‘Todmorden’ by STEEN (used with permission of the artist – and the proud owner – ME!)
I’m not sure where the summer went – although, if we’re honest, this wasn’t the best of the best that we’ve come to expect ’round these parts. Still, there is something always-melancholy about Labour Day weekend. It’s been more than a few years now since I’ve returned to school, and I find myself missing the preparations involved in getting back into the classroom at this time of year more than at any other.
In retrospect, the past few months have had a melancholy tinge about them. Call it a mid-life crisis if you will, but I’ve been struggling with envisioning how this next part of my life might go. I don’t feel like I’m living up to my potential – however that may or may not be quantified.
Some of that reflection stems from missing my parents. It’s not a feeling that even really goes away, but their absence has seemed greater to me over the past little while. I’m not sure why that is – something I’m still trying to figure out – but it’s left me questioning a whole lot of stuff that I had fallen into the habit of taking for granted.
Couple that with the anxiety-causing nonsense to the south of us – and elsewhere in the world – I’ve been feeling like I need to get back to doing something that will permit me to make a move toward positive change. I’m still sussing out the parameters of that – and what such a move might look like, ultimately, but it is a work-in-progress.
A number of years ago I began following the FB artist page of a friend from the old ‘hood. The evolution of his work has been hugely interesting – and incredibly inspiring. Back in the Spring he exhibited at a gallery down on Queen West, and a couple of my friends and I went to check out the work we’d been seeing live-and-in-person.
I was blown away by both his vision and the incredible detail he inserts into every piece of art. In talking with the gallery owner, I started to think seriously about undertaking a commission – in support of Brandon’s continuing growth as an artist, but also as a tribute of sorts to my parents.
Dad was a great patron of Canadian art and artists. His collection of Inuit sculpture sits in my living room – in some cases, accompanied by letters from their creators. I remember being with him when some of the purchases were made. I feel a fair bit of ownership over one piece, in particular, since I fell in love with it from the moment we entered the gallery in Old Quebec.
Rather quickly I made the decision to begin the commissioning process, and Brandon and I had a wonderful chat – after many many years. He visited the house, and photographed some of Dad’s collection, and, over the course of another great catch-up session, gleaned a whole lot of remarkably keen insight into me and my family.
The result is at the top of this page.
I grew up within spitting distance of Todmorden Mills – in the Don Valley, and I live, currently, not that far away. I can catch a glimpse of the spire when we pass through the Prince Edward Viaduct on the subway commute every morning. It’s been a landmark in my life for as long as I remember.
The image on the large wall is Brandon’s representation of my favourite of Dad’s Inuit sculptures. Mom and Dad’s names appear in the graffiti. My little lost Dude smiles at me from the window. The centre mosaic of Grandpa’s ceiling at the ROM runs up the spire. My love (seemingly misplaced, this season), of my hometown Jays. Even the Spaghetti Monster is there – as a giggling nod to my personal (lack of) beliefs.
I continue to be stunned every time I look at it – and the glow I still carry from being privileged enough to be able to have participated in the process (in however minor a manner) of the creation of something so beautiful and so meaningful is a fully-realized reminder of the many great opportunities provided to me by my upbringing and the strength of those personalities that I’m lucky enough to call my parents and grandparents.
That wonderful experience is one element of this latest quest I’ve undertaken. I’m looking for new directions, career-wise, and questioning whether it is time that I get back into the world of pedagogy.
I’m trying to write more – some freelance articles that take me back to esoterica of my academic life, and (per always) the fiction projects that seem to change course every time I give them some time and (attempted) focus.
That last bit meant that I had to attend one completely practical matter. I needed a new laptop. If you go back through colemining posts, you might recall that my MacBook died, oh, close on three years ago now. Since then, I’ve made due with a hand-me-down I inherited when we lost Dad.
I never seemed to be able to just go out and make the purchase of the better tool – one that could hold a battery charge, that didn’t freeze if I had too many widows open at once, and that I could bookmark for ease of research and reference. I admit to being a master of procrastination when it comes to certain things (the things I just don’t want to do, for example), but my unwillingness to commit and purchase the new computer was starting to seem a wee bit pathological.
I bit the bullet a couple of weeks ago – largely because we were heading to the cottage and I wanted access to all the music that lives in iTunes but has been unaccessible to me for the past three years – since iTunes was another thing I refused to install on Dad’s laptop. He had his own account, and it felt like I’d be erasing something of him, if I replaced it with my own music.
A computer is a tool – I certainly do my best not to be chained to mine – but the reality is that the one I had been using had outlived its efficiency and efficacy. But it was Dad’s. As much as I LOVE my new tool (it’s SO fast! And I missed MacWorld. Regardless of what haters might say, it’s the best tool for the uses to which I tend to put the thing), the old one still sits on my desk, waiting to be wiped and recycled.
I’m not there yet.
It will likely sit for a time, still, until I’m ready to go through the files and revisit the ways in which Dad used it as his tool for so long (he may have been almost-74 when we lost him, but he was more computer-savvy than a lot of folks my age).
I’m trying to focus on the many – less-tangible, but far more important – tools that were bequeathed to me and my sisters by our parents and grandparents; the history and the wisdom and the experiences that helped in the making of us. Those things that have helped to create – and allow us to create new history, experiences, and, hopefully, wisdom, as we take up the tools we find along our own paths.
Brandon used the tools he has to hand – his talent, his discipline, his insight, his vision of our world – to complete a creation of beauty and remembrance for me and my family to treasure and pass on to those who might come after us. I will never be able to thank him enough for employing those tools as successfully and beautifully as he has done, for the delight of all of us.
My toolbox includes such things as a knowledge of the lessons of history; the importance of art of music, and the human expressions of our shared stories; the deeply-held belief that these arts and stories are the most important things that describe and define the reality that we are all more alike than different; an inclination (compulsion?) to string words together; and, if I’m honest with myself, the ability to teach about some small aspect of all of the above.
Those are the tools that I’m working to pick up again. They might be slightly disused, but I believe they’re still serviceable. I have an amazing example, now living on my wall, providing me with constant inspiration about what is possible when tools are turned to intended- and best-use.
Brandon Steen’s next exhibit is at the Elaine Fleck Gallery, 1351 Queen Street West, November 1-30.
Happy Long Weekend! As we ease into the last 3-day holiday of the summer I’ll be highlighting every bit of that little three word phrase. Happiness, the weekend and, most especially, loooooooong. I’d recommend you crack a beer before delving in…. (seriously, longest post EVER- and that’s saying something hereabouts)
Is it possible to have a Happiness Hangover? If so, I’m almost 72 hours into one of epic proportion.
What a night.
Some of you might be looking for a proper review of that little show I spoke about with anticipatory giddiness a few days back. That had been the plan, but then my bud Len threw a little something together describing the first three shows of the tour and there’s just no way I can come close to topping his take on the wonderment. If you want the playlists and a bang-up overview of his enthusiastic take on the tour-to-end-all tours, please pop over and visit him at Battery Kill Corner. You won’t be disappointed. The guy knows his way around music like no one else.
I don’t claim to be a reviewer (let alone one of Len’s caliber). I tend to be a little more (shall we say) stylisticallyinformal (at least when I’m not doing the day job) than is traditionally called for when reviewing books or concerts or what-have-you.
I also don’t love reviews (generally speaking). I prefer to form my own opinions about things- uncluttered by the responses that others might have had. I read one post-show review in a local source and was incredibly disappointed by the writer’s lack of real engagement with the artists and their ability to hold the crowd so tightly together. I guess I want everyone to have had the same experience I did.
What I do write is a whole lot o’ letters (especially when I’m doing the day job), and figure I’m pretty good at that sort of thing.
So let’s not call this a review. Let’s call this a thank you epistle. A reallyreally loooong thank you epistle.
Back when we were youngsters, Mum insisted we learn to write proper letters of gratitude and acknowledgement when people took the time to gift us with something- be it a material offering or a granting of time and attention. Much as we grumbled and tried to get out of it, the lesson- and habit- was one that stuck with me. It seems to be a rapidly-disappearing social nicety, so here’s my stab at changing that.
From cole davidson, the pseudonymous blogging handle of a citizen of Toronto the Good, grateful lover of music, to the assembly of musicians and supporters who collectively demonstrated the wonder of our shared humanity at Kool Haus on Tuesday, August 26, 2014.
I am thankful for your presence in the world- for the songs and the wisdom and the fun that you have shared across decades and in far-reaching places. I thank you for returning, one and all, to this city that loves you- a congregation that has hosted you before and that will continue to welcome you whenever you choose to return.
