Apatheism

I learned a new word recently. That doesn’t happen all that often- although it is occurring more frequently since I moved into a job significantly outside my regular wheelhouse of history, literature, religion, myth, story, music and etc.

I was watching a TEDTalk (have I mentioned how I’m hooked on these things? No wait. That discussion is in a post that is still languishing in the drafts folder. I need to stop being so easily distracted…) by Dr. Ben Goldacre.

This TEDTalk here:

I was watching it for a couple of reasons- I am working in the healthcare industry at the moment, so the subject matter is relevant to my day-to-day involvement in scientific, evidence-based research and the public policies that are informed by this research.

Mainly, though, I decided to check it out because there has been a whole lot of irresponsible let’s call it ‘journalism’, for lack of a better word, out there lately, further inflaming the public’s inclination to buy into ‘facts’ that support a previously-held worldview. Like those worldviews informed by ‘celebrity’ doctors (and the shills who follow them) that encourage different types of supplements as a requirement for good health. Or those that claim that vaccines cause autism. Or death.

Recently, the Toronto Star, a news organization that, in general, I tend to support in its measured reporting, presented a front page ‘exposé’ of the ‘dangers’ of the HPV vaccine. The irresponsibility of the ‘journalism’ behind the piece was staggering. Enraging, actually.

But this isn’t about that.

I did a little background searching after watching Dr. Goldacre. His name was familiar- and he is undeniably engaging. The Wikipedia (my old friend Pythia- Source of Quick Wisdom) told me that I recognized his name because of discussions I’ve seen ’round his recent book Bad Pharma, and the earlier Bad Science.

He’s a guy after my own heart- stating, in his science-y way, a number of the things that I tend to talk/think about. He’s a cool dude- a self-described ‘nerd evangelist’ and critic of pseudoscience, ‘alternative’ medicine and, generally, irrationality. That last extends to those scientific institutions (like pharmaceutical companies) that have a tendency to forgo good science for the purpose of economic expedience.

The Pythia also informed me that Dr. Goldacre is a contributor to The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas (a volume I haven’t read, yet one that I can picture sitting on a friend’s bookshelf- I meant to borrow it quite some time ago. Note to self…) and also a self-described apatheist.

There’s the word that gave me pause.

I can break down its constituent parts and figure out what it’s all about, but, until I looked up Dr. Goldacre, I honestly didn’t know that this was a thing.

From first glance, I wasn’t a big fan. I don’t like apathy. It’s lazy. And symptomatic of a wasteful lack of engagement in the world. It’s all about lack – of interest, of enthusiasm, of concern. I can’t advocate for any of those things as an approach to life.

Interestingly, the word originally stems from the Greek word apatheia– ‘without (a) suffering/passion (pathos)’- that was used by the Stoics to describe an admirable state of acceptance of the lack of control one has over things that are exterior to oneself. This sense of the word was picked up by later early Xian monastics as a virtue.

As a distinction, the Greek word apathes (‘without feeling’) came to be associated with the Xian concept of denial of the good god and his works, associated with that laziest of the 7 Deadlies, Sloth.

I concur, very strongly, with the opposition to laziness bit. The denial of the good god stuff? With that I am okay.

Still, this concept of apatheism has some intriguing aspects. It sees itself as pragmatic, or practical, atheism with the following characteristics:

• Absence of religious motivation—belief in gods does not motivate moral action, religious action, or any other form of action;
• Active exclusion of the problem of gods and religion from intellectual pursuit and practical action;
• Indifference—the absence of any interest in the problems of gods and religion; or
• Unawareness of the concept of a deity
  

Essentially? Apatheists don’t care about religion. At all.

I get it. Particularly from the perspective of Science. Philosophical mindsets that suggest that the existence (or non-existence) of a god (or bunch of them) matters not at all in an evidence-based, scientific methodologically-sourced way of approaching the natural world/universe are pretty resonant, generally speaking, with the way that I approach this here existence of ours.

All gods, and all religions, are equal in ‘value’- and, as such, equally irrelevant. Especially since moralistic societies need not rely on religions for their foundations. They might be nice as sources of childlike comfort, but there’s no real call for them in an educated, incredulous and secularized society. This, however, remains a minority view here on Planet Earth.

Historically, practical atheists/apatheists were regarded as immoral embracers of hedonism and vice.

Like my Gnostics. And anyone else who disagrees with the institutions of the religious status quo.

Shockingly/disgustingly/terrifyingly this was news this morning. I’ve written before about some of my feelings about my own atheism – how I’ve tended to remain quiet about it unless challenged, and how the whole ‘live-and-let-live’ mantra has stood me fairly steadfast for some time now, but also how I’m being forced to rethink that way of approaching the world.

