Songs to Learn and Sing

So… today is another one of those examples of polarization that I keep talking about.

Ostensibly about love, do a quick internet search and you will be presented with at least as many posts about how Valentine’s Day suuuuucks as you will find links to the ‘perfect gift/thought/outing’ to plan for/with a special someone.

Flipping back through what I’ve written the past while, I can’t help but notice an extremely un-cole-like preponderance of negativity and cynicism overshadowing my thoughts and the words I’ve felt compelled to share here on the WordPress.  So while I could (and almost did) write something about how this ‘Hallmark holiday’ is nothing more than yet another example of the hyper-commercialism of society and one of the many things that keeps us distracted from stuff we need to be thinking about, I’ve decided that it’s past time to lighten the hell up a little, and view the day in light of ‘best intentions’ and the celebration of the many forms of love in this life to which we should be paying daily attention.

We humans are social animals and we gravitate to one another for a variety of reasons- whether biological, emotional, philosophical, intellectual or otherwise.  This basic commonality is reflected in our myths and music.  It pervades February 14th and has become associated with, strictly, couple-y love (in the high Middle Ages the day was about courtly love- which had little to do with things like love within the bonds of marriage and more with those rules of chivalry that Don Quixote tried so hard to re-introduce) rather than love of a more general and all-encompassing sort.

I think this emphasis represents a missed opportunity.

Here in Ontario we have a long weekend ahead of us (thank goodness!) with Monday being the ‘Family Day’ statutory holiday.  Arriving in tandem with all the pink/red flowers, hearts, candy and cutesy teddy bears, we can take the opportunity to stop for a little bit and focus on the existence of love- in all its manifestations- than can be experienced as we travel these roads together.

I let the Shuffle Daemon take the wheel (since it has been brilliantly returning absent friends to me lately) and find me some tunes that speak to this theme of love-in-general that we need to get working for us.

I wrote about this guy- and mentioned this song in passing- the other day.  I think it’s one of my favourite being-in-love songs ever.  Straightforward and real.

‘I could be discontent and chase the rainbow’s end
I might win much more but lose all that is mine
I could be a lot but I know I’m not
I’m content just with the riches that you bring
I might shoot to win and commit the sin
Of wanting more than I’ve already got
I could run away but I’d rather stay
In the warmth of your smile lighting up my day
(the one that makes me say, heh)

‘Cause you’re the best thing that ever happened to me or my world
You’re the best thing that ever happened – so don’t go away

I might be a king and steal my people’s things
But I don’t go for that power crazy way
All that I could rule but I don’t check for fools
All that I need is to be left to live my way
(say listen what I say)’

Little Stevie Winwood.  The hope/assertion of fact in this song is just so veryvery human.

‘Think about it, there must be higher love
Down in the heart or hidden in the stars above
Without it, life is wasted time
Look inside your heart, I’ll look inside mine
Things look so bad everywhere
In this whole world, what is fair?
We walk blind, we try to see
Falling behind in what could be’

Some people might interpret this song as being about the supernatural love of a deity somewhere.  Steve might even have meant it to be about that.  One of the great and beautiful things about music is its interpretability.  I think it’s about that human-to-human connection we all need.

‘Worlds are turning and we’re just hanging on
Facing our fear and standing out there alone
A yearning, and it’s real to me
There must be someone who’s feeling for me’

Interpret as you will.  I saw him at Maple Leaf Gardens when he toured this album.  Man, can that guy sing.

I love that movie.  And when Lulu sings the title song to Sidney Poitier/Mr. Thackery… my poor teacher’s heart overflows.  It’s a wonderful and innocent reminder of the impact that we make as we pass through the lives of others.

‘The time has come
For closing books; and long last looks must end
And as I leave,
I know that I am leaving my best friend
A friend who taught me right from wrong,
And weak from strong — that’s a lot to learn
What — what can I give you in return?
If you wanted the moon,
I would try to make a start… but I
Would rather you let me give my heart
To Sir, With Love’

I know, I know.  I write about these guys a lot.  How can you not?

It’s about family love and lessons and the reciprocity of both.

Although I could go on and on and on… Should dash and get my plans for the weekend started.  But there’s time for one final tune…

‘In a hand painted night, me and Gypsy Scotty are partners
At the Hotel Flamingo, wearing black market shoes
This loud Cuban band is crucifying John Lennon
No one wants to be lonely, no one wants to sing the blues

She’s perched like a parrot on his tuxedo shoulder
Christ, what she’s doing with him?  She could be
Dancing with me’

Ah, Mellencamp.  This tune just makes me smile all over.  It’s a buddy/road trip song about adventures shared and bumps in the road overcome (and Matthew McConaughey is in the video).  The line about the ‘Cuban band crucifying John Lennon’ is one of my favourite lyrics EVER.

Let’s all get some of that love thing made manifest this weekend- whether it’s in the company of that one special person, your family, friends, furry children, or sent across the wide world in representation of love for and pride in our home and native land- and those doing us proud at them there Olympic Games (I know, I said I wasn’t interested, and I have yet to watch any events/coverage, but between the medal count and the fact that our athletes/coaches/fans are making my proud Canadian heart sing… it’s hard to stay Grinch-y about it all).

Happy Valentine’s Day/Family Day/We-are-human-and-we-love.  It’s-what-we-do Day.

PS- I stole the title for the post from an Echo and Bunnymen Greatest Hits compilation.  The Shuffle Daemon didn’t see fit to add them to the mix, but I thank them for the inspiration, nonetheless.

Songs that can change a life #4

This IS kind of funny.  Especially the part about the Leafs…

Haven’t done one of these in too long…

I love music (in case you weren’t aware) and I have to admit that I sometimes over-gravitate to the same old songs (emphasis on old). This isn’t to say that I don’t listen to and appreciate new music- but there are certain songs that truly are like old friends.

The beauty of the Shuffle Daemon is that it brings these old friends back into my life when it’s been a while since we last hung out. The other day, as I waited for the metaphysical enigma that is the King streetcar, the SD reminded me that I hadn’t visited this old buddy in far too long.

Once upon a time a week wouldn’t have passed by without me giving it a listen. Seriously, some of my friends still hear this tune and think of me. It’s another of those story songs that I so adore. It tells the story- based in a particular time and place- of a town in economic collapse and the social conundrums that result.

And it’s The Jam.  N.B. The ‘posters’ in the video: “Anti Complacency League! Baby!” and “If we aint getting through to you- you obviously aint listening!”  I concur.  3 wonderful, jam- (and Jam-) packed minutes.

While I waited for that most elusive of streetcars (seriously- where do they go? At least 10 passed by in the other direction in the 20 (!) minutes I stood waiting. They have to turn around sometime. Don’t they?!?!  And who, exactly, decides that they should be short turning during rush hours when there are dozens of people fighting for standing room on the ONE car that is actually permitted to complete its route in its entirety? Yeah, we don’t need a better-functioning public transportation system downtown at all, do we Mayor McCheese? Useless subways in Scarborough are far more important…), those opening notes (in a live version I picked up somewhere) came over the headphones.

Not only is it peppy and catchy and undeniably well-constructed, it’s also experience-based recollection and social commentary that still rings authentic and important. Once again, more than 30 years after the fact (stuck in the 80’s this week.  Mea culpa).

The Jam were representative of the melding of punk, new wave, and mod revival that came out of the UK in the late 70s-early 80s. Based out of Woking, Surrey, they combined the anger that fueled punk rock with the stylish R&B and tailored appearance of 60s mods, and, like the Kinks (as I’ve said repeatedly) emphasized their Britishness through the subject matter of their songs.  They focused on issues that affected their working class backgrounds- in the community from which they hailed- and the social problems they saw in their travels across the UK as they played the clubs.

Paul Weller has crafted some of my veryvery favourite songs, ever.  (My Ever Changing Moods from his Style Council days, not to mention You’re the Best Thing… listen to them.  Seriously.)

Town Called Malice recalls his teenage years in Woking, part of the Greater London Urban Area.  The title of the song is a play on the 1950 novel by Nevil Shute, A Town Like Alice, although Paul had not read the book before writing the song.

The novel is, in part, about its heroine’s attempts to bring economic prosperity to a small town in the Australian outback, turning it into a ‘town like Alice (Springs)’.