First, though, an apology. I admit that I was somewhat less than enthusiastic about the inclusion of Katrina (ex-of the Waves) Leskanich in the tour de force that is Retro Futura. I never looked beyond Walking on Sunshine (which was, let’s be honest, somewhat overplayed- back in the day and on retro radio stations in more recent times). I’m also (as I’ve mentioned before) not big on the girl singers. I admit this.
So I was pretty blown away by just how hard that lady can rock and roll.
Mea Culpa. Her rapport with the band and the crowd was pretty spectacular, especially given the fact that most of the audience was there, primarily, to see one (or more) of the acts to follow. She was a class act all around, and in fine voice, as she got us all warmed up. I definitely have a new appreciation for that sunshiny song. And this one was pretty kick ass live:
Then my old friends started to take the stage…
I’m not sure just what was up with Gary and the caftan (although Len says they had a convo about that- something to do with keeping cool and hiding his middle-aged paunch- but that’s just hearsay), but he and Eddie (who, as Gary quipped, “still wears the pants”) came on out and chatted with us all as if we were hanging in the living room. Or at Hugh’s Room. A show which was referenced when he asked who among us had been with them there.
They included the song that really started it all for them- their 1982 tune about the insidious evil of Apartheid in African and White.
We need your faith and hostility To be certain of a change And could you ever recover from Forever recover from this prejudice
Life is a fever we create
I’m not sure I understand why they left Working With Fire and Steel off the playlist this time out, but the inclusion of Arizona Sky made me happy. It had fallen off the Shuffle Daemon’s playlist. It’s back again. Forgot how much I loved it- and love seeing them do it live (last time would have been at Canada’s Wonderland in ’80-something).
Decorate, paint it for the union No reason to give up on the illusion Take confident possession of yourself No reason to give up on the illusion
Eddie got to sing Wishful Thinking– a change from the playlist of the previous shows. Full of chat and cheek, as usual, the Liverpudlian Lads built on Katrina’s energy and led us into the next set…
Mr. James Ure. (Can I call you James? During one of our many discussions/debriefs about the shows, I mentioned something in passing about Jim Ure- to which Len remarked that there are probably only about 114 people in the world who know that ‘Midge’ is a nickname stemming from the reversal of ‘Jim’).
That voice. That powerfulpowerful voice. While I still regret missing him when he passed through town earlier this year (and last year- he’s been around a lot, actually) to play Hugh’s Room (there’s that place again- all the cool people play there) for a pared down, acoustic show (not unlike Gary and Eddie’s visit) I’m pretty damn happy I got to hear him plugged in and with the support of the fantastic house band (who did an incredible job handling all three of the first courses in our musical prix fixe menu)…
Opening with Hymn, in all its fullness and glory, Midge reminded me how much I love that song. And how much I have missed that song. My copy of Quartet is vinyl- and has been in storage for far too long. Midge belted out the sermon- ‘faithless in faith’– clearly demonstrating that his pipes retain a depth and strength that you just don’t hear all that often. Mores the pity. I’d try to describe it, but why deny you the pleasure of hearing it for yourself…
It almost made me forgive him for not playing Reap the Wild Wind– my absolute fave Ultravox song- and one of my fave songs of all time full stop. But he played Vienna… and Fade to Grey… and If I Was. So much greatness. Jim ended his fierce set with Dancing With Tears in My Eyes (probably his best known hit- after that little Xmas song, of course)- a song full of the haunting echoes of that era- and my generation.
We were the children of a time period in which 3-or-4-minutes-to-midnight was an ever-present reality. We felt the shadow of nuclear destruction in all facets of our life. There were constant warnings that the clock was ticking down- that two old men had their fingers hovering over buttons that could end the world as we knew it (my thanks to Nik Kershaw- who would have fit right in among this august company- for that particular image).
We were an apocalyptic generation (and we’re still feeling that ennui and uncertainty ripple through the subsequent years). The Canadian War Museum in Ottawa has (had? Haven’t been in a few years) a section that deals with the years of the Cold War. In the early 80s, as Reagan escalated the arms race and advocated the positioning of guns in the sky to keep democracy safe from the Soviets, the music reflected the reality that the Doomsday Clock had us teetering dangerously close to the edge of a politically-driven global catastrophe.
Ultravox’s Dancing is one of the videos that plays in the Museum as a reminder of the underlying nuclear threat that was ever-present in those years (although we’re hardly in better shape now- the Clock continues to hover around 23:55- mainly due to concerns about global warming. No wonder we’re all about the apocalypses again lately…)
That video still makes me shiver with remembered fear that goes bone-deep. In its sadness and desperation as the end comes with the meltdown at a nuclear power plant there is still a love of life and the transcendence of inevitability that wends its way through all of Midge’s songs.
And then there was Howard.
I admit that I spent some time trying my hand at being one of the cynical few– a member of the Doom Crew, if you will. Part of growing up is getting all angsty, all ‘the world is against me’, all ‘nothing can save us now’ about things. I like to think that I left that negativity behind me a long time ago (teenage angst is highly unattractive in people no longer teenaged), but, things in the world as they are, I have been feeling a creeping return of negativity, and overall frustration with the unwillingness of people to critically assess situations and work toward affecting positive change.
Leading up to Tuesday night, listening to Howard again, the reasons why he is a man to admire and to emulate came through loudly and clearly. And I realized that he played a pretty big role in helping to shape the way I approach the world- as an adult, now, but also as a young’un seeking a path in the world.
This is a song to all of my friends, they take the challenge to their hearts
Challenging preconceived ideas, saying goodbye to long-standing fears…
That New Song of his spoke volumes to me as a 13-year-old. It resonates even more now. He taught me that it was okay- nay, that it was necessary, to question things and to look for, and then thoroughly evaluate, the answers that we find.
In songs of less than five minutes. He taught me that. And this.
What is love, anyway?
And maybe love is letting people be just what they want to be, the door always must be left unlocked.
To love when circumstance may lead someone away from you, and not to spend the time just doubting.
He seemed genuinely happy to be back with us- he even referenced the fact that he was Canadian for a time (and can sing the National Anthem with the rest/best of us). These songs… All of these songs… This one hit me right where I’m living right now.
We’re not scared to lose it all Security throw through the wall Future dreams we have to realize A thousand skeptic hands Won’t keep us from the things we plan Unless we’re clinging to the things we prize
And do you feel scared, I do But I won’t stop and falter And if we threw it all away Things can only get better
Treating today as though it was The last, the final show Get to sixty and feel no regret It may take a little time A lonely path, an uphill climb Success or failure will not alter it
If you hang out with me hereabouts you know that I’m in the process of thinking through and working out the ways in which I can translate my particular view of the world in a way that can be shared vis-à-vis the corporate realm and the larger community. That song sums up so manymany things for me. And man, does it make you smile. I DARE you not to smile as you listen to that song. I didn’t want him to leave us.
Except…
Tom Bailey. I spoke about my sentimental connection with the Thompson Twins- about Dad, and 30 years, and how the nostalgia is, in itself, healing. But the reality? Whoa back.
As soon as he took the stage he led us in a conversation– starting with some needed filler to cover for a technical glitch at the get-go. Tom chatted with us as the issue was resolved- talking about his appearance on Jimmy Fallon- how weird that was since he’s not one for the ‘show business’ stuff. He strolled the stage- looking comfortable and extending random thoughts and off-hand comments until the machines were up and running again.
That song I spoke about the other day- You Take Me Up– was one more in a string of sing-a-long opportunities over the 4 hours we were all together. His updated version of a song from a movie that was part of the canon of 80s teendom got everyone remembering (those who were behind the curve) what it was like to be 16.
After more than a quarter century not performing (or even listening to) these songs, it was pretty remarkable how comfortable he was on that stage and with those words- that are ingrained in my memory- as he made the whole shebang look effortless.
I loved Lies, missed Lay Your Hands on Me– although I understand his reasons for leaving that one off the playlist- and rediscovered my appreciation of King for a Day. And then it was time.
When I was 14- and on that road trip with the family that I told you about, listening to the tape over and over and over again- every time I heard that song I had the visual of the video that was getting tonnes of airplay on the video shows back home, with Tom, redheaded and at the piano, belting out a song of love.
A love song that acknowledges that all is not always long-stemmed roses and boxes of chocolates. That communication is vital- but that misunderstandings will happen, nevertheless.