With the rise of the Reactionary Right- in all its forms (political, religious et al)- remaining quietly assured in my evidence-based beliefs about the world is no longer enough. Atheism shouldn’t require ideological defence. Not in this day and age. It certainly shouldn’t be something that ends with a death sentence at the hands of credulous individuals who assert the dominance of their fairy tale view of the world – although using ‘fairy tale’ as a descriptor in this case connotes a worldview that is far less indelibly stained by violence than is historically demonstrable.

The distance between those shouldn’ts and the way things are is becoming alarmingly disparate.

There has always- in my experience of the academic discipline- been discussion about the connection between religion and violence. I read René Girard’s Violence and the Sacred as part of a dialectic-based course I took with one of my mentors- a philosopher of religion who had a profound influence on my way of approaching religious studies, and the world in general.

The discussion is on-going- even outside of the halls of the academy- these days. There’s a whole lot of name-calling and finger-pointing and claims about the violent tendencies of ‘Other’ groups, Ironically, that finger-pointing and name-calling generally leads to suggestions for ‘initiatives’ to counter that violence with violence- sourced in and supported by ‘Our’ religious beliefs- directed back at the ‘Other’.

There’s also a whole lot of apologist literature out there defending religion- generally heralding one religion over another- that speaks to the need to shore up our morality by returning to one credulous fold or another.

While I respect some of Karen Armstrong’s work, and very much respect her as a person- her compassionate view of the world with all its variety is really quite wonderful- she’s missed the boat with her latest comparative survey of the world’s religions.

As is succinctly noted in this response to her response to the charge that religion is causally inseparable from violence, in attempting to defend religion against all comers (primarily us atheist-types), to ‘exonerate’ religion (something that isn’t, in my academic opinion, possible) Armstrong ‘muddies the water’ of an otherwise ‘academic intervention in an ongoing but oversimplified and disheartening “debate”.‘

This is a common fallacy found in the arguments of apologists. Who are, by definition, credulous.

In the face of such discussions- and their worldwide implications- it isn’t enough for the incredulous, evidence-based thinkers among us to claim indifference to the problem of gods and their existence. How wonderful it would be if we were able to ‘actively exclude the problem of gods and religion from intellectual pursuit and practical action.’

How wonderful indeed.

Somehow, I doubt we’ll get there any time soon.

Until we have worldwide consensus that ‘the belief in gods does not motivate moral action, religious action, or any other form of action’, we have to acknowledge that such beliefs are going to colour our discussions about how we can all get along and share this planet. Unfortunately, I don’t see that consensus on any visible horizon.

Which means that eliminating the reality of the opposing perspective smacks of the intellectual laziness suggested by the apathy part of apatheism.

Intellectual laziness- from all sides- is pissing me off. The fact that the main ‘news’ of the day seems to be an ongoing discussion about the colour of some randomly-posted dress is kinda messing with my expectations as to the proper order of things.

I’m thinking that my embracing of a wee dram this evening will be anything but apathetic. I will enjoy my Scotch with real enthusiasm and interest. Believe me.

So- a little song about apathy, with a very special, much beloved, guest star in the video.

I’m going down to Liverpool to do nothing
I’m going down to Liverpool to do nothing
All the days of my life
All the days of my life.

Farewell, Leonard. I can’t imagine a world without you. Strong characters enchant and endure- and only truly strong people can imbue such characters with real humanity. That Vulcan- and the human who brought him to life- were examples of the best that humanity has to offer. Go gently, Mr. Spock.

 

Required Reading

We started chatting about making cottage plans this week. Believe me- it’s a matter of maintaining sanity in the face of the insane cold we’ve been subjected to over the past little bit.

I started dreaming of lakes and docks and summer-y cocktails with a great book or 12, and remembered this post.

It’s in keeping, subject-wise, with some of the stuff I’ve been harping about lately, yet it is allowing me to recall last summer and permitting me to hope that the sun and warmth will return.

Have a great weekend! If you’re anywhere near this neck o’ the woods make sure to bundle up!

colemining

Every once in awhile I find myself missing university teaching.  I miss the students- wide-eyed and eager to learn, and the colleagues with whom I shared common interests and background.  I miss the discussions we had, and the ideas that they would bring to the table that would enhance and develop my own perceptions of our world.

But one of the things I miss most is the opportunity I had- every four months or so- to create a syllabus outlining the assignments and readings for the course.  In doing so, I got to share some of my favourite stories and concepts with my audience- and they actually HAD to read them (at least if they hoped to pass the course, they did).