Being an eminently talented wordsmith- and British to boot (the Brits are so wonderfully adept at word play- especially when it comes to ‘sounds like’ constructions and rhyming slang.  Sight tangent: I came up with the ‘subtitle’ of this little blog o’ mine- ‘Made of the Myth’- after having heard a news story about the ‘Maid of the Mist’- those tourist boats that take you up close and personal with the glory of Niagara Falls.  To this day, the ONE person who picked up on that is a British buddy of mine- who cottoned on immediately.  Such a way with the language, our British brothers and sisters…aaaaaand we’re back), Paul was more about connecting the rhythm of the book’s title with that of his creation- and the shared concept of towns facing hard economic times.

As a legal term, malice refers to intention- either expressed or implied- to do harm to another.  Now I’m no lawyer (understatement, that), but according to Wikipedia/Pythia: ‘In any statutory definition of a crime, malice must be taken… as requiring either: 1) an actual intention to do the particular kind of harm that in fact was done; or 2) recklessness as to whether such harm should occur or not (i.e. the accused has foreseen that the particular kind of harm might be done and yet has gone on to take the risk…).’

Recklessness.  Hmmm.

‘Better stop dreaming of the quiet life
‘Cause it’s the one we’ll never know
And quit running for that runaway bus
‘Cause those rosy days are few

And stop apologizing for the things you’ve never done
‘Cause time is short and life is cruel but it’s up to us to change
This town called Malice…

…The atmosphere’s a fine blend of ice I’m almost stone cold dead

…A whole street’s belief in Sunday’s roast beef
Gets dashed against the Co-op
To either cut down on beer or the kids’ new gear
It’s a big decision in a town called Malice.

The ghost of a steam train – echoes down my track
It’s at the moment bound for nowhere –
Just going round and round

Playground kids and creaking swings
Lost laughter in the breeze
I could go on for hours and I probably will
But I’d sooner put some joy back in this town called Malice’

Standing on that street corner in the freezing cold, waiting for the public transportation- a ‘hot button’ election topic- to show up, those lyrics echoed in ways they have never done before (and, as I’ve said, I’ve know the song by heart for over three decades).

Reckless malice.

Since Ford is determined to continue playing the Media Star, at least he is admitting that the new YouTube programme is nothing more than a glory-seeking, extended campaign ad.  Okay, maybe he didn’t say that exactly… He is welcoming questions from ‘all around the world’- and most of them are concerned with the sideshow that he has become, internationally.

Gotta say, I’d really prefer a mayor who is more concerned with the state of our city and its citizens than with shoring up his image and reinforcing his narcissistic need to ensure that the spotlight remains focused on him and his own deluded self-image and -importance.

The rights to Crazy Town: The Rob Ford Story, by Toronto Star reporter Robyn Doolittle (one of the three journalists to first view the ‘crack video’), have been sold and will likely be made into a film.  Setting aside what I may or may not think of Doolittle, I am outraged that it seems to be acceptable to be keeping this guy’s name and image in the media.

National ‘newspapers‘ are already casting the film.  We are continuing to reinforce his lack of judgement, self-serving and unsupported sound bites, and his knowingly reckless behaviour.  And I’m not just talking about the shit (yes, I said ‘shit’- I’m PISSED OFF) he pulls in his ‘private life’.  Believe me, waiting for the 504 streetcar on Sunday, I had a loooooong time to think about his ‘transit plan’ and the mess that he has made worse in the three years since he was elected to run the city.

He is at least as big a train wreck politically as he is personally.  THAT seems to be getting lost with the spotlight being continually shone upon his antics.  He is not a clown.  He is not a ‘celebrity’.  He is the elected leader of the largest city in Canada and he has repeatedly demonstrated his inability to uphold the responsibilities of that role.

If we are to be subjected to this buffoon on all varietals of media between now and October (and then, hopefully never again), how’s about we pay closer attention to the truth of the matter than the sensational circus of shame.

Expressed or implied intent to do harm.  Foreseeing that harm will be done, and recklessly charging ahead regardless.

Sounds like Malice to me.

We’re ‘at the moment bound for nowhere- just going round and round.’

‘It’s up to us to change this town called Malice.’

Listen up, fellow Torontonians.  Join the Anti-Complacency League.

Please.

PS-  From the ridiculous to the sublime… this is making headlines all over my news feeds- especially those that come from my beloved Royal Ontario Museum.  The discovery really has nothing to do with this post- nor with the stuff I usually talk about- except that it is demonstration (if further remains necessary) that destroying our natural wonders for the sake of economic expediency also leads to the destruction of all those things buried beneath the surface of this here world of ours- natural AND of human origin- that help to tell our stories.  Can’t wait to check out the previously unknown species!

‘To everything there is a season’

Where to begin?  A little while ago I was feeling kind of frozen with the inability to come up with stuff worth writing about.  Oh, what change a couple of weeks can bring…

I’m still frozen- since this stoopid polar vortex (those are rapidly becoming my two least favourite words) thing refuses to release us from its icy grip- but the words, they are a’ flowin’.  New problem?  I just can’t keep up with them all.

So many directions and so very many events of significance.. and yet I’ll have to just let a few of them go without more than a passing nod.

There’s this guy, though.  And he deserves FAR more than a passing anything (except maybe an awed handshake or hug as I stand speechless at the greatness he embodied).

Pete Seeger.

Strange that he’s actually gone.  I can’t remember a world without his songs.  They are such a part of the soundtrack of my life, it’s hard to separate out separate out specific tunes for mention.  I’ve spent so very many summers by lakes here in Ontario, and every single one of them was accompanied by songs that Pete brought into our lives.  Songs we could sing- vocal abilities or lack thereof notwithstanding- and songs that MEANT something.

He’s been so ubiquitous that I honestly can’t even decide which of his songs I heard first, or, really, which one I love best.  Except… He adapted and then arranged words from one of my fave books from the OT, written by one of my fave characters from the OT.  So, even if the tune itself remains most associated with some other very cool cats, I have to say that Turn, Turn, Turn is right up there in the cole-appreciates-Pete department.

Since I have so much floating around in my head and attempting to escape through my fingertips, I am not going to be able to even approach doing justice to the memory of such a pivotal character in our (popular) culture.  There have been a lot of wonderful remembrances- in the mainstream media and here in the WP World- and I happened across this one at Shaunanagins yesterday.  Yep, yep, yep and yep (seven times over).  So well said.  Most resonant with me, right now in this head space I have going on, is the whole ‘music isn’t just about entertainment’ thing.  Pete taught us that.  People like Neil Young, who I wrote about here, reminded us of that reality recently.  It’s an easy thing to forget- when the throw-away pop that seems to be everywhere these days is the ‘music’ of first exposure for a whole lot of young people.

There are too few people, when you examine their lives, about whom you can honestly say that 94 (!) years wasn’t enough time here among us.  Pete was one of those ‘voices’ I spoke about.  And his is still out there carrying in ways that leave me entranced.

About that.  The whole ‘Voices Carry’ thing.  And my assertion, stemming from outrage, that we HAVE to be looking for dialectic rather than debate.  And about the whole synchronicity element- and winds of change seemingly headed in my general direction.

It’s been quite a week.  That radio show that I mentioned?  It happened, and people are talking.

#NotYourAdjunctSidekick is generating discussion all over the place in the Twitterverse, and groups of contract/part time/adjunct academic faulty are banding together to raise their voices as one.  Some of the stories are terrible- situations far more extreme and representative of the true systemic inequities than anything I ever experienced before I gave up on the system.  There are stories popping up everywhere.  Even if some of them- like the last speaker on The Current’s presentation of the issue- seem to be missing the point entirely, and using the discussion as yet another forum in which to bash the Humanities and deemphasize their importance in education (I’d like to continue to vehemently dispute that perspective by offering up an article, by Tom Nichols- a professor of national security affairs in the US- about the tendency to dismiss experts in the field due to the inability to use rationale and reason to examine all sides of an issue- and at least entertain the advice of those who know stuff about stuff before reacting emotionally and erroneously to any given topic).

All this talk of universities and teaching and communicating has my mind looping through all sorts of the topics that I’ve been thinking, and writing, about lately.  I’m finding myself missing the classroom.  This is an ever-present feeling- since I LOVED being a teacher- but talking about it over the last few days, and coming up with ideas and plans about affecting change have me realizing that it’s time to get back to the classroom.  But all this talk of the university system and its institutionalized problems has also reinforced the reality that I might have to come up with my own concept of ‘classroom’.

So this is leading to more talking and more sorting things out.  Some concepts are more appealing than others- so a few proposals/projects/blueprints need to be worked out in the next while.