While on the Walt Disney World portion of the road trip, we spent an evening at what was then Lake Buena Vista Village (before its Downtown Disney iteration). As the lake lit up and my folks and sisters moved in and out of the stores, I stood on the shore of that lake, Walkman in pocket, listening to Hold Me Now, and just being almost-14 and in love with Tom Bailey.
4 years ago, after an emotionally brutal divorce and challenging upheaval and relocation home to TO, Dad and my sisters sent me to Disney for my 40th birthday. One evening, as my sister slept, I went out for a walk down by another of the Disney lakes. This one, looking across at a Magical Kingdom, had a beach that was completely deserted at that time of night.
I popped in the ear buds and chose the last song of the night on the Shuffle Daemon. I remembered being almost-14 and in love, feeling the intensity of that adolescent emotion, while I counted my blessings and drifted back into that innocent affection for the duration of the song.
Mr. Jones’ Everlasting Love, indeed.
In an interview with Ryan White in the Sacramento Bee, talking about why he chose, after 27 years, to return to playing and touring with these songs of my youth, Tom reflected on what those songs were all about.
“I kind of suddenly grasped it was about a nostalgia for a lost honesty about ourselves and about our optimism for the future.” Bailey said. When he thinks about the 80s, he thinks about that optimism, and the way the years since have been marked by disappointing and discouraging events. In some respects, cynicism has been normalized. “I feel like it would be a contribution to lift the lid on that 80s optimism.” And that is the work of a pop star.
And a man with things yet to teach. Every one of the great and talented performers that gifted us with their presence on Tuesday has mastered effective communication to a degree that is staggering. They are still imparting lessons. Especially resonant for me is the one that says that a ‘classroom’ needn’t be bricks and mortar and organized within an institution of some kind. That those who are meant to teach will always find their audience and impact the lives of others as they both entertain and advise.
Epistles are letters that, traditionally, are didactic in nature. The epistolary genre was common in Ancient Egypt and made up a big part of the curriculum found in scribal schools. It became a major type of composition among the Greeks and Romans before it found an even greater degree of fame in the hands of that guy from Tarsus and those who later wrote in his name and/or style. Philosophically, didacticism emphasized the instructional qualities of art and literature. And music.
Epistles also told stories of love and devotion while modeling behaviour and recommending effective and productive and human and humane ways of living in this world of ours.
So. Thank you for the songs. For the lessons. For the examples. For continuing to teach me about life and love and positivity. And for coming to see us again. On my birthday.
Please don’t be strangers.
This greeting and fulsome (understatement, that) record of thanks and enduring love and appreciation is by me, cole, by my own hands, on my own keyboard. My appreciation to all of you, In the Name of Love. Verily.
Way back in the day, when things were simpler and people were actually expected to know how to do things like spell and construct sentences correctly, my grade 7 homeroom teacher always supplemented our weekly prescribed, curriculum-based, spelling test with an extra-special challenge.
As a result, I learned the spelling- and the meanings- of a lot of very interesting words.
Tintinnabulation was one. How wonderful is it that there is a single word to describe the ringing of (church) bells through the countryside? It always reminds me of Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey, by William Wordsworth- partly because my first exposure to the poem came around the same time I learned the new word and partly because the bucolic setting of the poem lends itself to hearing bells in the distance, but mainly because of the similar sound of tintinnabulation and Tintern.
I love language(s). I love words. I love playing with them and respectfully befriending them as befits their vast importance in our human interaction. Words facilitate communication. While there are, certainly, other methods of communication, the effective use of language is undeniably one of the forces with which we need reckon as we attempt to make sense of this human existence and try to get along.
As has been the case for most of my adult life, part of my current role involves working with other people and helping to hone their written communication skills. Being talented, driven professionals, none of my colleagues are completely hopeless with when it comes to the clear and effective use of language, but the reality is that we are surrounded by opportunities to misuse our well-learned writing skills once we move outside of the halls of academia.
It’s partly peer pressure. I see sooooo many typos/inconsistencies/grammatical errors in allegedly edited publications/news groups these days. Status updates and tweets and PMs are rarely given the once-over, let alone the twice/thrice-over that I tend to use when putting things out into the ether. The people that we see on tv speak in colloquialisms that seem barely recognizable as mother-tongue English.
It’s also laziness. We know better, most of the time. I’m positive that people really know the difference between to/too and there/they’re/their- but (maddeningly) don’t get the importance of actually writing the correct word.
I realize that, here in my WPWorld with my WPPeeps, I frequently devolve and use extremely vernacular or truncated language, while employing my own little stylistic idiosyncrasies that very much reflect my voice (at least the one in my head that shouts the loudest…).
I’m allowed. colemining is a blog. Its purpose isn’t about business or professional concerns. I’m chatting with my friends- putting some of my ideas out there and responding to the ideas of others that strike me as profound, interesting or entertaining.
I’m also of the mind that once you reallyreally know the fundamentals of a language you then, and only then, get to play around with them. And I’m pretty confident in my grasp of the fundamentals of language (more than one, truth be told). So I’m okay with writing choppy, seemingly-incomplete sentences, hereabouts. Or beginning sentences with ‘so’. Or ‘or’.
That’s the language in which Cole chooses to write. If it isn’t everyone’s cup o’ java, it’s all good.
Word-crafting is an art– and when it’s employed by those with a real talent for turns of phrase and clever construction it is truly beautiful. We find such wordsmiths in many realms- of music, literature, poetry, philosophy… even (dare I say it?) in the political world. Expressive, connotative language describes and illustrates our humanity. Regardless of the specific medium- or subject matter- it connects us by helping us to communicate our stories- individual and shared.
Before I accepted my current role, I languished a little bit in the wasteland between the world of academic writing and that of business correspondence. ‘Writing’ ‘form letters’ (a primary responsibility of my previous job), offered few opportunities for either creative flare or nuanced construction. By their very definition they were formulaic.
That temporary residence in said void led to a whole lot of playing with words and encouraging their music in my spare time- something that has been wonderful for my creative output (work on the novel(s) and such), but it also made me a little lazy, to be honest.
As I get back into the scheme of things, I’m finding that editing the words of others is a little less instinctive than it once was. It’s taking me longer to restructure and rearrange than was the case, once upon a time.
Some things are straightforward- eradicating ‘as per’ from all writing that crosses my desk requires no effort at all (I realize that the construction is used widely, but it is both jargonistic and freakin’ redundant – the English/Latin hybrid makes me cray-cray. It is pretentious and generally lacks clarity- even assuming it is used correctly. My SO suggests that I am tilting at (yet another) windmill with this one, but I am determined that nothing that comes through my hands will contain that vitiated vernacularity. We hates it, my precious.), and ‘utilize’ becomes ‘use’ with barely a second thought.
Switching passive voices to active ones? That involves a little more time and thought and trial and error. But, as I attempt to emphasize the effectiveness of using the best possible words to convey meaning, I’m discovering discussions about language use everywhere.
That synchronicity thing again.
There was a news story on the CBC this morning, as I got ready to leave the house, which discussed findings that suggest that ‘expert’ texters are better spellers than those who are less dexterous with the one-handed typing. It makes sense, linguistically, in a way. Breaking down words into shorter forms helps with the understanding of the constituent parts of the whole.
While searching for reading selections for my first cottage weekend of the summer (T-minus 5 days, and counting!), I kept running into discussions about the perceived literary ‘value’ of certain bestsellers. Not being much of a proponent of literary criticism- and frequently not a fan of those books that make the critics roll over and purr- I haven’t paid a whole lot of attention to the foofaraw.
I like what I like- and if a novel doesn’t hit on all the aspects required to grant it legitimacy as part of the Western Canon? Oh well. If an author engages my imagination and creates characters that resonate and stay with me, then I’m happy to have spent the money to support their efforts.
Writing is hard. Doing it well is underrated. Effective communication always requires clarity and the ability to know and accurately read an audience. Sometimes that involves using colloquial or informal language. In other circumstances messages need demonstrate a requisite level of professionalism and polish that is often lacking.
IMHO that whole clarity-thing requires the correct use of grammar. Am I a Grammar Nazi? Perhaps. But it is a skill that we seem to be losing- much to my distress. We would need to spend a whole lot less time looking for meaning in the words of others if their messages were well-constructed and to the point- without layers of extraneous rhetoric and misused language.
When we were told to learn the word antidisestablishmentarianism for one of our weekly tests, our teacher offered a brief definition and the explanation that it is one of the longest words in the English language. I thought it was pretty cool. It was long and lyrical and rolled off the tongue not unlike that most wonderful literary creation supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
The meaning of the word didn’t register much, at the time. It wasn’t really a concept that hit all that high on my 13-year old list of things I should be thinking about retaining. But I did. And it is a word that has surfaced more than a few times over the course of the studies that have been the focus of most of my adult life.