I miss it partly because I genuinely LOVE sharing the wonderful contributions that have been made in understanding our humanity with my fellow humans, but also because sometimes…

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Crafting Love

“In the first days of his bondage he had turned to the gentle churchly faith endeared to him by the naïve trust of his fathers, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to promise escape from life. Only on closer view did he mark the starved fancy and beauty, the stale and prosy triteness, and the owlish gravity and grotesque claims of solid truth which reigned boresomely and overwhelmingly among most of its professors; or feel to the full the awkwardness with which it sought to keep alive as literal fact the outgrown fears and guesses of a primal race confronting the unknown. It wearied Carter to see how solemnly people tried to make earthly reality out of old myths which every step of their boasted science confuted, and this misplaced seriousness killed the attachment he might have kept for the ancient creeds had they been content to offer sonorous rites and emotional outlets in their true guise of eternal fantasy.

But when he came to study those who had thrown off the old myths, he found them even more ugly than those who had not. They did not know that beauty lies in harmony, and that loveliness of life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save only its harmony with the dreams and the feelings which have gone before and blindly moulded our little spheres out of the rest of chaos. They did not see that good and evil and beauty and ugliness are only ornamental fruits of perspective, whose sole value lies their linkage to what chance made our fathers think and feel, and whose finer details are different for every race and culture. Instead, they are either denied these things altogether or transferred them to the crude, vague instincts which they shared with the beasts and peasants; so that their lives were dragged malodourously out in pain, ugliness and disproportion, yet filled with a ludicrous pride at having escaped from something more unsound than that which still held them. They had traded the false gods of fear and blind piety for those of license and anarchy.

Carter did not taste deeply of these modern freedoms; for their cheapness and squalor sickened a spirit loving beauty alone, while his reason rebelled at the flimsy logic with which their champions tried to gild brute impulse with a sacredness stripped from the idols they had discarded. He saw that most of them, in common with their cast-off preistcraft, could not escape from the delusion that life has a meaning apart from that which men dream into it; and could not lay aside the crude notion of ethics and obligations beyond those of beauty, even when all Nature shrieked of its unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in the light of their scientific discoveries. Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of justice, freedom, and consistency, they cast off the old lore and the old ways with the old beliefs; nor ever stopped to think that that lore and those ways were the sole makers of their present thoughts and judgments, and the sole guides and standards in a meaningless universe without fixed aims or stable points of reference. Having lost these artificial settings, their lives grow void of direction and dramatic interest; till at length they strove to drown their ennui in bustle and pretended usefulness, noise and excitement, barbaric display and animal sensation. When these things palled, disappointed, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they cultivated irony and bitterness, and found fault with the social order. Never could they realize that their brute foundations were as shifting and contradictory as the gods of their elders, and the satisfaction of one moment is the bane of the next. Calm, lasting beauty comes only in dreams, and this solace the world had thrown away when in its worship of the real it threw away the secrets of childhood and innocence.”

From ‘The Silver Key’, by Howard Philips Lovecraft. 1926

Please note the date of composition.

1926.

I’ve been reading a lot of Lovecraft lately. I’m not totally sure why. I did read Stephen King’s latest, Revival, recently, and the novel certainly evoked some Lovecraftian reflections, so that might have something to do with it. I was also fighting a brutal virus of some kind- and when I’m feeling ill and generally down-in-the-dumps, my literary tastes tend toward the gothic for some reason.

I purchased Lovecraft’s collected works for my Kobo for something like $3.00. Canadian dollars. That’s a whole lot o’ lit for not a lot of money. As I’ve been working my way through the collection, a bunch of things have been jumping out at me- like rats from the walls of an antediluvian castle.

First off, the guy LOVED to use and reuse particular turns of phrase and descriptive terminology that is hard to find outside of his work. While I’ve read him before, I have never in-taken so much back-to-back-to-back, as it were, so the repetition is heightened more than it would be if I was taking the stuff in pieces- or according to a logical ordering- which this collection (at least how it appears on my e-Reader) is lacking. If all the Cthulhu stuff and all the Dream Cycle stuff were together as their cohesive-ish wholes, then the recurrence of themes and wordplay may be less jarring. Hard to know. He was a writer of his time- so the somewhat formal and pointedly archaic language is to be expected (as is the racism and classism- although I’d avoided a great deal of the worst of that in past readings).

Nonetheless, I’ve always been interested in the guy- as much for what he influenced as for his creations themselves. The Cthulhu Mythos is pretty damn brilliant when it comes down to it, with its incorporation of mythological themes and responses to the tensions between the realities of scientific and technological advances, and ‘tradition’ and religion.