I do know that the ‘classroom’ for me is not Toronto City Hall.  Not at this time, anyway.  The ‘how to be a candidate’ meeting was interesting and very informative.  The City employees who organized and ran the thing did so with professionalism and respect- something that is seemingly lacking in many of the politicians with whom they are required to work.  That is part of why it isn’t the venue for me.

As I sat in Karen Stintz’s seat in the council chamber, one of the organizers commented that the room was much more decorous and composed than is usually the case.  It was a joke, but it’s also all too much the truth.  There were a lot of people present at the meeting who were there in obvious search of change- and some of them spoke with passion and eloquence and without the narcissistic posturing of the people who usually sit in those seats.  It gave me some hope that positive change may be possible.  (There was at least one extremist crack-pot there (I’m not actually talking about ‘the mayor’, this time), of course, but the rest of those gathered chose to ignore his rantings and continue on with the business of actually learning something.  Hope indeed.)

There’s a great article in this month’s Toronto Life about those who maintain some level of faith that Ford is the guy to remove the City from its current quagmire.  They’re wrong, of course, but I now sort of understand why they might think that.  The article highlighted this systemic problem we have with polarizing our opinions to the extreme.

Us vs. Them.  It’s everywhere.  And that has to change.

As I walked to the subway this morning there was just the barest hint of warmth in the brutal wind that has been screaming around the buildings in the downtown core this past while.  Time for a change of season, paradigm, perspective and approach.

A time to build up, a time to break down

Or vice versa, as the case may be.

The thing about Time…

Phew.  That was some crazy Christmas.

There are still homes without power here in TO, but the sun is shining today and the snow/ice seems to be melting into that less-than-lovely slush that is one of the icky aspects of life in the downtown core.  Hopefully the increasing temperature will help the wonderful hydro workers who have been labouring without rest- or time with their own families- to get everyone back into the light and warmth of the season.

I feel like I haven’t stopped to take a breather- although obviously not to the same extent as the tireless light-bringers- but that’s all good.  It’s part of the time of year.  Some quietude should come this weekend- at least to a degree.  And then the celebrations will begin anew as we ring in 2014.

How did that happen?  Sometimes it amazes me how quickly time passes.  I’ve written before about the peculiarity of that particular human construct- driven, as it is, by the sun, moon, stars, seasons, turns of the earth and all that.  But we do value time interestingly- especially at this time of year.

Depending on your personal life circumstances there may often seem to never be enough hours in a day- to get things done, get enough rest, spend time with family and friends.  I’ve also written (extensively/ad nauseum, depending on your perspective) about how we seem to increasingly choose to waste huge chunks of time- on meaningless/mindless television, listening to manufactured cookie-cutter music, arguing about issues that should have been put to rest eons go and that are completely out of keeping with the access we have to the awareness of our globally shared humanity…

Yes.  If you scan back through the posts (over 100- surprising, that) I’ve completed since starting this little piece of the WordPress World last March, you’ll see pretty clearly that I have a few opinions about a couple of things and tend to express those opinions by drawing connections to our communal stories and songs.  I’m not alone in this- I’ve discovered a great many minds that work similarly to mine since I’ve become part of this community, along with those minds that express similar ideas through the media of poetry or short story or pure ranting and rolling with the issues at hand.

I love it.  I love the conversations I have seen started, the dialogues that remain ongoing, the friendships that I’ve developed- as I look for new posts and updates on sticky or joyous situations.  It’s a wonderful World- but one that can certainly become time consumptive.

If I had those extra hours in the day I would certainly spend some of them reading and commenting on more of the blogs I’ve come to love.  But I certainly do make every effort to check in with you all as often as I can.  Pre-colemining I truly had no concept as to just how reciprocal the blogosphere really is.  We read, we support, we send each other in different directions… It’s a fantastic way to learn new things and gain new insights into our fellow humans.

It’s an every day case study of our continually developing mythologies and worldviews.

Both in the outside world that is my Toronto and here in the WP World, there’s been a whole lot of talk about time lately- some of it in the form of discussions of everyone’s favourite Time Lord, Doctor Who.  I’m a sporadic fan, I admit (in that I will always watch it given the opportunity, but of late I have made few opportunities to do so), but I am endlessly fascinated by the story and the development of the mythology and the character changes- written into the mythology and therefore absolutely integral to the whole thing.  And it’s funny.  And about goodness.  And perseverance.  And fighting the good fight.

The Doctor and I are very often on the same page- ideologically and eccentricity-wise- and I see in him, and in the resurgence of his popularity, a reason for optimism.  The show is smart (in this it is not alone- there is some other, great programming out there these days) and quirky and focused simultaneously on the past, present and future- emphasizing the fact that the three are inextricably linked and vital to one another.  In an era in which we seem determined to either forget or rewrite our history, I love this element of the stories.

Time runs- keeps on running- and is something that needs to be appreciated rather than squandered and then forgotten about.  Like so much in this commercial, material world, it has become at once precious and easily tossed away.

Weird how we do that.  Say we NEED something so desperately- whether it’s extra time, a piece of designer clothing, a new television/cell phone/laptop- and then toss it aside without a thought when it’s delivered into our hands.  Whenever something better, or easier, comes along.

In my last post I included a brief Shuffle Daemon holiday song selection- brief, partly because the post was getting long (even for me- which is saying something) and partly because I was pressed for time.  One of the residual effects of this time crunch is that things can be forgotten, left off, or out.

If you’re a regular visitor hereabouts a) I thank you sincerely, and b) you’ve probably recognized that my musical tastes don’t run to the female singer variety- very often at least.  I’m not entirely sure why this is- there ARE some fabulous female musicians out there- those of singular voice (Annie Lennox, for one- love her greatly) and/or musical and creative versatility.  But for some reason I have always gravitated to the dudes and their songs.  My friends think it’s weird, but they’ve pretty much accepted that none of my party playlists are going to have all that many ladies singing the blues for our edification and enjoyment.

Another exception to this not-rule (it’s more a habit of a lifetime) appears on my annual Christmas playlist.  She, along with the late Kirsty MacColl- who so memorably spars with Shane MacGowan in The Fairytale of New York– are pretty much the only ladies who back up my holiday comings and goings with some seasonal wisdom.

Like Midge’s Dear God, this one used to get a whole lot of airplay on MuchMusic (back in the days when it was the Nation’s MUSIC Station and played something other than SNL marathons) on Christmas day.

In addition to the fact that the video features angelic children singing, well angelically, We Belong is a song about holding on to important things- and not squandering time, or love, or relationships in general.  As such, it is perfectly matched with the time of year and all the sentiments and reflection of the season.

Don’t want to leave you, really
I’ve invested too much time
To give you up that easy
To the doubts that complicate your mind…

 Father Time is an off-shoot representation of the Titan Chronos, described, in Greek mythology, as the father of that king of the Olympians, Zeus.  He personified time, and, with his three heads and equally serpentine consort, Ananke, circled the primal world egg and separated it from the ordered universe.  He became amalgamated with another Titan, Cronus/Kronus, who overthrew his father, Uranus, by castrating him with the sickle or scythe created by Gaia, Mother Earth, for the purpose.

While the Greeks saw Kronus as a force of disorder and chaos, the Romans associated him with Saturn- their god of peace and plenty- and dedicated their festival, Saturnalia, in his honour.  He became the god of calendars, seasons and harvest and the two- Chronos and Kronus- eventually became one: Father Time.

Saturnalia was celebrated in December (roughly the 17th-23rd in the Julian calendar), and, during Rome’s Golden Age, featured feasts and parties to anticipate and celebrate the renewal of light, the coming of the new year and the overturning of social norms and expectations, for a time.  It was a celebration of the social egalitarianism that marked the era, and many of its customs (including gingerbread men, caroling and gift giving) influenced early Christian celebrations of their own holiday- Christmas.  Eventually, as a way of mass converting the Romans under their (now) political dominance, the early Christian church integrated Saturnalia into its annual marking of the birth of its deity.

As I think about the year gone by and the one just around the corner, one of the promises I will make- to myself and to those who I am fortunate enough to have share their lives with me- is to be more conscious of time– not in an obsessive ‘I’m going to be late’ kind of way-  but with an awareness that it is a precious- and limited- commodity.

