Doug had been sick for some time, complications from a few serious diseases, which finally took his life on November 18th this year; he was fifty years of age.
The man was the father of my nephew, Daniel.
Doug goes back along time. He was considered to be too wild for my sister: hard drinking, a consumer of recreational mind-altering substances, (as most of us were in the 70’s) this boy was handsome, the Johnny Depp of our generation.
Doug was generally a happy fellow but when he drank too much, anything could happen. He loved his alcohol and drank for many reasons far beyond the received wisdom on the subject. Doug was the unluckiest individual that I have ever encountered in real life or in fiction.
Doug was actually hit by lightening, not once but twice, on two separate occasions. The man nearly died in both cases and lived to tell the tale.
In the prime of his life, mid to late twenties, riding his motorcycle along I. 25, a semi truck switched lanes without looking, slamming into Doug at 70 miles an hour. The consequences of this tragic accident were devastating. Most of his bones had compound fractures, but the skin on his face had been ripped off leaving only bone and a little muscle. Entering the emergency room the attending E.R. staffs believed the man was a lost cause, a slab of unrecognisable meat surrounding a heart that continued to beat… working into the night, Doug came through and lived to see the morning.
Physically he never bounced back as the injuries were too severe. After some years and many plastic surgeries, a mere shadow of his original face appeared and remained a miracle, really, but Doug looked to be an entirely different person. The once handsome lad, struck by lightning twice and obliterated on the highway from a semi truck, came back, but looked like a second rate Frankenstein. He wanted to live again, despite the past, despite his face, though his future proved to turn to more tragedy, more negatives, more bad luck.
I can only imagine the man’s feelings and responses to this tragedy. Nothing anyone has experienced, (because we are all different) can accurately understand Doug’s heart and mind in his battle to become “normal” again. Only that individual who has gone through such hardship, really only understands the pain and fears from attempting to fit back into one’s family, one’s friends… society in general.
Nothing was the same.
Doug’s mother, a strong and caring person, raising young Daniel, unemployed and on welfare because she had a slow, lingering cancer, her boy arrives home from the hospital and baby Daniel is crying, and all Doug wants to do is hold him, which he does and feels somehow that life must get better, because it surly can’t get any worse.
But it does…
Life has its major tragedies but mostly it is a series of missed opportunities, wrong choices, the day to day problems and mishaps…cars breakdown, hearts are broken, friends met and lost; the electricity turned off for weeks and freezing in the dead of winter because the bill was paid a few days late, etc.
America is a harsh country if you are disadvantaged and unable to work. Their Welfare and Medical systems, respectively, are disasters, almost fascist in their system and approach, and in the eyes of the rest of the “free” world is an antiquated joke, a creation of right-wing elites.
Doug and his mother including little Daniel felt the brunt of this system: life was a daily struggle against impending disaster, a fight, on a daily bases, for basic needs.
On this side of the world, my mother gave what she could and when she was able to give more, she would, but at that stage of the game, the dye had been cast.
Doug’s mother died soon later of her lingering cancer and their world changed again as the two boys’s had lost their anchor, their carer, their mother.
Rather than plunge into the details over the next fifteen years, let me just say that Doug tried and tried hard to provide a “normal” home and an existence without strife. From little information I have, he accomplished this noble goal in various ways. He was not always successful and at times contributed to the strife, (he missed his mother) but his intentions were pure.
The last time I talked to Doug was in 2000. We were in Denver visiting a good friend who lived in the mountains close to Breckenridge. The rendezvous time was made to meet my nephew, Daniel, and my wife at the time and I travelled down the mountain to a suburb in Denver. The rendezvous place turned out to be a rocken cowboy bar next to a trailer park. It was around dusk, and Daniel was thirty minutes late. Just as I was about to call the show off, a strange looking man pulled up on an old bicycle.
“Hi Craig. It’s me, Doug.”
At first startled, then looking into his eyes, I knew it was the father of my nephew. He did not in anyway look like the boy I knew before: his face disfigured, scarred and uneven, but those deep brown familiar eyes remained the same.
“Daniel is always late. Had a big night last night and just now got home. Hope you two haven’t been waiten long.”
I responded, “No, mate, all’s fine.”
He smiled and back peddled on the bike, “You don’t have a very good Australian accent after being there so long.” he laughed, continuing to move back and forth on the bike as if wanting to say something important to me.
Right then, Daniel arrived and had an expression on his face exactly like my father would when up to something troublesome. I was astounded how the boy had the same demeanour and cheeky smile like my father…
Doug reached over and shook my hand. He was about to bicycle off, when my wife stopped him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Doug smiled, seeming to like the affection, and peddled off and that was the last time we ever-laid eyes on the man again.