As a movement, antidisestablishmentarianism opposed proposals that sought to remove the Church of England from its status as the state church of England, Ireland and Wales. It was tied into the role of the monarchy as head of the Church and concepts of the absolute separation of Church and State. It’s still a concept that comes up- in the British context- now and again.
Who knew- back in the dark ages when I learned the word- that I would grow up to be a card-carrying disestablishmentarian?
Knowledge isn’t something to be squandered- and those things we learned in our schooldays (halcyon or otherwise) aren’t transitory. Despite suggestions to the contrary, the need to learn the fundamentals of correct spelling, grammar and vocabulary is not something that has gone the way of the dinosaurs in a world of spelling/grammar check and lowest common denominator vernacular.
Even when we take the time to listen to one another (not something that happens nearly as much as it should) it can be extremely frustrating trying to separate the wheat from the chaff in the convoluted/misused language that has become the norm.
Ladies and Gentlemen, my beloved Monkees. Wailing their way through Boyce and Hart’s Words:
‘Now, I’m standing here. Strange, strange voices in my ears, I feel the tears But all I can hear are those
Words that never were true. Spoken to help nobody but you. Words with lies inside, But small enough to hide ‘Til your playin’ was through.’
Clarity. Using our words with integrity without sacrificing accuracy, style and beauty. It can be done. It SHOULD be done.
Just a few thoughts for our newly elected majority government here in Ontario. And all the rest of us.
All day yesterday- truly one of the longest days of my life (that whole ‘time is relative’ thing again)- I kept thinking that ‘if I can just keep standing until tomorrow…’
I have a day off. I’ve given it to myself- and firmly told myself that I needn’t do anything today that I don’t want to be doing. I have the rest of the week to get things done and to gear up for the start of my new job (!) next Monday. Today is for quiet and rest and the beginning of the recovery of my resources- which are a little tapped out right now.
We hosted a lovely celebration of Dad’s life yesterday. So many wonderful people coming together to speak about him- either as part of the ‘formal’ celebration (it was hardly formal in any traditional sense) or during the reception afterward. So very many wonderful people. Friends, family. People I hadn’t seen in, literally, decades– yet who took some time out of their day to share their memories of Dad- and of Mum- and of my sisters and I when we were but wee things.
I am quite drained. Emotionally, certainly, but physically as well. I’m not sure what that’s about. I feel like I’ve been running marathons or something- and I sure as heck ain’t no runner.
But I don’t do idleness well. After sitting on the couch this morning- catching up on local news (why do I DO that to myself?), I’m itching to get something accomplished. There are lists to be made (oh, how I love lists)- of thank you cards to be sent, tasks that need accomplishing as a means of getting going on the realities that require attention after such a loss (the legal, the financial, the day-to-day things that need de- or re-constructing)… so much still to be done.
I’m not sure I have the requisite concentration level at the moment.
But this time of transition is about more than the great loss of Dad. That’s the biggest thing, of course, and the one that it is hardest to wrap my brain around.
But…
For the first time in over 5 years I am not looking for a job. I am not checking the myriad online job boards I have bookmarked on the laptop, or researching potential employers to better explain my suitability to join the organization in a tailored cover letter, or adapting my CV yet again to better convey the reasons why I would be an asset to the company.
I’m sort of at a loss.
Those who say that looking for work is a full time job know what they’re talking about. And, for years, I was doing so whilst working a full time job. And volunteering at my Museum.
Did I mention I don’t do idleness well? Especially enforced idleness- even if I’m the one acting as the enforcer. I told myself that today is just about chilling. Not sorting through papers, not catching up on chores, not taking things to the dry cleaners. Just vegging on the couch. With a book. Or catching up with my WordPress peeps. Or a movie. Or some music. Hanging with the cats and with me. With no one else around. There hasn’t been much of an opportunity for that in the past few weeks.
I know this is a temporary thing. I will be kept on my toes once the new job begins- lots to learn, people to meet- and I hope to pick up the volunteering again- slowly, and possibly in different ways than before- as I settle into a new routine. I’ll be back running and feeling like there aren’t enough hours in a day in no time- of this I have no doubt.
So today is supposed to be about time for a little reflection and to catch my breath and sort through my own head a little. Even though I was there when it happened- peacefully, and with the three of us at his side- I still have moments when I just can’t believe that he’s gone.
There is much to be taken on board. Much of the ground beneath my feet has been rendered somewhat treacherous for the gaps in the foundations.
Ever since the Shuffle Daemon managed to shake me out of the total lack of clarity I was feeling after Dad died (as least insofar as I claim any real return to clarity. I remain in more of a fog than is usual- even for me) I’ve been letting Mike Oldfield help soothe the jangled nerves.
Sometimes this is a little counter-intuitive. Much of music is pretty much the opposite of ‘soothing’. His hugely elaborate Tubular Bells (1, 2, 3 and the Millennium Bell) and Hergest Ridge albums feature movements that can shock you either awake or into awareness with their power. The guy- and his talent (he plays all guitars- bass and otherwise- organs, glockenspiel, mandolin, bells- tubular and otherwise- and timpani. Basically all the instruments)- are pretty staggering at times. He was 19 when he recorded Tubular Bells. 19. NINE-bleeping-TEEN.
But, in addition to the wondrous orchestral masterpieces, he has a number of songs that are more in keeping with the ‘singles’ that you might hear on the radio (radio still exists, right?)- with vocalists and everything.
The Shuffle Daemon seems sort of stuck in the way in which it is rolling out these songs for my listening pleasure. In addition to the song I wrote about the other day- and included in the post I wrote about Dad, which I managed to read at the celebration yesterday- two others keep popping up, both featuring the wonderful vocals of Maggie Reilly.
Family Man tells the tale of the unsolicited attention that a gentleman receives whilst in a bar one evening- and his insistence that he isn’t ‘that type of guy’. Nothing, really, to do with any of the memories I have of Dad, of course (but, as I noted the other day, our parents were people before they were parents, so who knows…) beyond the title. Dad was certainly a family man. We were the centre of his world- of that there was never any doubt- and my Mum was the love of his life.
Hall and Oates did a cover version of this song- which changes its tone quite completely. At the end of their version the family man in question succumbs to the lure of the ‘lady of the night’- although it was too late to manifest his illicit choice. And the quintessentially 80s video is so endearing in its cheesiness. The clothes. The production values. That moustache!
And then there’s this song.
This lovely live version of the song- while lacking the crashing Oldfield-esque guitars of the album version- highlights the sense of loss that the lyrics evoke so beautifully.
It’s hard to choose a favourite from amongst the works of this guy. Heaven’s Open is up there- for many of the reasons I discussed the other day- and for all the new associations that it has brought to me this week. His artistry makes it reallyreally hard to pick one song above the others.
But Moonlight Shadow.Moonlight Shadow. I can remember the first time I heard it- and the many manymany nights I’d sit in my bedroom listening to it on repeat.
‘The last that ever she saw him, carried away by a moonlight shadow, He passed on worried and warning, carried away by a moonlight shadow, Lost in a riddle that Saturday night, far away on the other side, he was caught in the middle of a desperate fight, and she couldn’t find how to push through.
The trees that whisper in the evening, carried away by a moonlight shadow, Sing the song of sorrow and grieving, carried away by a moonlight shadow, All she saw was a silhouette of a gun, far away on the other side, He was shot six times by a man on the run, and she couldn’t find how to push through.
I stay, I pray, I see you in heaven far away, I stay, I pray, I see you in heaven one day.
Four a.m. in the morning, carried away by a moonlight shadow, I watched your vision forming, carried away by a moonlight shadow, Star was glowin’ in a silvery night, far away on the other side, Will you come to talk to me this night, but she couldn’t find how to push through’
Some have suggested that it was written in response to the murder of John Lennon (despite the lack of correspondence between the timing of the events of that tragedy and those in the song), and Mike has allowed that it may have had some level of influence. He had arrived in New York the day of the murder, and was staying a short hop away from the Dakota where Lennon’s profound voice was silenced. Mainly though, he was thinking about a film he had loved about Harry Houdini (starring Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh), particularly about attempts to contact the late illusionist after he had died.
Like Mike, I am fascinated by the life and times of Harry Houdini- particularly by his attempts to expose false spiritualists who made money from the pain and loss of others. I loved that about him. That, and the close connection the guy had to his mother, and the loving relationship- which encompassed both the business and the personal- he and his wife Bess shared throughout their life together.