Whether you chose to celebrate the return of the light, the birth of a saviour, the miracle of the lamp, or just the turning of another year, it bears remembering that, for us mere mortals at least, time keeps on ticking by.  Invested time should not be wasted without efforts to recover the reasons why the investment was deemed worthwhile, once upon a time.  This holds true of relationships and all endeavours which we undertake in order to play out our life stories in the best ways possible.

Welcoming the New Year with the hope and expectation of the wonder it will bring while sending off the old with acknowledgment and a maintenance of all those things that retain importance and vitality.  That’s the way I plan to begin the adventures of 2014.  Hoping the same goes for all of you.

…counting down….

I might not like their coffee at all, but this picture really sums up the last couple of days here in TO.

Well.

That was interesting.  We got a bit of ice hereabouts.  And that ice weighed down all the hydro lines and left electrical power just a fading memory to a fair number of folks here in our sleepy little burgh.

The temperature has plummeted and it’s not looking like some peeps are going to get the electricity back before Wednesday.  Generally speaking my little part of the town is all okay.  I have hydro, and the commute to work is such that the streetcar and subway closures didn’t affect me.  Hoping that the situation stays okay- but preparing just in case.

The shopping is all done- so there’s no more running around required, at least.  A little more in the way of food prep for the day itself- and for some parties in the days following, but I’m basically feeling like I have a pretty solid handle on things.

Does that mean I’ve captured some of the spirit that has been so elusive this year?  Hmmm.  Not sure I can go that far.  But I think I’m getting there.

Despite an incredible night of Skydiggers fun and games on Friday (GREAT show) and some solid face-time and catching up accomplished with part of my extended fam/friends, I’m still not sure I’m feeling all that holiday-motivated.

One of my dearest buds- a good Irish/French Canadian Roman Catholic lad- is always asking me (seriously dude, it’s been something like 25 years- you really don’t know by now?) how I prefer to address the ‘greetings of the season’.  There has been a whole lot of nonsense about ‘wars on Christmas’ and that sort of rot on the ‘news’ channels of late, but I, personally, am in a very comfortable place with regards to my non-belief in the deity driving the holiday but my FIRM belief in the goodness of humanity.  And that does tend to get a good, solid airing at this time of the year.

I tell him (over and over) that any variation of Merry/Happy Christmas is fine by me- and not something that offends in the slightest.  I do celebrate the holiday- after a fashion.  I certainly celebrate the STORY behind the holiday- probably more ‘devoutly’ (for lack of a better word) than some of those who make claims of belief.  The story of Jesus- and the Nativity- is one of the greatest and most enduring of all our many and varied myths.  It chokes me up with its beauty- especially the Adoration of the Magi (an ecumenical touch that very much speaks to me- and you know I love the Zoroastrians), and it has had such an impact on our history and culture… what’s not to love?

Do I have to believe in the divinity of Jesus- or of the details of the story- to appreciate it?  I’d argue that I do not.  The same way I do not have to subscribe to the entirety of the belief system behind the story of Hanukkah to find grace and hope in that miraculous triumph of light over darkness.  Especially at this time of year- and in with Toronto’s current state of emergency (or non-emergency, according to the ‘mayor)- when any and all light in the darkness is welcome and appreciated.

The story of Christmas- in all its variations and off-shoots- permeates our culture.  The music, the subsequent stories- of giving, of love, of acceptance- it represents, to me, one of the many flavours of the strength of our humanity, and the love and hope we cling to as we share our time with those closest to us. Traditional Christmas carols can make me a little teary.  Especially Good King Wenceslas with its wonderful message and example…

This time of year is also always one of pretty heavy introspection.  That’s the pagan in me, I guess.  The longer nights, the turning of the year.  There’s just a whole lot of looking back happening, and a little bit of looking forward that seems to go along with that.  Such thoughts seem to be of weightier import this year, since I’m in a state of flux at the moment- next directions and contributions to the betterment of those things that I’ve been complaining of for the past year (and more) are still being ruminated upon- with no easy solutions found, thus far.  I’m getting close to a game plan- so we’ll see how that pans out, once the city is actually up and running again.

Christmas Eve is generally my night to sit and just feel the feelings of the season.  With a glass of wine- or some rummy eggnog- and the solstice tree all lit up, I take myself back over the past year and use the memories as a starting point for the goals and plans for the one that’s up-coming.  It’s a space of quiet amongst all the hustle and bustle of running to and from friends and family and shopping and cooking/baking.

The past couple of weeks have involved even more rushing about than is even the norm at this time of year, so the respite will be even more welcome- if increasingly plagued by concerns and lack of knowledge just what to do about them.  As usual, I will have some great stories to keep me company- a movie or two (have to re-watch the first installment of The Hobbit in anticipation of seeing Part Two on Boxing Day, and It’s a Wonderful Life is pretty much always on the playlist on the 24th), and I have a novel I’ve been trying to finish for weeks now.  My brain has been running in far too many directions to give it the attention it deserves (Special Topics in Calamity Physics, by Marisha Pessl, if you’re curious) but I will try again this evening, for a bit, at least.

While I’m reading, there will be, of course, a soundtrack.  It varies little from year to year, and I’ve mentioned some of the songs here before, but this will be the playlist on the Shuffle Daemon that will see me through to the holiday festivities of Wednesday.

This song exemplifies so much of what the season means to me.  Pared down- just those familiar Monkee voices in wonderful harmonies, candlelight and quiet.  It’s comforting in a way I can’t really articulate.  Even if one of them is now missing.

I’m not going to say more about Ray, specifically (but I did link one of the other posts I wrote about him, if you’re interested).  If you’re not a Kinks fan (but seriously, how can you NOT be?), I know you’re probably sick of me going on about him as I have been doing lately.  But this song remains so very culturally relevant that it is tied for my favourite holiday tune.  Remembering those less fortunate.  THAT’S a message that too often gets lost in the iPads and PS-whatevers and stuffstuffstuff (Steve Austin outfits?) that become the focus.

Father Christmas is neck-and-neck with that one there ^^^.  I love the Pogues.  Surprised I haven’t already written about them, actually.  I think Shane MacGowan (who was born on December 25th, interestingly) is one of the great lyricists of the 20th century- despite (or perhaps because of) his seemingly-significant personal demons.  I once saw a copy of a book of his lyrics, called Poguetry, in a music/bookstore at Yonge/Eglinton.  I didn’t buy it, since I was on my way somewhere and didn’t want to carry it around, and I’ve yet to find a copy.  Big regret.  Anyway… the song demonstrates the investment we have in the time of year- and the disappointment of those expectations that sometimes happens.  Or often happens.  But we keep on, and there are memories and new experiences to celebrate.

I wrote about this one before.  Strong, beautiful message.  And it’s Midge.  Co-author of a song that changed the world for a time.

This song.  That changed the world.  I wrote about it before too– and about how Bob and Midge started something incredible with a tune about giving and just being aware of something outside of ourselves.  All year round.

From the sublime to the Canadian… Nav65 and I were talking about this the other day.  A bit of the best of this place I call home.  A bit of funny.  A bit of silly.  A bit of Canada.

Thank you to all of you who have graciously joined me here in this little corner of the WordPress world and demonstrated that community isn’t an anachronism.  My wish for all is that you celebrate, with those you love best (either in realized or remembered festivities) and let go of the hardships of the past year while looking forward to the one to come with hope and the true sense of giving and receiving that the stories of this time of year evoke- once the material trapping are stripped away from the core.

Happy Christmas everyone.  May all your stories be wonderful this season.

The hand, writing on the wall

The Hebrew Scriptures have some pretty cool stories that contain some really cool characters and memorable lines.  I’ve been studying the texts of the OT and NT and the Apocrypha, and Pseudipigrapha, and the literatures of neighbouring countries (Egypt, the Ancient Near East, Greece, Rome, and etc.) for so very long now, it’s tricky trying to single out what (and who) makes my absolute top of the pops of ancient literature.

I have resolved my love-hate relationship with the particular text(s) that served as the focus of my doctoral thesis- and I’m back to hanging out and having fun with my gnostics, in all their ‘heretical’ glory.  I’ve neglected the Egyptians and Mesopotamians a bit lately- after teaching about them for a few years running and visiting with them at the ROM on a weekly basis we all needed some time apart.

The NT and I remain estranged- there are still some residual hard feelings left over from my Master’s thesis, and, to be honest, I’m not sure that Saul of Tarsus and I will ever really see eye to eye on things.  The Revelation has a lot of fun stuff, but it’s being used all over the place lately (the Headless Horseman of the Apocalypse- on Sleepy Hollow, for e.g), so I’m feeling the over-exposure and forced interpretations more than a little bit right now.

