a terrorist. Well, that's a big deal. Calling into question our sense of morality, that's shocking. We must learn about this, we must read all we can. It's being reported by CNN, CBS, ABC, MSNBC, FOX, AP, Reuters, CBC, BBC, and a dozen more international publications. Did you hear about this: Women being raped by their husbands, beaten to death by their brothers and male family members for disrespecting the family honour, women politicians, activists, human rights lawyers, women who stand up for themselves are assassinated, hanged, beaten, gang-raped regularly. Did it make the six o'clock news? No, but I heard about the Obama administration replacing the CEO of GM. God, I feel informed. Besides, we're doing our part in Afghanistan. What about all the Canadian soldiers dying there, fighting against the Taliban, helping to restructure Afganistan. I should be proud to be Canadian. I'm behind the troops, fighting the evil Taliban and they are a fairly nasty bunch putting it mildly. A really twisted fanatical, extremist, power-hungry regime. Our troops are making a difference over there. It's true, we are working with the Karzai government, but. BUT WHAT. Where's the but? Yes, his brother is reported to be one of the largest opium smugglers in the country, but. HUH? Well, it's you know 9 thousand miles away. You must understand the context of laws in that country, of their culture, of their traditions. Hmm, you have a point. I musn't judge the whole government and culture by this new law. I should concern myself with what's going on around me, in my city, in my culture, with my own people.
Worry about the weather. Talk about the Olympics. Wonder about the conditions at Cypress. Concern yourself with the recession. Will the Canucks win the Stanley Cup?
A woman was gang-raped regularly for over a year, until she had a child...
Go make a sandwich, have a cup of tea, download some music, be thankful you have a job.

Königstuhl

I climbed the Königstuhl today. It was cold. I went to the altstadt and ate zwei brätwurst mit brötchen and then I headed up the schloss. I have seen it before, years ago and I needed to see again. At the cafe I bought some Kirchwasser and an ice-cream and started the hike up the mountain. I found the stairs, some three hundred of them (or so it seemed) that lead to the top. The first hundred were fine. The second hundred made me rethink my pace and slow down a little and ruminate the problems of the world a little more. The last three hundred were brutal and I pretended that I was in good shape, in case anyone saw me panting. I did make it to the top after a half hour. I put on my mp3 player and started listening to Gillian Welch. Good climbing music. When I reached the top, I thought I heard voices in the recording, which you sometimes hear in live albums. These voices however were in German, and I thought it more likely that they were coming from people behind me than from an acoustic concert of country music somewhere in South Carolina.

I found it.

I found the towers, probably built at the end of the war, with their two red light beacons, which welcomed me home every time I cycled back from work when I lived here.I was moved. I stood there alone and looked at the towers. I walked further along the mountain top and discovered that there were too many people there for me to absorb the scene, so I walked back toward the towers and then to the view. One of the most amazing and important views for me. I saw the city. I saw the river. The bridges and the lights. I remembered when last I was here and I believed in my future in my place on this earth. I can't quite feel it this time and I have been trying, but I feel like I'm not here. My memory is here, but I am not. I move through the city like a ghost. Alone. Alone in language. Alone in company. Alone in memories. I have been trying to make new ones, that will last, that will endure. New ones that will cover up the old ones and remind me that I am still alive. Alas.

As I made to descend the mountain, I thought of something my friend Flanders said to me about climbing the mountain and finding that when I get to the top, I don't need to be there. Something like that happened today. I found something at the top that I didn't expect. It was me. I expected to find something better, more satisfying, consoling. I got there and thought 'Oh, it's you.'Are you what I am really looking for? I suppose I am. I am what I am looking for. Read that anyway you like. But, at least I have an explanation. Maybe that's something I need to think about for the New Year, and the one after that.

I want to find hope up on that mountain again. I want to find the hope in me, that has eluded me these last few years. Maybe it's been ten. At what age do you find yourself. What I am expecting to find. Is there anything? Does anyone know? Hmmm

Food for thought on this day in January 2009.