From the Wikipedia:

Lovecraft himself adopted the stance of atheism early in his life. In 1932 he wrote in a letter to Robert E. Howard: “All I say is that I think it is damned unlikely that anything like a central cosmic will, a spirit world, or an eternal survival of personality exist. They are the most preposterous and unjustified of all the guesses which can be made about the universe, and I am not enough of a hairsplitter to pretend that I don’t regard them as arrant and negligible moonshine. In theory I am an agnostic, but pending the appearance of radical evidence I must be classed, practically and provisionally, as an atheist”.

He got it. I’ll say it again, atheism ain’t some new, dangerous social phenomenon. Old as the hills, it is. Or at least as old as the gods.

Lovecraft was a weird little dude, in many ways. But his influence is undisputed in certain literary circles. Neil Gaimon loves him (and I love Neil Gaimon). As does the aforementioned Mr. King. I have to admit that revisiting his stories has been eye-opening.

Ever since I can remember I’ve had recurring dreams that feature the odd angles and geometry that Lovecraft uses to describe the architecture of the mysterious and forbidden cities of the ancients. So many of these dreams take place in parts of Toronto (the town closest to my heart) but with subtle differences that lend a sinister aura to the dreamscapes.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve been out for a ramble and come across a building that seems somehow off in real life- since I’m used to seeing it in dreams with its structure somehow altered.

Arguably, the guy has crept into my psyche through the myriad stories his writings influenced and which I read/heard without knowing that they were Lovecraftian in origin. He’s created archetypes that we don’t even acknowledge as being as archetypal as they are.

I have something of a similar relationship with some of Ray Bradbury’s tales. His October Country and Dark Carnival resonate heavily with my childhood memories and, well, things I like. Oddly, perhaps, since I haven’t spent much (any) time in the Midwest of the US.  I first read Something Wicked This Way Comes when I was in Grade 6. It was fall (it might have been October), and the atmosphere of the novel suited the melancholy of the season and set the standard for my love of macabre carnivals (like the ones found in Carnivale and, recently, the Freak Show of the most recent iteration of American Horror Story).

Through Bradbury’s autumnal settings and investigations of the mélange of good and evil found in each of us- and the awareness that self-centered desires are the basis for human malice and unhappiness- his stories teach us that supernatural forces (evil coming from outside- from something that is other than human) are most easily defeated by the most human of tools. Things like sincerity of heart. Things like love. Because those non-human influences are easily dissipated when faced with human strength of character and conviction.

Reminds me of a song…

When I was a young boy,
My father took me into the city,
To see a marching band,
He said, Son, when you grow up,
Would you be the savior of the broken,
The beaten and the damned,

Sometimes I get the feeling,
She’s watching over me,
And other times I feel like I should go,
And through it all, the rise and fall,
The bodies in the streets,
And when you’re gone we want you all to know,

We’ll carry on, we’ll carry on,
And though you’re dead and gone, believe me,
Your memory will carry on, we’ll carry on,
And in my heart, I can’t contain it,
The anthem won’t explain it,

And while that sends you reeling,
From decimated dreams,
Your misery and hate will kill us all,
So paint it black and take it back,
Let’s shout out loud and clear,
Defiant to the end we hear the call

Many of Bradbury’s tales were published by Arkham House- founded to preserve, in hardcover, Lovecraft’s voluminous fiction.

Like Lovecraft, Bradbury’s imagination influenced those same later writers. Neil’s latest short story collection contains a poetic homage to Ray that highlights his importance to the weird  genre of literature. Something Wicked also greatly impacted the story behind my favourite of his novels -one I used more than once in courses I taught over the years- American Gods.

Ordinary people fighting the influence of supernatural beings- frequently, the gods themselves. Recurrence of theme…

I used Gaimon’s wonderful novel as an illustration of the ways in which we, as humans, make up gods as originators and jurists- and how these creations need us. Without our worship and acknowledgement they fade, or die, or are forced to take jobs as taxi drivers and prostitutes (or, as did my very faves, run a funeral parlour in Cairo, Illinois- not all that far from Bradbury’s native Waukegan, Illinois).

The first time I used American Gods in a classroom setting was for a course called Religion, Illusion and Reality- a survey course describing how we create and study religions. The novel offers a vivid illustration of the fundamental need the gods have for us, their creators, and how they fade as newer gods- those of media, technology and, even, celebrity take focus and worship away from them and cause them to disappear into obscure uselessness.

I love this theme. And it runs through all this weird fiction. Those things to which we stop paying attention draw back into the abyss of imagination where they were created- but remain dormant yet dangerous, waiting for the opportunity to influence the credulous among us and regain their power over those seeking to gratify the self above all. It is there that the weird gods find their acolytes.

This worldview hearkens back to that whole order vs. chaos dichotomy I’ve talked about before. Back to the beginnings- to our creative origins as we developed written language and began to institutionalize our attempts at explaining the unexplainable.