My last new, not re-blogged, post- about our current selfie society- generated some great dialogue in the comments section, and led me to pull out the ol’ Old Testament and have a look back at the Book of Daniel (thanks, Susan!).

Now Daniel and I have always been buds.  He’s a guy you can really cheer for- and the book about him marks the real, canonical, beginnings of apocalyptic literature in the biblical worldview (I’d rather not get into an argument about whether or not the book belongs with the prophetic books or the writings.  Some day, perhaps, I’ll talk a bit about biblical prophecy being not so much- or at all- prophetic but very much about the social commentary of the time in which it was written- and therefore a type of early apocalypticism– but right now I’m grooving with Daniel.  Who belongs with the writings as a proto-apocalyptic).

Next to my gnostics, I love the apocalyptic peeps best.  Sometimes it’s like choosing a favourite from among two cherished children, so why choose?  They tend to overlap a fair bit anyway- hardly surprising since both arise out of discontent and disconnection with the society when the texts were written.

When people are pissed with the status quo things often get a little apocalyptic (it’s happening now, as a matter of fact).  Daniel- and the pseudonymous book about him- was a harbinger of a whole lot of discontent and attempts at change.  And it gave us one of the most interesting images of the whole bible.  In my humble opinion, anyway.

The narrative tells the story of Daniel, who, as a member of the Judean nobility, is serving some time in the service of Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon.  He, and three of his pals, refused to succumb to the lures of the food and wine provided by their captors, and maintain the mandates of their heritage and religion, even while in exile.  They catch the eye of the king, who declares them to be superior to his own wise men at court and enlists them to his service.  Daniel soon gains a reputation for the accuracy of his dream interpretations, and, since Nebuchadnezzar (I love that name.  Just typing it makes me happy.  Saying it makes me smile.  I guess I was a Babylonian in a former life.  Or something) frequently needs his dreams analysed, he eventually appoints Daniel as his Chief Wise Guy.

While Nebuchadnezzar had his good qualities (like his name.  I love his name), he did steal the treasures of the Temple of Jerusalem (during the destruction of the city and the beginning of the Exilic Period) and brought them back to Babylon with him.  While Neb deals with his demons (7 years of crazy, living like a wild beast and all that) his son Belshazzar (although the Book of Daniel is the only source that lists Belshazzar as Neb’s kid- other historical sources list him as the son of Nabonidus- but we can let him be Neb’s son- no harm to the story) acts as co-regent, and then king in his own right.

One night Belshazzar and his noble friends throw a big party- and use the sacred vessels plundered from Solomon’s Temple as their pint glasses.  They make toasts to their gods- mainly inanimate deities- using Yahweh’s own sacred vessels.  Those of you who have read the Hebrew Scriptures up to this point in the continuing story have to realize that this is not a good idea.  Yahweh does not (generally) take kindly to his word, his people or his stuff being messed with.

To the horror of the collected party goers, a mysterious disembodied hand appears and starts writing on the wall.  Still reeling from the strange apparition, neither Belshazzar nor his assembled guests can figure out what the writing says.  He calls for Daniel to come and have a look.  Daniel, the superlative and Yahweh-favoured Chief Wise Dude, reads the words as Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin.  At first inspection they seem to be meaningless references to weights and measures, but Daniel interprets them as the verbs that correspond to the nouns: numbered, weighed, divided.

As such, he explains that god has numbered the days of Belshazzar’s kingdom and decided that they are at an end.  The kingdom (and its king) have been weighed and found wanting, so it will be divided between the Medes and the Persians.  Like now.  The interpretation is quickly realized, and that very night Belshazzar was killed and Darius the Mede became king.

Generally the story is used (‘the writing on the wall’, ‘the hand writing on the wall’, ‘Mene Mene’) to indicate imminent doom, originating in misbehaviour or inappropriate governance.  Those who attended the feast- and shared culpability for the bad politics and decisions- were able to see the hand as it wrote on the wall, yet were totally unable to understand the message that was being imparted.  The interpretation had to come from someone who wasn’t in any way responsible for the negative behaviours- or the misuse of the vessels and the sacrosanct ideology behind them.  Only Daniel was able to give warning and explain the impending collapse of the Babylonian kingdom by reading the writing on the wall.

Increasingly, these days and with the societies and systems of government that we have created and institutionalized, fewer and fewer people are able to see the imminence of danger as we continue headlong down a path that is becoming less and less equitable and more and more dictated by those who hold power.  That those in power were, ostensibly, chosen by the people (rather than through hereditary ascension, as in the Babylonian example), makes the systemic problems all the more glaring and frustrating.

We are not doing enough to hold our leaders to account (don’t even talk to me about the idiots of FN- who will STILL vote for that guy come next October.  As much as I despise name-calling, those who remain convinced that THAT guy is the best candidate for mayor, ARE idiots.  There is no other adequate descriptive word.  And I know LOTS of words) while they choose to ignore the disembodied hand and its message entirely.  Claims about improvements to the economy (while myriad citizens remain in situations of un/underemployment and the middle class continues shrinking while the divide between the haves and the have nots become more pronounced), to the housing market (as home ownership is increasingly an inaccessible pipe dream in most major Canadian cities), and the short-sighted politics that reflect immediate self-interest rather than long-term nationwide benefits… These things, as serious as they are, only scratch the surface of the current crises we are facing.

As I say over and over and over again, our myths- and their interpretations- have a whole lot of wisdom to offer, if we bother to take the time and pay attention to what those who came before us had to say.  Especially since we keep on making the same sorts of mistakes, driven by greed and one-upmanship and the ever-increasing need to hear ourselves speak (or yell) over the voices that might be offering an alternative (and better, more equitable) perspective.

In February 1964, as a response to the assassination of JFK a few months previously, a young lad named Paul Simon wrote a song.  The Sound(s) of Silence (the original title was plural) shares an enduring sense of futility and awareness of the dangers of silence- the problems that arise when people fail to effectively listen to and speak out about the cancers growing around us.

As we bow to our own neon gods, perhaps we need to take time to listen to this song- about to celebrate its 50th (!) birthday- a little more closely.  It might help us to see the hand and decipher the message it is continually writing on the walls that surround us.

And the sign flashed out its warning, in the words that it was forming

And the sign said, ‘the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls’

And whispered in the sounds of silence.

Mene Mene, my friends.  Take heed.  That hand is getting pretty emphatic with its messages.

Ain’t Gonna Play

Nelson Mandela.

We knew it was coming.

I wrote the reblogged post back when we first started hearing that his health was deteriorating. He is on my mind- and in the hearts of the world- tonight, and will remain there as long as his legacy, wisdom and adherence to the power of forgiveness and love over blind and ridiculous hatred are nurtured and developed.
He taught the world a lesson that we can’t ever forget. There aren’t a lot of people about whom you can legitimately say that the world would be a drastically different place if it were not for their presence among us.

He is one of those very few people.

 

I can’t even think clearly right now. My desire to present an adequate remembrance of a man I deeply respected isn’t going to be realized tonight.

I have to first figure out a way to follow his example and let go of anger- which, evidenced by my most recent new post- has taken up residence somewhere in the back of my skull.

Even as I mourn with the rest of the world- something (the ‘rest of the world’ part) which provides hope for the return to ideals that support community- I can’t help but feel a renewal of the rage I was feeling yesterday when writing about the nurtured narcissism that has been permitted to run rampant among us.

Seeing our current world leaders expressing their sadness at the loss of this great man, it’s impossible not to make comparisons. All are lacking. And this is our collective fault.

We know better. Nelson Mandela showed us how to be better. His words and actions must continue to be an example.

Almost 30 years ago, Little Stevie was inspired to do his part to create awareness about the great injustice of Apartheid. His actions were informed by the awareness that Nelson Mandela, and others who fought for human rights, brought into the world’s parlance.

Artists United Against Apartheid generated a new audience and helped to end the travesty of institutionalized racism in South Africa.
Since I originally wrote this post we have lost Lou Reed- and now Madiba himself. I suggested yesterday that we must start looking outside ourselves and our own narrow interests and start thinking as a community for the betterment- if not the very continuance- of us all.

On this sad evening I will take some time to reflect with love and respect upon the life of a man who embodied peace and the best motivations of humanity. I hope our current world leaders will be doing the same- and that their tributes tonight and in the days to come will prove to be motivators to follow his example rather than the self-serving lip service that is their regular practice.