Life was never meant to be easy.
When I begin to winge and complain about how “awful” my life has become, wishing for something better and wallowing in self pity, I only need to become aware of my friend, my next door neighbour, a disadvantaged student in my classroom, the young girl crouched on the ground like a Dickens character in the pouring rain with a little umbrella, soaked to the bone, selling flowers on the edge of the highway on Christmas afternoon.
I believe Doug did it hard but managed to maintain a focus, although not a “pillar” of the community, he showed me that no matter what happens, life is a gift and truly worth fighting for.
Farewell old boy.
We’re all proud of you.
Written Christmas Day 2006
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Beauty & Abstraction vs. the Reality of Every Day Life
Trouble sleeping over the last two weeks: waking every three hours, feeling I’ve slept for days yet the clock continues to read 3:30 am.
My work is done; most all responsibilities have been met and with this chased sense of guarantees, this solidity of self, my poised confident persona has gone by the way side: feeling like a stranger in a strange land.
Received a phone call from my dear friend this morning asking if a scrumptious picnic would be out of the question? Having not eaten properly for days the invitation seemed like divine intervention particularly designed for me.
She appeared in front of her drive way holding a true to form “picnic basket”, sun glasses and a kind smile.
“Let me drive.” she insisted.
We headed towards the country and suddenly arrived next to a river.
Living in city circumstances, cars, petrol, the feeling that one's space will explode at any moment, because we all seem to live on top of each other, no room to move, the drive in the country felt like a gift. The river smelled of fresh flowers and the walker’s all smiled.
After a brisk walk, we finally settled down next to a deserted old Fern tree. The public walking path was too close for total privacy, but far enough to make us feel that we were somewhat alone with each other.
We laid the blanket over the grass and all at once the beauty of our surroundings became evident before my eyes.
My friend had made cold Lamb sandwiches with just a hint of mint. The bread was bought at the bakery that morning and tasted like it had just come out of the oven. (There’s nothing like fresh bread). Reaching into the picnic basket, a bottle of 2000 Cabernet Shiraz and two crystal glasses. The wine and the Lamb were a perfect union, a marriage of the unusual but lovely sort.
As wine and delicious food affects one’s outlook on life, the afternoon a perfect temperature, both of us peered out toward the green mountain, she commenting how utterly beautiful the landscape, when, disrupting our reverie of aesthetic vision, a young German Shepherd bounded happily towards our paradise of beauty and perfection, turned around and proceeded to defecate in our ideal world. Her master appeared on the path and looked terribly embarrassed, but knew once the dog started, nothing he could say would change things.
The young lassie finished her business, turned innocently and smiled at us and trotted off completely satisfied.
We looked at each other and fell into fits of laughter, to the point of tears, because we both knew, life is amazingly beautiful, a miracle, but also, full of shit.
These experiences make life worth living.
I hope I can sleep tonight.
My work is done; most all responsibilities have been met and with this chased sense of guarantees, this solidity of self, my poised confident persona has gone by the way side: feeling like a stranger in a strange land.
Received a phone call from my dear friend this morning asking if a scrumptious picnic would be out of the question? Having not eaten properly for days the invitation seemed like divine intervention particularly designed for me.
She appeared in front of her drive way holding a true to form “picnic basket”, sun glasses and a kind smile.
“Let me drive.” she insisted.
We headed towards the country and suddenly arrived next to a river.
Living in city circumstances, cars, petrol, the feeling that one's space will explode at any moment, because we all seem to live on top of each other, no room to move, the drive in the country felt like a gift. The river smelled of fresh flowers and the walker’s all smiled.
After a brisk walk, we finally settled down next to a deserted old Fern tree. The public walking path was too close for total privacy, but far enough to make us feel that we were somewhat alone with each other.
We laid the blanket over the grass and all at once the beauty of our surroundings became evident before my eyes.
My friend had made cold Lamb sandwiches with just a hint of mint. The bread was bought at the bakery that morning and tasted like it had just come out of the oven. (There’s nothing like fresh bread). Reaching into the picnic basket, a bottle of 2000 Cabernet Shiraz and two crystal glasses. The wine and the Lamb were a perfect union, a marriage of the unusual but lovely sort.
As wine and delicious food affects one’s outlook on life, the afternoon a perfect temperature, both of us peered out toward the green mountain, she commenting how utterly beautiful the landscape, when, disrupting our reverie of aesthetic vision, a young German Shepherd bounded happily towards our paradise of beauty and perfection, turned around and proceeded to defecate in our ideal world. Her master appeared on the path and looked terribly embarrassed, but knew once the dog started, nothing he could say would change things.