Rather than looking to the knowledge we’ve gained, we’re allowing the long-buried Cthulu-types to reassert their hold over our intelligence and call to us from the sunken depths or distant stars to which they had been banished by the light of humanity.

Prompted by a recent post by my friend Audrey, I’ve picked up some of Algernon Blackwood’s short fictions as well. Lord Dunsany is next. Perhaps by delving into these writers who recognize the dangers posed by those gods (and religions) we create, I’ll gain some perspective on why we are letting ourselves be drawn irretrievably back into the dark ages of credulity and superstition.

Creepy stories about weird gods are fantastic for fireside tale-telling, or while curled up in a blanket with a dram of something warming while the unseasonably cold winds from the Great Lake seep through the glass of a modern condominium building (that will be the remainder of my evening, I think).

They don’t belong in our schools or our places of work. Or in our governments and the policies they institute- on behalf of all of us.

If we’re going to insist upon such a return to darkness in our daily lives and overarching culture, why not go all the way?

Or 2015- for those of us here in Canada…

‘You take what you need and leave the rest’

Feeling some February blahs- and some all-around feeling that all is not right with the world. Seems I’m not the only one (looking at you, Hippie Cahier). So let’s see if we can’t rediscover some of the good… 

It was a big music weekend. All about the Grammy Awards.

Meh.

I’m not a big one for ‘industry’ stuff. And, to be really honest, I’d only heard of about four of the albums that were up for awards this year. It seems that with each one that passes, the ‘artists’ who show up to these things become further and further outside my ken/musical appreciation.

I did have to watch a couple of things, though. Sadly, I missed AC/DC’s show opener but caught it on YouTube Monday morning- (I had to look hard to find it- thought I had it, but it turned out to be a commentary about starting the show with ‘satanic worship’ and ‘Illuminati performances’. Jebus.) – Angus can still rock those shorts, and, despite the fact that Highway to Hell was a little slower than I remember it being, the guys can still enchant an audience. Must be their connection to the Devil…

What I reallyreally wanted to see was Jeff Lynne (with his current incarnation of ELO). He- and that redheaded kid- offered up a solid performance. Jeff’s voice hasn’t changed even a little bit over the years- still so familiar and so wonderful. Evil Woman and Mr. Blue Sky (I wrote about that little ditty here) – keen offerings, although I was a little surprised that they didn’t do Don’t Bring Me Down. Kind of interesting that he and Tom Petty were both present to watch that other kid take home a best record/best song award for the song he cribbed from them… But I talked about that whole thing already.

I decided recently that I quite adore Hozier. There’s a lot of solid musicianship and some great themes and lyrics behind that engaging smile. And the fact that Take me to Church is a commentary on love- and how institutionalized religion (he rails against the RC church, in particular- good Irish lad that he is) has a nasty tendency to treat sexuality- specifically homosexuality- as something that is shameful. Powerful song.

And then he was joined by Ms. Annie… Who, once again, proved that she has class, extremity of talent and timelessness- and pipes that Just. Won’t. Quit. Best performance of the night. A few other female ‘vocalists’ were well-and-truly schooled by her understated presence and powerful voice. Keeping it real, Annie. Gotta love her.

I turned it off, after that. Heard about that idiot’s aborted attempt to undermine Beck’s acceptance of his award (and the artistry that earned him the recognition)- which validated my decision to turn the thing off. The unwarranted arrogance is astonishing. All that autotune… are we sure he’s not a robot? Really? The (inexplicable) presence of Sir Paul in his life of late notwithstanding, I just don’t get the appeal. At all. Not cool. Beck was pretty groovy about the whole thing, though. Another class act.

But this post isn’t really about the Grammys. It’s about music– rather than industry.

Saturday was a cold and snowy-type of day (what’s up with that, btw, winter? Cold OR snowy I can almost handle. Both simultaneously? Not so freakin much), and I admit that I didn’t move all that far from the couch for most of it. It was a catch-up kind of a weekend- watching stuff, reading stuff, replying to some outstanding correspondence and stuff…

But all came to a complete and total halt when the best music documentary ever produced came on the tv.

I ‘placeholdered’ these guys way back last summer. Watching The Last Waltz for the umpteenth time reminded me that they are more than overdue for some props. ‘Twas strange, actually. As I watched the movie again, I had the strongest feeling of déjà vu that was about more than just the fact that I’d seen the film and heard the songs before. I felt like I’d written a post about them already… Time can be peculiar…

Anyway. Weird loopings of time aside…

Have you seen the movie? No? Do it. If you like music at all then this is a must-see. Produced by Marty Scorsese, it is the best concert film of all time. Yes, I’m waxing hyperbolic. But it’s deserved hyperbole.