Go in peace, Madiba.

Thank you.

colemining

This past weekend started off with tonnes o’ summer fun and ended with some heavy reflection.  There was a whole lot going on in the City and on the world stage that took me down some well-travelled paths of both hope and despair.

The 2013 Pride celebrations wrapped up successfully, with all indicators pointing to a good time having been had by all- including the Premier of the Province of Ontario, who participated in most of the events (‘our’ mayor having absented himself once again)- and the excitement is already building for next year’s World Pride Celebration.  A great finish to a week that saw some pretty cool stuff happening- basic human rights-wise– in the US.

Canada Day Spectaculars were held across the country- including in Calgary- where their mayor (a man definitely worth the title) asked his residents to take a day off from the flood clean up and…

View original post 1,369 more words

‘We might still have a way to go’

December.  Already.  How did that happen?

It seems that the New Year arrives more and more quickly with each one that passes.  I swear, it feels like it was August just two weeks ago.  And I am brutally behind in just about everything I turn my hand to these days.

I did manage to complete my personal NaNoWriMo challenge.  Finished with 52 768 words as of November 30, 2013.  I didn’t actually participate in any of the local events or conversations or communal support- really I just used their word counter as a way of marking progress.  I discovered that I can, in fact, get that much written in a month (I actually wrote more than those 50-some-thousand words, given the fact that I did manage some posts here at colemining as well), even if the final 30-day count has not necessarily brought me that much closer to completion of the project.  There is still a lot of story to be told, and the organization, editing and substantial re-writes is the next hurdle to overcome, but the characters are beginning to develop nicely, and the story progression is reasonably mapped, so progress was made.

It’s nice to know that I can still set a goal which can be met, even while keeping up with the rest of my responsibilities.  So yay for me.  A side effect of all that productivity is that I can step back for a bit, and I do have to say I’m glad that I can take a bit of a break from that particular outlet to give me some time to view it with fresh eyes.

As we rush headlong into the holiday season I am realizing, as is usually the case, that for the next few weeks there will not be enough hours in the day.  Feeling pulled in all these different directions was making me more than a little irritable over the weekend (despite having attended an incredible American Thanksgiving dinner in friends’ new and wonderful home on Saturday- great food, fantastic company- good times indeed).

This irritability was not helped AT ALL by the fact that city was locked in gridlock- were you foolish enough to attempt to drive anywhere- while the TTC seemed to be operating on some arcane schedule that required initiation into some sort of transportation cabal if you actually wanted to know when a streetcar might actually arrive- and not randomly change route numbers or short turn to nowhere on the whim of some Grand Poobah of the Red Rocket.  And don’t get me started on the road closures to accommodate the Buffalo Bills being in town…

Jebus.

‘Grouchy Cole’ is not my favourite character manifestation.

Starting the work week- with deadlines looming and conflict in the workplace- hasn’t helped to dissipate the negative vibes, so I’ve had to look for some external sources of inspiration to get me back on track and looking forward with anticipation rather than anxiety.

This guy.

I picked up the book over a week ago (after first learning of its existence months ago) and, under normal circumstances, would have had it long devoured by this point.  It’s representative of my two very favourite things, after all- music and story (and storytellers).

Shamefully it has taken me this long to write about Ray’s wonderful memoir- using his tours of the US as the core and starting point for his story.  In his lyrical style (everything the guy writes sounds like his music- conversational yet clever, and as if there is a subtle background riff that has been familiar forever supporting his thoughts and emotions as they ring off of the page), he tells the story of life on the road- through the early lean years with the Kinks, and, more recently, as he attempted to rediscover/remake himself in his own image as a solo artist.

First off, I have to say that apparently I was sleeping in 2004, since I had no idea at all that he had been shot.  Believe me, if I had heard a news report that someone raised a gun at Ray Davies in New Orleans, I would have recalled it in the way that those who remember JFK’s assassination can tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing.

He looms that largely in my life.

And this book has just reinforced that presence.  Seriously.  It was hard to keep reading because there was just so much inspiration being thrown at me on each and every single page.  I was itching to take that inspiration on board and get back to work.

Although they were part of the British Invasion of the 1960’s, the Kinks have never held the same place in the North American popular imagination of those days as the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.  There are reasons for this- some of which Ray discusses over the course of Americana– but I think he nails it quite concisely remarking that, as a lyricist, in those early years he was unwilling to play at being anything other than himself- a working class lad from suburban London, who never lost his accent or stopped singing about things that resonated with him, personally.  Regardless of how inexplicable such things might be to an American audience.  The Kinks remained true to their roots, and, especially in their early years, their songs were very reflective of their native environment.

Still, as a child, Ray romanticized the US, based in impressions gleaned from Hollywood and music that spoke of roots and depth of connection to places that were foreign in every manner of speaking from his own life experience.  As their following grew, and again after the break-up of the Kinks, he sought out those roots in an effort to figure out the next directions his creativity might take.

Shifting between recollections of the early tours- painfully recalling the loneliness and boredom of time on the road- and moving forward, in his personal and professional lives, Ray offers insights into his creative process that are at once illuminating and daunting.  Here is a guy with no formal musical training- beyond the fact that he has been playing and writing songs since he was a teenager- who has created a catalogue of some of the most memorable characters and stories in popular music.

He tells the stories of the nascence of songs like this one:

It talks about the tension- ever-present since the band began- between Ray and his little bro’, Dave, and the decision to keep the band together despite the sometimes seeming irrelevance of rock ‘n’ roll.  He created the character of ‘Dan the fan’ to illustrate the impact that music has, even against the backdrop of the time- and the death of Elvis Presley (which came the day after the insomnia that saw the seeds of the song first-formed).  It is a personal and cultural marker of time and place.  We’ve had the song for decades, but to someone like me- for whom story and its creation is an endless source of fascination and wonder- reading about how the song came to be is a new gift to be savoured.

The Shuffle Daemon hasn’t been shuffling anything other than Kinks and/or Ray Davies tunes as I wend my way through his written words.  As Ray revisited his process and the events that spoke to the process, I listened to the songs that resulted, rediscovering old favourites, or hearing those that didn’t top my personal pops in a new light which added a level of appreciation.

This one retains relevance to a prescient degree:

I switched on the radio and nearly dropped dead

The news was so bad that I fell out of bed

There was a gas strike, oil strike, lorry strike, bread strike

Got to be a superman to survive

Gas bills, rent bills, tax bills, phone bills

I’m such a wreck but I’m staying alive…

I’d really like to change the world

And save it from the mess it’s in…

Ray writes so well and so prolifically, it is hard to imagine that he has experienced writers’ block of any kind.  But he has.  And since this is the bane of the existence of any and all those who dare to self-describe as creative-types, knowing that the feeling affects a master of his caliber helps us mere mortals feel a little reassured…

‘In a creatively non-productive phase, my body almost mirrors my emotional state and I can become uncoordinated and risk to myself and others as I bump into tables and walk into closing doors.  When it gets like this I forget which side of the Atlantic I am on.  I invariably trip up on the pavement, drive on the wrong side of the road, and generally become a danger to anyone who happens to be walking near me.  I become a cause for concern among all those who care for me… Sometimes the inspiration gene kicks in early in the morning like a randy rooster crowing a new beat.  That’s the time when it’s important to start writing.  When the dum-dum explodes it is usually accompanied in my head by the ‘William Tell’ overture, that tells me I have to write- which I do at maniacal speed, stopping only in response to exhaustion or physical pain.  A period of nonproductivity, on the other hand, can sometimes necessitate a jug of coffee before I can even put on my dressing gown and get out of bed.  That’s the creative curse.’  (pg. 150-151)

Destroyer is, in many ways- in my opinion anyway- the ultimate Kinks song.  Combining the instantly recognizable riff from All Day and All of the Night and the reappearance of that inimitable character, Lola, it’s about self-destruction as a result of self-involvement.

Silly boy you got so much to live for
So much to aim for, so much to try for
You blowing it all with paranoia
You’re so insecure you self-destroyer..

Self-destroyer, wreck your health
Destroy friends, destroy yourself
The time device of self-destruction
Light the fuse and start eruption

Over the past week and a bit, as I’ve worked to complete a self-imposed exercise in productivity- one that leaves me filled with vacillating analyses ranging between ‘that’s pretty good’ and ‘oh man, does THAT ever suck rocks’- Ray has provided some illumination and even a kick in the pants or two and helped to draw me back into focus.  And helped me regain some of the optimism that is generally second nature, but which has been missing in action over the last while.