This song resonates, for me, personally, on a very specific level. Years and years ago, my grandfather (Dad’s Dad) was staying with us while Dad was out of town on business. One night, very late, I woke up and heard someone moving around in the kitchen. Grandpa was down there, opening and closing the refrigerator door and wandering pretty aimlessly. I asked him what was up, and he admitted to feeling restless and if something was wrong. I put the kettle on and sat with him at the kitchen table. In my memory of the event, I glanced at the cuckoo clock my parents had brought back from Switzerland, noting that it was 4 am, just before the phone rang. The phone call informed my Grandpa that his youngest brother had just died.
A couple of years later, my Mum woke me up to say that she and Grandma (who was staying with us while Grandpa was in the hospital- Dad was out of town with work again) had to go out for a bit. I was in charge- although my sisters were sound asleep. I dozed off again, but startled awake not long after, feeling as if something was wrong, but also overcome by the feeling that my Grandfather was with me.
Unable to fall back to sleep, I went upstairs (I was sleeping in the basement, since Grandma had my room) and turned on the tv- catching the late night replay of CBC’s Video Hits. A little while later they came home- surprised to find me awake in the middle of the night- and told me that Grandpa was gone. It was 4am.
After Dad was moved back to hospital from the rehab clinic where he had seemed to be making solid progress, I found myself waking up in the middle of every single night. Each and every time at 4am. After the first couple of nights I didn’t even bother checking the clock. I’d settle in on the couch, cell phone beside me, awaiting the phone call I felt would inevitably come.
When the call did come, it wasn’t at 4am. For the first time in weeks I had slept through my own personal witching hour, until the nurse called me at 5:30. As I called my sisters and arranged to pick them up to head to the hospital to be with Dad, a big part of me was honestly thinking that this couldn’t possibly be it. It wasn’t 4am. We had passed the ‘danger time’.
I don’t know why Mike Oldfield chose 4am as the pivotal time in his most wonderful of songs (I also don’t know why he included the redundancy ‘4am in the morning’– but I’ve tried to let that go in the name of artistic licence and lyrical metre) but it has always served to very personally connect me to the song.
4am is random- even when I look at my own experiences of that particular time of day/night. It does serve to reinforce my awareness that we are all connected- to those we love and to those in the larger world who have had the same types of experiences- of family, of love, of loss- and that we all seek to share those experiences in the best ways we can.
Mike Oldfield is a musical genius. He expresses and shares that genius through his songs. My family and friends contribute their own forms of genius on a daily basis- sending their strengths and insights out into the wider world, and teaching me as I am touched by their examples.
So, even though it is my ‘day off’, I can let myself get away with ‘working’ since I am still taking my own prescription to chill and try to absorb all that has happened lately. Writing, for me, can be work, certainly. But it is also therapy- and the way I sort through my own feelings and experiences as I attempt to make manifest the gift of my life- and share the things that I have learned at the feet of teachers greater than myself.
PS- Even though I have run on more than long enough (even for me, this post is extremely long-winded), I need to thank all of you- here in my WordPress world- for the beautiful messages of condolence that you have offered in the past few days. Anyone who claims that the online world is lacking in humanity or any sense of real connection certainly isn’t hanging with peeps like you all. The messages are lovingly received with gratitude.
And a special shout out to Rachel at Rachel Carrera, Novelist for her kindness in nominating me for a couple of lovely blogging awards. As usual, please, if you are so inclined, take some time to browse her site, and those of the other wonderful writers that I am lucky enough to interact with regularly here at colemining. People are awesome.
Where to begin? A little while ago I was feeling kind of frozenwith 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 oneof 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 wholesynchronicity 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 fielddue 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 Lifeabout 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.
I’m not really the type of person who looks for signs or stuff like that. But I do try to listen to what the universe seems to be telling me. Since I believe that we, as people, are interconnected in numerous ways, I do subscribe to the idea that synchronicity exists and is at work in our lives. I’ve written about that before. When things aren’t going all that great, it’s easy forget that these connections exist so sometimes we need a kick in the butt to get us paying attention again…
January/February is not my favourite time of the year. In addition to the polar vortices (anyone else getting completely sick of the overuse of that particular hysterical buzz term, or is it just me?) of biblical proportions (it’s freakin’ cold out there again today) and a distinct lack of sunlight, I find that my brain tends to slow into hibernation mode- and likewise isn’t up for much in the way of social interaction or, to be frank, productivity.
Winter blahs to the nth degree.
So, given the usual late-January ick factor, yesterday was an unusual day. I was productive at work- despite the fact that I needed those fingerless gloves (think Bob Cratchit at work in any theatrical/filmed version of A Christmas Carol) to effectively type the regular daily correspondence (wearing them today, too. Polar vortex, you suuuuuuck) and feeling like was I getting somewhere with a few things on the new job-search front, so the fact that I have been feeling a little less-than-myself, and not particularly inclined to write stuff lately, was less wearing and seasonal-affective-disorder-triggering than it has been.
Before I left work I got an email from a dear friend regarding an in-the-works CBC radio story on a topic close to my heart. The one I wrote about here. This friend gave the producer my name to possibly have a chat about my experience with and perspective on the whole thing. Interesting, indeed.
I headed home on the TTC, grabbing the first bus that showed up so as to not have to stand in the cold for long. Mistake there. That first bus took me not to a nice, warm subway station where I could get on a nice, warm subway, but to a streetcar line. Which would be fine. In reasonable weather. But it seems as though the streetcar lines don’t play nicely with polar vortices, so the connecting streetcar (which was there right when I got off the bus- THAT never happens) was going nowhere. Which also meant that all the streetcars that showed up after it were also going nowhere (given that they all use the same tracks). There were lots and lots and lots of people exiting streetcars with nowhere really to go. Instead of waiting around for shuttle buses to start arriving, I started walking.
Toronto is a great town for walking. Normally. The downtown wind tunnels when the wind chill is making it feel like -30+ degrees Celsius? Nope. Not fun. Not great at ALL.
But, once I was committed, I walked. The rest of the way home. After a few blocks I could have hopped a subway but I have this stupid stubborn streak that, MetroPass notwithstanding, makes me feel lazy or something if I take public transportation for a minimal distance. One subway stop? Silly. In January with brutal wind chill? That might have been the more prudent option, actually.
Point of all this? I was walking past things I wouldn’t normally be walking past- if I’d taken a more sensible route from here to there/there to here. I stopped in for a coffee partway- it warmed my hands, even if it burned my tongue- that helped make the last few long city blocks survivable. Liquid warmth clutched in mittened hands, I cut through the courtyards between buildings and found myself beside the venerable CBC MotherShip itself.
Just as this song came on the Shuffle Daemon:
Followed by:
and then:
Once home and (somewhat) thawed out, I got to thinking about the opportunity to share my two cents (which is what I do hereabouts, after all), having my voice heard by some who might not otherwise hear it, and the potential positive outcomes that such an opportunity might bring. I’m certainly not counting chickens- opportunities aren’t always realized, after all- but there seem to be some things moving in my little section of the universe. And even the barest hint of a whisper can sometimes, if properly nurtured, lead to the necessary volume required to affect change.
I also realized that it was six years ago this week that I defended the thesis that earned me the title of PhD. Achieving that designation has taken me down a number of paths- and none of them are the one on which I thought I’d be traveling. This, I realized, is okay. Knowledge and experiences are never wasteful- and should never be wasted.
Even with the lassitude that winter always seems to instill in me, I’ve started 2014 with the intent to bring about change. For myself in my own life, and in matters that will contribute to changes in my wider community and world. I’m still working out strategies.
But….
I’m on my way to City Hall tonight to attend a ‘how to become a candidate’ meeting in the Council Chamber (yes, that famous site of so much of the recent press attention our ‘mayor’ has brought upon us. I can’t even think about the latest escapade. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be ready to talk about it. Although I’m sure it will be well-covered by Jon Stewart, so not sure I should bother). Not because I’m thinking of running- at this time, anyway- but because I’m genuinely interested in learning about how the process works and the steps required to declare and then pursue candidacy for municipal office.
Basically, I’m doing things and looking forward.Which, when it’s cold and dark and the News keeps getting on my nerves (there was that speech the PM gave in Israel too. Was going to write about that… We’ll see.), is nothing to sneeze at (there is more than enough sneezing going around here, surrounded, as I am, by people who SHOULD be at home, in bed, with the flu).