Those guys.

Rick, Garth, Richard… love(d) them all. But Levon and Robbie? Two very different dudes, but among my absolute favourite music-makers.

Unlike all too many of those who were present and representing at Sunday’s spectacle, The Band influenced generations of fellow-musicians- in so many genres and over many decades. They’ve always been there- in my lifetime, anyway. Working with the best of the best- singing songs with the likes of Bob Dylan, inspiring the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Elton John/Bernie Taupin (who named a song after Mr. Helms- although their Levon told someone else’s story)…

The Last Waltz featured many of the peeps who wrote the soundtracks, in various musical styles, for decades– from Neil Diamond, to Van Morrison, Eric Clapton- and fellow Canadian treasures Joni Mitchell and Neil Young.

For much of my earliest life they were there in the background- I knew the songs, but mightn’t have been able to identify the band (or The Band) that wrote and performed them. Levon, Rick and Richard switching up the vocal duties as easily as they all swapped instruments made it hard for me (always focused on the vocals and the lyrics before anything else) to give all the songs a single source.

I finally put it all together years after the dissolution that followed The Last Waltz, when (my fellow Torontonian) Robbie released his self-titled solo album. Showdown at Big Sky resonated deeply with me- even then, long before I embarked on my crusade to rid us all of superstitious thinking- with its apocalyptic themes and pointed references to the historical injustices visited upon our First Nations. I love everything about that song- and its message is as important (maybe more so) now as it was in 1987.

After hearing and loving Robbie, I pieced together the jigsaw of talent and realized that The Band has been part of my personal and eternal playlist since the beginning…

Ronnie Hawkins (sans the Hawks who were gone from him and no longer The Band, either, by the time that I was old enough to see him at every single New Year’s Eve performance at Nathan Phillips Square) found the five original members while they were but wee ones, bringing them together as his supporting band.

Garth came to the band with a stipulation- his parents had invested heavily in his musical training, so, to mollify fears that his education was in vain, he insisted that the other Hawks call him a ‘music instructor’ and pay him $10 per week for his tutelage. Under Hawkins, and Garth’s formal training, the other four flourished in their musicology and experimentation.

They played ALL the instruments. They wrote ALL the songs.

And everything they wrote and recorded is just so good.

‘The Weight’ is undeniably one of the best songs of all time. Rolling Stone placed it at #41 of their top 500 songs, ever. It has been covered by so many people (you doubt? Check out the Wikipedia- there were versions I didn’t even know about)- and has become a ‘modern standard’.

Arguably, it’s one of the best story-songs in existence- and you know I love those story-songs.

The traveler arrives in the ‘Holy Land’ of Nazareth, Pennsylvania, weary from his journey and looking for some comfort as he passes on the well-wishes of his Miss Fanny. He meets a cast of characters- named for biblical peeps- and offers up sketches of each of the interesting individuals that call Nazareth home.

I love these characters- feel like I know them. And I love the underlying message about sharing the load. Based, as they are, in the tradition of musical forms that include spirituals and folk songs and traditional country ditties, it’s hardly surprising that most of their catalogue is uplifting in nature.

Oh, how I love that catalogue.

As so often seems to be the case when I start thinking about answers/reasons/inspiration, that connection thing is happening again.

Yesterday marked the 30th anniversary of the recording of Canada’s answer to the call to raise awareness and aid for Ethiopia (I’ve talked about the British response and re-response before). The CBC had an engaging story about it  yesterday morning. Check out the link embedded in the article that takes you to the original video. Brought tears to my eyes. Seriously.

Talking about the three major offerings to the cause, the author noted that:

“Each represents a cliché stereotype about its country, he suggests. The British Do They Know It’s Christmas? takes a colonial attitude, while the American We Are the World is very self-centred. Tears Are Not Enough offered an emotional but indistinct humanitarianism.”

‘Emotional, but indistinct humanitarianism.’ I’m not sure that that’s particularly fulsome praise, but as stereotypes go, there are certainly worse.

I’m (almost always) proud to be Canadian. When you watch the Northern Lights video, keep your eyes peeled for a couple of the people who are linked, inextricably, to The Band. They were present and accounted for then. Still are.

We have staying power, us Canucks. And determination to see things through.

And then I saw this today.

Bob Dylan accepting a well-deserved award and giving an eloquent (if sometimes surprising) speech.

If you sung all these “come all ye” songs all the time like I did, you’d be writing, “Come gather ’round people where ever you roam, admit that the waters around you have grown / Accept that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone / If your time to you is worth saving / And you better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone / The times they are a-changing.”

You’d have written that too. There’s nothing secret about it. You just do it subliminally and unconsciously, because that’s all enough, and that’s all you know. That was all that was dear to me. They were the only kinds of songs that made sense.