He remains a work in progress- one who is still (at almost 70 years of age) producing works filled with inspiration and enduring characters.  He went searching for himself in an America that was partly an amalgam of the pictures in his head, and found out a whole lot about himself in the process.  Americana seems to have provided him with some perspective- and it has provided me with endless moments of delight.  That I will certainly revisit over and over- the way I need to keep listening to his music.

As he notes in the epilogue: ‘Songs are like friends who comfort you so you don’t feel alone.  Believe in them hard enough and they come true.’ (pg. 296).

With that bit of wisdom, I can’t help but agree- wholeheartedly- and look forward, with hope, for a day when I can believe in my own creations enough that they, in turn, become realized enough that they might just one day befriend someone the way his music and lyrics have been constant companions to me for years and years (and years…).

I could go on (how did this creep up to almost 2000 words?!?  Although many of them are Ray’s…), but will instead recommend that you check out the book for yourself.  Spending time with old friends is always good- especially at this time of year.

Cheers, Ray.

Horns

How long can a lovely walk, some holiday spirit, a great book (which I hope to finish tomorrow or the next day- since it’s suppose to snow.  A LOT.), some Doctor Who and a fun national football game (sorry about that Ticats.  Maybe next year.  Thanks for coming out, anyway) sustain a little bit of good cheer?

This is not a rhetorical question.  I’m going to provide the answer.

About as long as it takes for the work week to begin again, it would seem.

Dilemmas.

I wrote about a comparable situation a while back, so I’ve pretty much exhausted the mythological connections that dilemmas call to mind.

There has been a definite- and unfortunate- pattern present in my posts of late.  I say ‘unfortunate’ because, while I strongly feel that such things HAVE to be said, and discussed, and generally put out there so that individually and collectively we can work to figure out something better, I reallyreally hate negativity.  With a passion.  Yet I can’t seem to completely overcome that particular frame of mind at the moment.

This is largely due to the continuing systemic violations of ethics and commonsensical good manners and proper behaviours that we should be able to expect in an educated, well-reasoned society.

I’m not even going to go into the latest antics of the town’s ‘chief magistrate’, except to note that he, once again, displayed his true colours, this time on that paragon of responsible journalism, Fox News, and even THEY didn’t seem to know what to make of him.

Oh, and Canadian media?  Can I please ask that you stop with the headlines shouting about things like the ‘return to the gravy train‘ that he has claimed has happened since his powers were stripped (a little over a week ago)?  Please?  While the articles do, in fact, go on to explain that the tax hike is required because of things like the useless extension of the Scarborough subway line (one of his personal pet projects), chances are there aren’t many remaining members of his Nation that will read more than the headline.  Might strain their beleaguered brains (I no longer have the energy to be pulling any punches with those who continue to support this madness.  If you STILL think that he is defensible as a public servant, I really have nothing left to say to you).  Thanks bunches.

And the continued denial of complicity in scandals and pay-offs/pay-backs by our federal leader?  Yeah.  The fatigue on that score has also maxed itself out for the time being.

Further to my post suggesting that we are losing the ability to sustain anything like civilized dialogue, it is gratifying to see that I’m not completely alone in my concerns about the complete lack of politesse that seems to be accepted as normative these days.  Gotta admit, I smiled a whole lot when I read this story, and the impetus behind it.  Words have the power we give them, and we seem to be imbuing profanity- for its own sake- with a whole load of power lately.  Very nice to see a Carleton University student who is willing to question the ubiquitous nature of certain words- and point out how ridiculous they sound in most contexts.

The personal stuff?  All job-related, of course.  And all about standing up for myself in the face of bullying as I attempt to retain my principles and ethical grounding in the face of increasing pressures to ‘toe the line’ in order to keep my job.  I may not be able to affect the larger society in any real way, shape or form, but I am very much unwilling to participate in actions that violate my sense of right and wrong in my own life.

Regardless of how badly I might need the paycheque.

‘Faced with two equally undesirable alternatives.’ 

Horns.  Of a dilemma.  Seemingly stuck well and good in the region of my derrière.

That picture up there ^^^ is a stock photo of the reconstructed ‘Horns of Consecration’ at Knossos, that represent the sacred bull- ubiquitous in the culture and landscape of the Minoans, centred on the island of Crete.

Those Minoans were pretty impressive people.  They were highly organized merchants- engaged in trade with surrounding nations- and their language and culture influenced their neighbours in many ways from the 27th century BCE until the volcanic eruption on neighbouring Thera (Santorini) sometime around 1500 BCE created a ripple effect that destroyed key Minoan cities and might have been a factor in leaving them open to the conquering Mycenean armies.  (The volcanic eruption on Thera is considered by many to be the source of myths of Atlantis.  LOVE myths of Atlantis… but that’s for another day…).

Minoan religion focused on female deities- and female religious officiants were the norm.  The civilization seemed to have boasted a pretty egalitarian society.  Artwork and statuary presents both men and women participating in cult activities- such as bull-leaping- and their sophisticated agricultural and governmental systems were not restricted to men.

In Greek mythology, Daedalus (the most celebrated artificer of the day- he also made a pair of wings, which his kid ended up (mis)using) designed and built a little thing called a labyrinth for King Minos at Knossos.  It was a necessary architectural feature, since the king had a problematic foster child who was half man/half bull (due to a minor indiscretion on the part of the king’s wife and a lovely-looking bull- that should have been sacrificed to Poseidon).

This Minotaur– a compound of Minos and tauros, or ‘bull of Minos’ (his name was actually Asterion, but no one really remembers that)- was first reared by the king’s wife (her name was Pasiphaë, but not many really remember that, either), but he eventually became unmanageable as his beastly and unnatural side came to the fore.

When Asterion became too much for his mother to handle, the Oracle at Delphi advised Minos to seek help from that gifted craftsman, Daedalus.  He created such an elaborate and cunning maze that even he had trouble getting back out once construction was complete.

The labyrinth became the home and prison of the Minotaur- where he was kept appeased by the sacrifice of seven youths and seven maidens (collected from amongst their arch-enemies in Athens) until he was killed by the Athenian hero Theseus (who was able to escape the maze of the labyrinth with help from Ariadne, Minos’ daughter,  and her skein of thread- which provided the clew (‘that which points the way’- the origin of our English word clue) he needed to get back out after slaying Asterion.  See how much fun word origins can be?).

The word labyrinth is derived from the word labyrs– a double-headed axe that was both a religious symbol and associated with the power of the royal house in Minoan tradition.

Still, other ancient labyrinths have been attested- and found- in places like Egypt and India.  Postulated purposes vary- they are thought to have served as traps for nasty spirits and/or as paths used as cheat sheets, of a kind, in ritual dances (ancient versions of the footprints on the floors at Arthur Murray schools of dance- how’s that for an antiquated cultural reference?!?).

By the Medieval period, Christians were including them in their places of worship- meant to represent pilgrimage paths or simply foci for meditation and/or prayer, and they came to symbolize a path to god- with one entrance and one twisting and turning path to the centre.

Metaphorically, a labyrinth can be a situation that poses some issues of extrication.

Very much aware of that particular sense of the word at the moment.

These days, there has been something of a resurgence of interest in labyrinths.  Parks and common spaces feature labyrinths as part of their landscape designs.

Toronto’s labyrinth, located right beside the Eaton Centre, the Church of the Holy Trinity, and in spitting distance (not that it’s remotely polite to spit) from both Old and New City Halls, is meant to be a place of quiet reflection in the heart of the city.

A few years ago I led walking tours (as part of the ROM Walks– at our wonderful  Royal Ontario Museum) of the area, that ended at the labyrinth.  Visitors to the city were always amazed to find such a place of quietude surrounded by the summertime hustle and bustle of the culture of consumerism and municipal politics.

This evening, intensely frustrated by the events of the day (and of yesterday, but I’m consciously forgetting that THAT day existed at all), I paid a visit to Trinity Square, hoping that its meditative properties and foundation in the history and wisdom of the ages would provide a bit of a respite from the direction and intensity of my thoughts.  Sadly, it was no match for the labyrinthine tracings of my current thoughts and anxieties.

Horns?  Still present and pissing me off.