Well, my soul checked out missing as I sat listening
To the hours and minutes tickin’ away
Yeah, just sittin’ around waitin’ for my life to begin
While it was all just slippin’ away
Well I’m tired of waitin’ for tomorrow to come
Or that train to come roarin’ ’round the bend…
There WILL be better days. I’m doing what I can to expand the reach of my small voice.
The other day I mentioned that I had 13 unfinished drafts in the queue waiting to be finished/polished/fully started. As of this morning it was up to 15.
See, I tried this week. I really did. Had some ideas (some great ones, too!) and started getting them fleshed out, but then something else would come along to get in the way of the creativity/coherent thought.
It has not been my favourite week. Been having a lot of those (not favourite weeks) lately.
Last night I spent the evening packing. I am moving house in less than a month (!) and the anxiety/stress about the coming chaos finally got me off my butt to start the procedure in earnest. It’s not so much the packing I don’t like (though the packing is hardly fun), but living surrounded by boxes and being unable to find something that just might have been boxed up accidentally? Crazy-making.
I don’t do well with chaos (an understatement, if there ever was one). I am a 21st century BCE old fogey at heart. Like our Mesopotamian forebears I am FAR more affected by the dichotomy of order and chaos than I am by the good/evil that the monotheists started on about later.
But I’m not going to talk further about the whole externalization of evil nonsenseat the moment. I honestly don’t have the energy right now.
Moving- even if it’s for a happy reason- is never a fun process. Add in the crazy logistics of contemporary life- cost of trucks & storage, shifting all the billing addresses, cancelling all the no-longer needed services, changing the driver’s license/health card, booking the time to DO the moving…
Ugh.
The packing isn’t always the worst part. It provides a good opportunity to purge the life trappings that have become unnecessary and the chance (awesome for a lover-of-order like me) to shore up the awareness that there is a place for everything and everything CAN be in its proper place.
The last time I moved house I packed in a fairly robotic frenzy. I had experienced a major life-change (one that was forced upon me rather than reached through mutual discussion and any semblance of respect) so things went into boxes with only the most minor attempts at purging. Unless it was truly rubbish, into a box it went.
So there’s some ‘unexamined stuff’ to go through.
Which means that this time out I’m finding all kinds of interesting things. Some melancholy, some cool as hell. Old letters from friends long gone, love notes best consigned to the trash, CDs I forgot I had. Cassette tapes I forgot I had.
While packing up the shelves that hold the vestiges of my life in the ivory tower of academia (such as it was), I found those items left to me by my late mentor and friend, Papa Kaz.
As we cleared out his office for his impending retirement years ago, we reached the point where he had had enough and basically just bequeathed all that was left to me and my interest. If I wanted it, it was mine.
Since I inherited the office itself for a time following his departure, and since I was pretty much done with the packing myself, a lot of it was just left there on the shelves where he had placed it all at some point over the 30+ years he worked at the uni.
When it was my turn to vacate the office, the unexamined things- plus those items that he had personally given to me- made their way to the study at home. To be boxed up when the last move took place
I found a rather peculiar and interesting file folder in with all the articles about biblical exegesis and slides and maps of the Ancient Near East. It has nothing to do with Religious Studies, and there doesn’t seem to be a familial connection given the cursory read I’ve made of the materials thus far, so I’m only assuming it came from him because of proximity to his other stuff.
When I have some time to relax I will have to do a little research on the contents and let you know what I’ve found. It’s a mystery though. And I love mysteries…
NO distractions!
Anyhoo.
Moving can be both a trip down memory lane (past the bad blocks and the good) and a period of catharsis as new things are set in motion.
It can also be a supreme pain in the ass.
Suffice it to say, in the next little while I won’t be contributing as many posts as has become my norm in the past few months. Although writing is generally calming, so its therapy mightn’t be a bad thing when the chaos threatens to overwhelm. Hard to say. Will be here when I can regardless.
Packing it in has come to be used colloquially to mean ‘calling it a day’, finishing things up, stopping work on something. In World War I it became military slang for being killed. The idiom can be used imperatively as a command for someone to just quit it! and have done!
As much as I’d like to pack in the packing, that isn’t possible. Once I get something started I tend to be a bit obsessive about finishing- especially if there’s a time constraint of any kind. And, in this case, there is. I’ll keep to it and pack up or discard the items and the memories- whichever the specific item/memory and common sense dictates- that the process brings back into light.
Why do I have so many books? Seriously. WHY? Does one person really NEED eight copies of the bible? And those are BIG books. HEAVY books. Granted, only three are in English, but COME ON! It’s not like that stuff is my life’s work anymore. Stay or go? Toss or keep? Stay, but store. (This has been an example of the common internal/sometimes external conversations that will be the norm in my house for the next few weeks. The cats- and likely my neighbours- think I’ve lost it. This aside was brought to you by my brain).
I’ll ignore the feelings of overwhelming chaos that living surrounded by boxes instills in the deepest part of my core, and just get it all sorted and ready for transport and new beginnings.
I’ll allow the packing to displace the other crap that’s going around me, for a time, since it’s stuff I have no control over (in the main) anyway. My focus, which has been divided in many directions of late, will be concentrated on the immediate task at hand.
But right now I have to go buy more packing tape.
Jebus.
This might be a little obvious and sentimental (and overplayed and commercial), but it remains a good song and it is about moving and such. And Green Day’s energy is a good inducement to productivity.
Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go So make the best of this test, and don’t ask why It’s not a question, but a lesson learned in time
It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right, I hope you had the time of your life.
So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial For what it’s worth it was worth all the while
As I was getting ready to leave the house this morning, I had CBC NewsWorld on in the background, per usual, and for some reason (I missed the lead up) the weather dude, Jay Scotland, was talking about this particular gem from the Sesame Street archives:
I had to look for it immediately. For some reason, I can remember laughing until I was in pain as the spider chased Kermit. I think it was the ‘heeeeey Frog’ that did it. Too freaking funny. Looking back at it now, you really have to love the hippie/70s sentiments coming through in the granola that Little Miss Muffet prefers over the curds and whey and the waterbed in lieu of the tuffet (which is a type of ottoman/pouffe/stool that one sits upon).
Jay claims that Kermit, as the Roving Reporter, was his first push toward the world of broadcasting.
I can believe it. Sesame Street (and, in a different way, The Muppet Show) provided first steps in education, community building and entertainment- all at the same time- for generations of children. Beginning in 1969, Jim’s Muppets helped the Children’s Television Workshop provide the early building blocks of learning by employing an innovative use of tv. Attempting to positively use the ‘addictive qualities of television’ the CTW (now Sesame Workshop) helped young children in the States and Canada prepare for school. It is now broadcast in over 120 countries.
Focused on holding the attention of children, so that they can actually absorb the education on offer, CTW quickly realized how pivotal Jim and his Muppeteers were in the overall execution of their objectives. Arguably, Sesame Street set the paradigm for all children’s programming. It has certainly earned its place in popular culture. The Muppets have been everywhere.
If there was no Jim Henson, there would be no ‘best joke ever,’ as told by Pepe and Seymour on Muppets Tonight.
I still hear ‘hell if I know’ (or, more properly, ‘Eleph-Ino’) in Pepe’s voice whenever it happens to be uttered in my general vicinity.
This song- with both Muppets voiced by Jim- fits right in with my current attitudes (although not as applied to romantic involvements).
(I DO hope that something better comes along. Veryvery much. I’m doing my damnedest to make that happen.)
I loved The Muppet Movie in general, but Steve Martin’s role as the disgruntled waiter remains a classic within the Classic film. So many wonderful- and wonderfully cheesy- cameos in the movie, and those subsequent.
Rowlf, Rowlf the Dog was the first of Jim’s Muppets to appear regularly on network television. His dry delivery and sense of humour, combined with his love of the piano and unflappability in the face of the usual Muppet-y chaos that surrounded him was always inspirational to me. He was my Muppet alter ego. As much as I love Kermit- and many of the others (Pepe remains a favourite, and how can you not love Animal?)- Rowlf has always been my go-to Muppet.
Rowlf with Jim and Frank Oz- literally his ‘right-paw man.’
I’m finding it hard to stick to my Humanistic outlook on life at the moment (as you might have gathered). There have been too many examples lately of the opposite of goodness in people- internationally, here at home and in my personal environment (although there is one particular exception to that seeming recent rule. I’ll have to write something about that guy soon).