So.

Lesson for the week?

Music, at its best, can be a powerful force for change and awareness-raising- and can tell stories about particular times and particular ways of viewing the world, while leaving us with themes and tunes that resonate regardless of time or place. Music gives– comfort and insight and entertainment- allowing us to take what we need (any and all of those things on the notice up there ^^^) and leave the rest for the next person to enjoy and use as they might require.

At its worst? It is nothing more than a pathway to fame and/or infamy for ego-driven jackasses who put personal aggrandizement ahead of art and craft at every opportunity.

People wonder why I listen to the music that I do (stuff invariably from the former category) and ignore the dross put out by the latter.

The Band wrote songs that ‘made sense’. They still make sense. Not sure that can be said about a lot of the output that was celebrated at the industry ceremony the other night.

Still… Bob again:

All these songs are connected. Don’t be fooled. I just opened up a different door in a different kind of way. It’s just different, saying the same thing. I didn’t think it was anything out of the ordinary. Well you know, I just thought I was doing something natural, but right from the start, my songs were divisive for some reason. They divided people. I never knew why. Some got angered, others loved them. Didn’t know why my songs had detractors and supporters. A strange environment to have to throw your songs into, but I did it anyway.

Last thing I thought of was who cared about what song I was writing. I was just writing them. I didn’t think I was doing anything different. I thought I was just extending the line. Maybe a little bit unruly, but I was just elaborating on situations. Maybe hard to pin down, but so what? A lot of people are hard to pin down and you’ve just got to bear it. In a sense everything evened itself out.

Music shouldn’t divide. Not when it’s reflective of the best that it can be. I’m feeling like we need some evening out hereabouts these days. Some equatable sharing of the load- whatever that load might be.

Soundtrack for the rest of week?

Lots of The Band. I’m in the mood for some solid storytelling and great music and lyrics. And some mending. And defending.

Especially since I know a whole lot o’ folks all feeling a little like we’re half past dead right now.

‘She told me just to come on by
If there’s anything that she could do’

Number One (without a bullet)!

There’s been some negativity ’round these parts lately. I’m not, constitutionally or by preference, a negative sort of a person- in the normal course of things.

But when stuff happens, I find it very difficult to remain silent. Doing so would abrogate my responsibility as a citizen of the planet and member of this human race. Still, I think I need to lighten up every now and again. Now would be a good time.

So, prompted by a couple o’ things…

I gotta say, this made me smile quite hard late last week.

8th safest city in the world, numero uno in North America. And when you look at the “index of indexes” (shouldn’t that be ‘indices’?) we’re NUMBER ONE overall.

I love my hometown. I talk about it quite a lot. Here, for instance. Or here.

I also love that, in spite of the fact that we have been the focus of the world recently not for our greatness but because of the ignorant, self-aggrandizing buffoon who sat in the mayor’s chair for four years, we are being recognized for all the things that make us pretty damn fine. Not perfect- there is much room for improvement- but pretty awesome.

I’ve touched on the question of multiculturalism a bit recently- specifically alluding to all of the challenges that it can bring. Growing up in this town, awareness of and exposure to different cultures was part of the scenery, part of the experience. It remains one of the things I love most about my city by the Great Lake. On any given weekend in the summer months, one community or another invites the rest of the town to come pay a visit and experience a little slice of their take on food and music and art and dance and culture.

We have work yet to do- there is always work to be done- but I think we are better than most at recognizing that, along with its many benefits, our town’s diversity means that we need to address challenges head-on when they arise.

Sure, our public transit system is a HUGE mess (that’s getting messier by the day), but we have a good foundation with which to work- provided we can get people (especially those who insist upon driving cars everywhere) on board with some of the initiatives that have been tabled to make movement around the city better for everyone.

We’re still dealing with some of the fall-out from years of City Hall mismanagement- and our heritage programs are underfunded and disordered, permitting developers (mainly condo developers) to get away with destroying century-old buildings in order to raise even more glass towers…

Coincidentally, hard upon the heels of our international validation last week, a friend of mine gave me a copy of a novel by Michael Redhill. Consolation is an interesting read about the ways in which we need to wake up to the reality of history in our lives. Set in Toronto- in 1855-57 and 1997- he presents the less-than-auspicious origins of the town and demonstrates the ways in which we bury that history in our financially-based drive to ‘development’.

In very many ways, he has the pulse of the city down pat. And his love of the town comes through as he warns of the dangers- personal and otherwise- of keeping things hidden- or allowing them to be destroyed- for the sake of expediency and/or ‘progress’.