So… in the way that everything is connected (at least in my way of looking at the world)…

Solution: Second attempt

Some Bowie, Muppets, and feel-good holiday fare (this is another film I associate with the holiday season, for some reason) all wrapped up in one package may well return me to a reasonably human state of mind.  Hopefully it will be enough to last the week…

In this song- pivotal to the action of the film, Bowie’s Goblin King, Jareth, weaves an illusion around Sarah, attempting to win her love and distracting her from the time limit that he set for her to find her baby brother, Toby.  While his promises seem attractive at first, they are soon revealed to be superficial and wrong– and Sarah realizes that she must return to her path on the labyrinth.

So, taking my guidance- and my clues, if you will- where I can find them, I’ll be heading back into the labyrinth tomorrow.  Trying to retain the hope that the Ludos and Sir Didymus’ will balance the machinations of the Jareths of this world.

PS- seems to be a glitch in the WordPress world (or my computer.  Or the universe.) this evening- I can’t seem to link past posts.  Please feel free to browse the back catalogue for those posts I referenced, but was unable to link, should you feel the urge.

Character, referenced

I’ve been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Partly because I’m participating in NaNoWriMo (32000+ words on the go), so character development is something on which I’m pretty keenly focused as I attempt to unfold the story from the recesses of my imagination.

Creating someone believable out of nothing is always an interesting endeavour.  I like to think that I have always been a writer.  Even as a child my imagination allowed for the creation of friends and scenarios- for my own amusement and that of others (ask my sibs sometime about the entity known as ‘Baby YumYum’- as space alien who accompanied us on family vacations).  They all had back stories and hometowns, histories and very specific likes and dislikes.  I remember it being fairly simple to come up with one character or another, pretty much at the drop of a hat.

As I’ve been an avid devourer of books since I learned how to read, the characters of favourite novels (and periods of history) tend to stay with me, and they sometimes take on a life of their own.  Strong characters become friends- to be cheered on as they reach goals or mourned as they pass on, and remembered as though they were real in moments of passing fancy.  Any number of times I’ve had to catch myself thinking about someone- missing them or thinking about how much they might enjoy a particular event- only to realize that I’m in fact recalling a character rather than a ‘real’ person.

Strong fictional character can become fully realized to those who love them.  When I first read Anne Rice- way back in the Dark Ages before Lestat started looking like Tom Cruise (shudder.  BOWIE- okay, maybe Sting- should have been Lestat…)– I often caught myself having conversations with her characters- particularly Marius- that vampiric remnant from the height of the Roman Empire- since his worldview and personality were companionably comparable to my own.

Somewhere along the line of my heavily invested reading, I sort of started believing that the characters I loved existed out there somewhere- waiting, perhaps, to be met in unlikely circumstances.  I mentioned, when talking about the wonderful exhibit at the AGO celebrating the amazement that David Bowie has brought into our collective existence, that I once wrote a stream-of-consciousness piece in which the narrator carried on an ongoing dialogue with the spirit of Ziggy Stardust.

I talk to characters like that all the time.

Flip side of this?  If the GREAT characters can get out there into the world, then so can the ones who aren’t so nice.  As a consequence of this little peculiarity of belief, I can’t not finish a book- even if it’s terrible (IMHO)- because leaving it unfinished maximizes the possibility that the horrible characters WILL make it into our world (this belief unfortunately meant I had to read the first Twilight novel in its entirety.  That’s a couple hours of my life I’ll never get back.  I didn’t speak to the person who gave it to me for at least a couple of days after, as revenge).

I mentioned this little eccentricity to a book loving, like-minded friend of mine.  Her response was to stand in line at the Ottawa Public Library for hours in order to get me a autographed copy of Timothy Findley’s Headhunter.  Here, from the talented pen of one of Canada’s literary treasures, was a story that included my own pathology.  The characters of Heart of Darkness escaped into a dystopian version of Toronto.

In addition to being a wonderful read that I revisit over and over (and which holds pride of place on my bookshelf), it was proof that I’m not (completely) crazy.

This love of character and story is one of the many reasons why I so love– and emphasize the importance of- myth.  Characters that were envisioned millennia (or centuries, or decades, or weeks) ago STILL capture our imaginations and are part of our common communications.

We constantly recall and revisit and remake these figures from our past stories- guys like Gilgamesh, or the patriarchs and other happening dudes of the OT (Melchizedek is my personal fave exemplar of the Super-Priest- and there’s a movie about Noah and his Ark coming out in the Spring), Jesus, the Buddha, Confucius, Mohammed… our mythologies are filled with amazing characters who continue to resonate with us- through the stories about their words, actions or the things they left behind them.

But that may also be why I’m struggling a bit (okay, a lot) getting these characters of mine fleshed out and onto the page.  I have a longlonglong history of hero worship to reconcile as I attempt to give life to my own fictional people.

(Another ‘waiting in line for an autograph’ story?  Since I was just talking about her… Anne Rice at the Chateau Laurier in Ottawa after Servant of the Bones was released.  By the time I got to her- and had my PICTURE taken with her- I was so overwhelmed with the memories of the characters she had given me I was pretty much a blithering idiot.  Did manage to stammer something about missing Ramses and looking forward to the continuation of the story of The Mummy, to which I’m sure she said something courteous and respectful- she’s a truly lovely person- before I stumbled away)

And add to that the fact that recent events here at home (you might have heard something about what’s going on by now.  Assuming you don’t live on Mars) have had me thinking more about the development of moral character than fictional character development.

Oops.

According to the Wikipedia:

“Moral character or character is an evaluation of a particular individual’s stable moral qualities. The concept of character can imply a variety of attributes including the existence or lack of virtues such as empathy, courage, fortitude, honesty, and loyalty, or of good behaviors or habits. Moral character primarily refers to the assemblage of qualities that distinguish one individual from another — although on a cultural level, the set of moral behaviors to which a social group adheres can be said to unite and define it culturally as distinct from others.”

The word comes from Greek, with an original meaning pertaining to a mark of some kind which is impressed on a coin.  There is a sense of indelibility about the word.  True character cannot be erased or washed away.

Character, as a quality, is at the heart of discussions of ethics and morality- things that form the core of most of the religions and philosophical systems we find across the world.  Morality is also defined by our cultures and the mores of our secular societies.

Caricature comes from a Latin word that means ‘to load’.  A picture that is a caricature is ‘loaded’- with either simplified or exaggerated characteristics.  They are rarely complimentary, and often used in political editorial commentary.

We’ve seen a lot of that up here lately.

“Maybe I’m too nice.”  He actually said that in an interview during his press jag today.  He was trying to answer a question about why he was hanging about with known criminals and writing them letters of reference.

Although some citizens of his Nation remain steadfast- distinct as it is from the rest of the us- the society seems to have crumbled somewhat over the past few days.

The television show has been cancelled- apparently ‘production costs’ are too high for the small television station to handle.  The locks at city hall have been changed.  And now federal Conservative leaders are telling him he should step aside.

Still, he continues to ignore the tide of opinion while remaining a caricature and refusing to demonstrate an iota of the moral character to which he lays claim.  Like Kurtz, in Findley’s novel as in Joseph Conrad’s original novella and Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, his delusions of grandeur have damaged the city and those around him.  So it’s past time for us to close the book and walk away.  Stop feeding his narcissism and his inability to look beyond his own ego as he continues to believe his own press releases (or those that his brother creates for him).

Whether he is a created political character or a sad caricature of what can happen when a life of privilege is not tempered with education, experience or any attempt at critical analysis, I’m writing him off, once and for all.

I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can beat them, just for one day
We can be Heroes, just for one day

And you, you can be mean
And I, I’ll drink all the time
‘Cause we’re lovers, and that is a fact
Yes we’re lovers, and that is that

Though nothing, will keep us together
We could steal time,
just for one day
We can be Heroes, for ever and ever
What d’you say?

I, I wish you could swim
Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim
Though nothing,
nothing will keep us together
We can beat them, for ever and ever
Oh we can be Heroes,
just for one day

I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be Heroes, just for one day
We can be us, just for one day

I, I can remember (I remember)
Standing, by the wall (by the wall)
And the guns shot above our heads
(over our heads)
And we kissed,
as though nothing could fall
(nothing could fall)
And the shame was on the other side
Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever
Then we could be Heroes,
just for one day

We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
Just for one day
We can be Heroes

We’re nothing, and nothing will help us
Maybe we’re lying,
then you better not stay
But we could be safer,
just for one day

Bowie placed the title of the song in quotation marks since the subjects of the song are only ironically “heroes”.  In their own minds and only for that limited time period.

Time’s up, Rob.