In any case, Jim’s birthday yesterday- and Jay’s remembrance of Kermit as the Roving Reporter this morning- reminded me just how much of an impact he had on my life. I distinctly remember where I was when I heard that he had died (he mightn’t have been John Lennon or JFK, but he was THAT big a deal, as far as I was concerned). The memorial tributes- often featuring sad Muppets- broke my heart more than a little.
Years ago, the Ontario Science Centre (where I was a ‘junior member’ and participant in the OSCOTT Club- ‘Ontario Science Centre on Tuesdays and Thursdays’) hosted a touring exhibit called ‘The Art of the Muppets’. I still have a postcard from my visit to see some of my faves live and in person (as it were).
I have no negative memories of Jim Henson yet he and his creations pervade my existence in a very real way. To paraphrase a friend of mine (who was talking about Davy Jones’ death. You can find the original quote here), Jim didnothing to make his fans sad. Ever. Except die suddenly and rather inexplicably. But he did make myriad people happy. Still does, since his creations endure thrive and continue to entertain and enlighten new generations.
He was certainly a great educational facilitator but he was also an incredible storyteller and teacher in his own right. His Muppets have presented old stories in new ways, taught life lessons as they explored their own origins and concepts of family and continue Jim’s legacy to instill in us the reality that we are all the same. Humans, monsters, animals (and Animals), birds (and Birds). And that even inanimate objects- like food and furniture- might have stories to tell and lessons to impart.
Makes me think that Kermit/Jim (and Paul Williams and Kenneth Ascher) might have had it right. Perhaps we will find that rainbow connection.
Some day.
If we channel our inner Muppets (‘calling Rowlf, Rowlf the Dog’) and keep listening to the voices of the Monsters, Frogs, Dogs, Grouches, Aloysius (who knew Snuffy had a first name?) Snuffleupaguses and other storytellers among us to figure it out.
Storytellers like Jim Henson.
P.S. Didn’t I justsay the Muppets were everywhere? This morning (Thursday) I caught the time-shifted Jimmy Fallon show (not sleeping again, me) and the cast of Sesame Street joined him to sing their theme song. To celebrate the start of their 44th season. 44th. Go Muppets Go!
I spent some time- almost 10 years- as an Undergraduate Instructor (Part-Time Professor, Sessional Lecturer… the nomenclature varies with the school) at a number of universities here in Canada. It says as much on my ‘About‘ page. If you have checked out some of my musings hereabouts you likely are aware that I do have something of a tendency to, well, lecture– for lack of a better term- at times. It comes naturally.
N.B. THIS is going to be one of those times. Fair forewarning.
You’ve also likely gathered that I am not, currently, teaching. And that this is in spite of the fact that I LOVE being in the classroom, and hold those experiences as among the best of my life thus far. In addition to the life-long friendships that I established with cherished mentors, I keep in touch with a number of former students. I celebrate their victories (academic and otherwise) and empathize when the row they’ve chosen to hoe turns out to be more obstacle-filled than expected.
I understand that last bit all too well. It’s not easy being an academic these days. And certainly not an academic in the Humanities. This is my personal experience speaking, along with the witnessed experiences of close colleagues, friends and former mentors who have come up against the same shift in values that I have dealt with.
I personally know people who struggle to make ends meet on Sessional salaries (approximately $7200-$8000 per course per term, when last I looked at Universities here in Ontario) that, even when maxed out, still don’t amount to substantial earnings. Especially when you consider that Sessionals rarely, in my experience, secure even two courses per term. And since, despite the incredible work load associated with preparing, presenting and marking for more than two courses a term (with classes of as many as 300 students), those salaries generally don’t include benefits.
Here in Canada we are fortunate- with our Universal Health Care medical concerns are generally not financially crippling. But prescription costs, dental bills, eyeglasses (to compensate for the strain we put our eyes through reading all our weighty tomes) are, in the main, not covered if you are not a tenured or tenure-track Professor. And when the rotation of courses means that there isn’t anything available for you to teach for one term, or two terms, or three terms… employment benefits can be difficult to come by.
I remain on the mailing list of one of the Public Unions I was involved with as a Sessional Lecturer, and yesterday I a received an email with a very disturbing linked story. A disturbing American story, but the situation at Canadian universities is far too comparable. Also included was this response from Inside Higher Ed, an American website that offers news, opinion and information about job opportunities in the realm of higher education.
Take a second to click the links. I’ll wait.
How is this possible?
I was well-aware of the insecurity of the job description. I have read numerous articles about the “Road Scholars”- those academics who travel between universities in different cities to make ends meet until landing tenure track positions (or giving up the career path for reasons of exhaustion and emotional defeat).
I actually was crazydelusional committed enough to my academic career path for a time that I commuted from Toronto to Ottawa to teach a course there for a term. A WINTER term. Did I mention it was in OTTAWA? Where it snows. A LOT. One term was enough. Between gas prices/train fares and the time needed for the commute, it was starting to COST me money to teach my classes.
I admit it. I gave up. When reapplying for my job every four months- generally with uncertain results- began impacting my health (to say nothing of my credit report), I gave up.
Unlike Margaret Mary Vojtko, I had options and could afford the relative luxury of giving up. I am young(er), healthy and I have an incredible support system surrounding me. I have been able to figure out next directions and work toward revised goals and still keep a roof over my head and food in the refrigerator. It hasn’t always been fun, but I have never had to choose between paying the rent and buying groceries.
I can’t say the same for friends who haven’t given up. I know of many who have had to rely on Food Banks and other valued community services to get through the rough terms. That makes me very angry.
What makes me very sad is that neither I, nor anyone else I have had the privilege of working with over the years, chose academia and university teaching for the big pay cheques. I chose to pursue my doctorate as an expression of my love for my subject matter and the importance I place on education.
Education for its own sake rather than as a means to an employment end.
I have always felt a strong pull toward the classroom- I continue to be surrounded by teachers- and firmly believe that a strong grounding in learning how to read and write critically and with analysis, research skills that can lead to the development of independent thought and opinion, and the exploration of the great works of human history, literature, art and music are key elements in creating responsible citizens who participate in our democratic processes and concern themselves with issues outside of themselves.
Not everyone out there agrees with me.
I have had far too many conversations with those who see the study of the Humanities as little more than ‘dilletanteism’, with no ‘practical’ application in the ‘real world’. I won’t go into my responding rant (perfected through the number of times I have had to employ it) at the moment, but suffice it to say that this sort of attitude lies at the very heart of a number of the things that I have mentioned here, in this forum, in the past. We aren’t critical enough in our thinking or analytical enough in our responses to the wider world around us. Without being able to quote specific statistics but drawing upon my experiences and those of others I know and hold dear, the decline in the emphasis on the importance of studies of the Humanities is surely directly linked to our current level of intellectual laziness.
As I say, a rant for another day.
Likewise I’m not going to comment on the behaviour of the Roman Catholic authorities and their dismissal of the facts of the case. I will say that it is interesting that a representative of the labour union that was attempting to organize the non-contract/tenured professors (a move that was stopped by the institution’s claims of ‘religious exemption from federal labour regulations’) seemed to care more for Margaret Mary’s welfare than the religious institution that had employed her for 25 years and then unceremoniously terminated that employment.
Sigh.
Margaret Mary’s story hit very close to my home. Even though I am no longer involved in that world, I know and deeply respect many of those that are.
As Daniel Kovalik (said union representative) noted in Colleen Flaherty’s article:
“As amazing as it sounds, Margaret Mary, a 25-year professor, was not making ends meet. Even during the best of times, when she was teaching three classes a semester and two during the summer, she was not even clearing $25,000 a year, and she received absolutely no health care benefits. Compare this to the salary of Duquesne’s president, who makes more than $700,000 with full benefits.”
In the last year, he says, Vojtko was reduced to ‘abject penury,’ following a course load reduction- she was teaching one class, making $10,000 annually- with huge medical bills stemming from her cancer treatment. She could no longer afford heating, so she worked at an Eat n’ Park restaurant at night to stay warm. She tried to sleep during the day at Dusquesne (University), when she wasn’t teaching.
“When this was discovered by the university, the police were called in to eject her from her office,” Kovalik says. “finally, in the spring, she was let go by the university, which told her she was no longer effective as an instructor- despite many glowing evaluations from her students.”
Please note that Margaret Mary was 83 when she died, earlier this month.
As Mr. Kovalik also notes, ‘adjuncts now make up well over 50 percent of the faculty at colleges and universities.’
Despite ill-informed commentary to the contrary, we do not treat our teachers (at any level of the educational system) with the respect and dignity they deserve- especially given the importance of their role in furthering the education of the next generations of community, institutional (medical, educational, not-for-profit and etc.), business and political leaders.