One of his characters notes that ‘neglect of the past is a form of despair‘, while another spells out the reality of politics and planning in the city:

‘… anyway, it’s not even up to the city. This is the Heritage Act- it’s a provincial bill. It sets out what’s protected in the province, whether it’s on provincial, municipal or private property, If you want to know the truth, it’s a toothless bill and most of it’s about how many appeals you get if you really, really want to tear something down. March of progress and all that, good luck if you’re an Indian burial ground or a nice old house standing on some expensive dirt… I doubt a four-foot piece of the True Cross would be enough to stop work on a site in this city. You find a three-week old potato chip in Montreal, they raise a velvet rope around it and have a moment of silence. But here, no. If you’re hoping for a work stoppage, you’ll need a lawyer.’

Closely following that little bit of truth, Redhill presents a conversation with local councillor- the one in charge of Heritage- that outlines the opinion that most municipal employees (and all-too-many citizens) seem to have about historical preservation in this town: development, and the potential tax money that might come out of development, is ALL, and it is to be encouraged regardless of environmental impact or historical preservation.

That sort of thinking is what permitted this sort of travesty.

While that system is pretty damn broken, we are seeing some developers who seem to be about more than the money, and who are enthusiastic about maintaining our heritage gems- and incorporating them in the plans for improvements in our downtown core.

This story, in particular, warmed my cockles significantly. In case you aren’t from around here and mightn’t know, the Matador was immortalized in Leonard Cohen’s 1992 song/video Closing Time.

How much do we love Leonard? Our National Bard. He’s from the number 2 town in the world, but we’ll forgive him anything. (It’s also cool that Montreal came second overall. I’ve always maintained that if I couldn’t live in TO for some reason, la belle Montreal would be second on my list. Apparently the world agrees with me.)

I have never met Paul McCaughey, but he quickly became one of my very favourite people when I discovered that the Matador will stay a music venue- rather than becoming a parking lot, as planned.

I also have to like our safety numbers. We do see incidents of violence (and policing problems that blacken our collective reputation) but our comparative safety record speaks for itself (as far as the people at The Economist see it, anyway). While gun violence happens, it remains rare enough to be shocking when it does.

We might not be located on the extreme of gun avoidance that Michael Moore suggested in Bowling for Columbine, but we tend to have a healthier view of arms and armaments than do our neighbours to the south of us.

We have some truly fantastic cultural spaces and events: Grandmaster Flash is going to be at the Art Gallery of Ontario on Thursday night (the party is sold out)- which is pretty cool- even if you aren’t a fan of old school rap. And Friday Night Live at the ROM this week is all about Carnival- and will highlight all kinds of goodies- musical, culinary and otherwise- from our various Caribbean communities. (I’ll be attending that particular party). Then there are our great restaurants and fun pubs and bars. You can shop like a star- if you’re inclined to do that kind of thing- or enjoy an evening of laughter at one of our comedy clubs (we are the hometown of people like Mike Myers, Dave Foley, Will Arnett (who went to my high school, actually), Catherine O’Hara, etc. etc. etc.). Take in a band (we have LOTS of great ones of those, as well) at one of our fantastic music venues (I’ve written about a few of them before). Or cheer on a sports team- even a hockey team (if you’ve got something of a masochistic streak. In case you weren’t aware, our professional hockey team isn’t very good).

There is, quite honestly, always something to do in this place. For just about everyone.

Whether or not the weather gods are being kind…

Redhill’s 19th century apothecary aptly noted ‘had Simcoe* or his wife set foot ashore in weather as unsuitable for human habitation as this winter had offered, he had no doubt there would be no Toronto.’

(*John Graves Simcoe was our first Lieutenant Governor- who founded York- now Toronto- as the capital of Upper Canada .)

Okay. So our weather is a little unpredictable. I, myself, can’t stand winter, and we got a pretty strong blast of that sort of nonsense yesterday and the night before.  The snow that fell has now turned to slush, and the sidewalks and roadways are grey and icky. We’re supposed to see more snow- and even colder temperatures- tomorrow.

But. Today the sun is shining and the wind off the Lake isn’t as bad as it could be. On days like this I can actually remember- and look forward to- the warm breezes and return of the green spaces that make up so much of this town.

Eventually things will start to look like this again…

Green and warm and Lake-shore-y.

I do love to travel- and there are other places in the world that have captured my attention and heart in one way or another (looking at you, Glasgow), but today I’m a proud Torontonian. In spite of the below-seasonal temperatures.

We might like ourselves somewhat overmuch (if you listen to peeps from the rest of the country, anyway), but I think we have a whole lot to be proud of, here in Hogtown.

Pop on by for a visit.

And remember, when you do- the second ‘t’ is silent. Welcome to Torono. You’ll feel like a local in no time.