In addition to his statement that freedom is impossible without education, Epictetus maintained that the understanding of our ignorance and gullibility needs to be the first subject of all study. With this self-knowledge we can begin to discover and incorporate knowledge that has come before us, and use it to develop our own ideas and solutions to problems.
Strong teachers facilitate this process.
We need them.
Desperately.
This a reality that is reaching critical mass. The life of Margaret Mary Vojtko is a shameful illustration of the imbalance between the compensation received by teachers and that received by administrators in educational systems both here and in the US (the same can certainly be said for the disparity between the wages of workers and the salaries of CEOs in the business arena, but I’ll leave discussions about that sort of thing to Bill Moyers- he’s my favourite voice of reason in that particular realm).
I WAS Margaret Mary. I left the world of the university when the ‘paying of dues’ on the road to career success seemed less and less likely to lead to anything like a liveable payout.
I quit. I admit that.
I know a lot of people who defiantly remain on the road, and one or two of them could well end lives of educating, mentoring and facilitating the development of pivotal skills, in the same ignominious manner as did this life-long teacher who positively impacted the lives of countless students.
It’s long past time for us to re-evaluate our societal priorities and set up a rest station on this road- an exit that offers a break from the long haul, to grab a cup of figurative coffee and have just a little bit of leisure time to shore up reserves before getting back in the classroom to aid in the retention of freedom about which Epictetus spoke. Almost 2000 years ago.
I just hope that there are still enough people out there who have been fortunate enough to have been exposed to the analytical and critical thinking tools- like those suggested by Epictetus- required to address and rescind such inequities.
If we don’t make systemic changes SOON, there certainly won’t be in the years to come.
It’s still unseasonably cold here. Honestly. What do we have to do to get some Indian Summer thrown our way? And since I’m nearly as cold in the city as I was at the cottage (okay, that’s hyperbolic- it was DAMN cold at the cottage) I’ve been wishing I was back there more than a little bit.
I got to thinking today about one of the kitchen chats I joined after walking in on it in the middle- because that’s what we do- talk, interject, offer opinions/advice/whatever. The things friends do when interested in each others’ ideas, opinions and perspectives. They were discussing atheism vs. agnosticism and asked me to define both terms. I offered my definition- and some of the reasoning behind my non-belief, which led to the same argument which our host and I have been having for well over two decades.
Theism is defined by the belief that at least one deity exists- somewhere- and the term is commonly used to describe the belief in a deity that is personal, present and active in the world/universe and who is gainfully employed in providing its governance. Therefore, an a-theist is someone who does not believe that any such a deity exists.
Going back to the original Greek roots of the term, I am literally ‘without gods’.
And I’m good with that.
Agnosticism is a bit more complicated- and varied- in its definition- and that was a source of a bit of contention. Also from the Greek, agnostic literally means ‘without knowledge’ and generally is applied to those who neither believe nor disbelieve in the existence of a god- or many gods- as they have been imagined and described by people.
Agnostics admit to ‘not knowing’. They‘re good with that.
Some will apply more of a philosophical meaning to the term, asserting that human reason and rationality are not capable of justifying whether- or not- deities do- or do not- exist. Essentially those philosophers among us would claim that there is no way of knowing one way or the other. Some suggest that you ‘can’t prove a negative’ and this ‘evidence of absence’ argument is one that is often tossed around when believers and non-believers (or those who allow for uncertainty) ‘discuss’ such things.
I concede that proving the non-existence of something is pretty tough to do, but I also suggest (as have others before me) that the flip side of that little tautology is that those who maintain the existence of something are likewise required to offer proof- that is acceptable to my particular worldview– that that same thing DOES exist.
Otherwise, I’m not likely to buy what you’re selling.
And since no one has, as of yet anyway, offered me anything remotely resembling definitive proof that the gods are anything other than the creations of us human beings, I’m very comfortable with my non-belief and I will thank you to not attempt to sway me to your perspective.
By all means- believe as you wish. We are fortunate to live in a society that allows us the freedom of our beliefs- and their expression (at least at the moment and in Provinces other than Quebec…) so I will likewise not attempt to disabuse you of any privately held views on religion and gods.
Do I have time for proselytising? Can’t say as I do. Sometimes my Canadian politesse comes into conflict with this reality, but as willing as I am to hear you out in your argumentation, if it includes anything about me being condemned to eternal hellfire or cursed for my non-belief, I’ll likely cut you off pretty quickly.
Name-calling has no place in rational discourse, and telling me that I’m ‘damned’ isn’t nice at all.
And attacks launched from the defensive? Also not attractive. Nor something that will incline me to listen all that sincerely to what you have to say.
Clear example of this tension- but also the way in which it is consistently overcome- is the ongoing discussion about this subject that takes place repeatedly. We will never agree on the divinity/non-divinity of Jesus (although ‘never’ is a word I hesitate to use. Too restricting- he might yet change his mind… Joking. Seriously- just joking. He knows I’m joking- and that I’m not looking to change his mind on the subject).
As an historian of religion. I believe in the existence of Jesus as an historical figurewho sought change within his religious framework and social milieu, and that the guy had great ideas and inclinations toward inclusion, love and peace. He was a radical dude, seeking religious and cultural change for the better.
A prime example of the heights of humanity to which we should all aspire?
Zero argument there.
Son of a deity? One third of a triumvirate god that became incarnate in human form? Immortal and supernatural?
None of the above.
The thing with this ongoing discussion is that we always take the time to listen to what the other person has to say, and we both are secure enough in our belief(s) that we can maintain a sense of humour about the arguments. We happily agree to disagree.
When I touched upon this subject previously, I offered up an meme I’ve seen circulating that demonstrates the worst of the ‘New Atheist’ propensity toward labeling those with opposing views as ‘stupid’ or the like.
Not productive.
On the other side of the fence… I happened upon this little gem (that would be sarcasm) last night:
Also not remotely cool.
Although I’d think that Dawkins (and Hitchens before he died) would likely have found it quite amusing to be described as one of the harbingers of the Apocalypse.
A mythological story about the ending of all things and the return of a deity in which they do not believe.
Productive.
Such rhetoric is demonstrative of this insidious propensity toward the externalization of ‘evil’– and making people monstrous because of a differing worldview- that I keep harping on about. Not good.
Definitely not good.
The more we vilify each other and create and perpetuate dichotomies of right/wrong, good/evil, black/white, the farther away we continue to stray from the message and the mission of teachers like Jesus of Nazareth.
One of the reasons I love and respect my friends and family (and the peeps I have had the opportunity to meet through this forum) is because we can continue to engage in dialogue without in any way dismissing or diminishing the beliefs of those around us.
Last night, while out for dinner in one of our local little restaurants (Focaccia near Yonge and Bloor. Try it if you get the chance. The staff is FANTASTIC), I overheard the conversation of the couple who had been at the next table, just as they were leaving. They were discussing their full-fledged support of the nonsense in Quebec– while loudly proclaiming their total ignorance of the beliefs and traditions of those they were demonizing.
Respect for our beleaguered waiter- who had been dealing with such commentary for the duration of their meal- was the only thing that kept me from speaking out as they exited. That, and the awareness (after years of experience) that minds cannot be forced open, and that, sadly, some people are just unwilling to even attempt to see a perspective outside of their own.
So instead I wrote this post.
In frustration that there are still so many who will not offer dignity and respect to those whose ideas differ from their own.
In exasperation that there are too many among us who still seek to divide rather than to bring together.
But also in remembrance of the fact that there are all kinds of people out there who are honestly willing to listen to one another and, as required, agree to disagree.
Lots and lots of people who realize that all humans are reflections of one another- regardless of place of origin, cultural context or belief or non-belief.
And that I am privileged to have a whole bunch of people like that in my life.
P.S. Speaking of the Four Horsemen and such things… I watched the series premiere of ‘Sleepy Hollow’ earlier this week. Seems the Headless Horseman is really Death- that Rider on a Pale Horse who seems to have been called up by a demon-type thing in the woods around town. Potentially interesting amalgam of a classic American story and apocalyptic mythology all thrown into the 21st century Hudson River Valley. Will have to check it out for a while and see. Told you apocalypses seem to be everywhere lately…
... au gré des trouvailles, au fil de l'inspiration. Ma devise : rester humble, devant l'infiniment petit, tout comme face au très grand... angle :) Merci à toi visiteur furtif ou ami de longue date...
‘Todmorden’ by STEEN (used with permission of the artist – and the proud owner – ME!)
colemining 