The young lassie finished her business, turned innocently and smiled at us and trotted off completely satisfied.
We looked at each other and fell into fits of laughter, to the point of tears, because we both knew, life is amazingly beautiful, a miracle, but also, full of shit.
These experiences make life worth living.
I hope I can sleep tonight.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Loneliness & Genius (A Story of a Gifted Lad)
He was a terribly sensitive lad, so inward-looking, so self conscious, that even rising out of bed in the morning required every ounce of courage he could muster. His mother understood her son, realizing early on that he was a special boy, a being with special gifts way beyond those of his peers. He too was aware of these gifts but felt ashamed because it distanced him from his classmates because they really believed he was a freak of nature. The boy’s gifts were indeed extraordinary, an insight and natural skill for drawing realist depictions of nature and writing brilliant essays on life and love.
The young man’s teachers were astounded at his stories, including myself, however a few superficial teachers believed the quiet boy plagiarized his writings, copied the words from the great masters because really, they could not even write half as well as the boy. These small hearted and malice teachers soon had to relent in their accusations because, one day a few years back, the lad was made to sit in a classroom alone, a test of his integrity, and asked to write on a particular subject. The topic was unfairly a first year philosophy subject, Existentialism: and for any average Year 9 student, this was an absurd task. He was given one hour, and the question read as follows:
“Explain why the philosophy of Existentialism had such a major impact in post WW2 France?”
To be fair, most educated adults would struggle with this obscure question.
What truly upset me at the time was the attitude of these “teachers”; out of their small and black hearts, they wanted the lad to fail, reveal some sort of fraud therefore appearing “right” to the rest of the world. Of course this is pathetic, but I felt worse as these were teachers, my apparent fellow educators, one of the last Noble Professions, and they were smearing its name across the boards; treating a special child with contempt, jealousy and spite – I felt embarrassed and mostly shame.
(This was not one of the high points of my career).
Needless to say, our quiet lad sat for the hour and turned in a hand written 3000 word essay. This had been the most sensitive, insightful and informed piece on existentialism that it has been my good fortune to read. (I still have the hand written essay in my study as evidence…)
He turned the paper in to the doubters, and out of denial, psychosis or extreme anti- social behaviour, would not believe the lad had written the piece.
This is the point that I jumped in and attempted to set the record straight.
“You people are truly a cancer in our profession. The lad was not given a clue what the subject of the essay would be; you, like true fascists, searched him for hidden microphones and receivers and found absolutely nothing. We all observed him throughout the hour writing his little heart out…and still you do not accept the boy’s gifts!”
The ugly, and most sarcastic of the three, Mr. B, a teacher that is hated by most students, (and he likes it!) piped up: “Mr. M… though we appreciate your unbounding enthusiasm, this boy is obviously a fraud and it is our job to prove the fact.”
This teacher was not in the profession to nurture young people but to rise to power in his little pond of influence: though a small fish a very nasty one.
“Mr. B, you have had the opportunity to prove that our student is a fraud and you have failed. What is your next port of call...torture, getting the boy to admit to cheating as he is electrocuted to the point of passing out from the pain!?”
Startlingly, the worm’s eyes looked up to the ceiling, revealing my suggestion might have some credence! His reptilian eyes came back to mine, squinting like a snake in the desert sun.
“Mr. M…we do believe your arguments have some value. Let the committee come back to you with our judgement.”
Mr. Reptile, after making this statement, disappeared out the back, his shrivelled, pathetic cronies following in tow.
Our young lad waited outside in the hall looking like the end of the world had actually arrived in his lifetime, pale like a sheet; eyes full of fear and as large as an owls…his right leg shook at top speed to the point where I thought the boy was on the brink of a Cardiac arrest!
“You did fine, son. C’mon mate, I’ll buy you a coke…what do you say?”
He seemed to relax, and agreed to the coke, but after that experience, he never, really trusted people again.
The lad’s school work duly followed this change in attitude, his marks plummeted. He just did not try anymore.
Mr. B. and his legion of snakes looked smug, happy with themselves that our lad was a fraud and they had revealed this fact to the school.
It was a few years later that our lad reached Year 12. To be fair, I had to fight the committee again to let him into VCE (Year 12 curriculum) and with a little blood and sweat…and a few tears, he was permitted entry.
What followed was nothing less than astounding!
Every test the boy sat for he aced: 100%, perfect. And the snake patrol could do nothing because he followed State protocols and won top marks every time.
It was mid year that the lad began to look more sick than usual, he began to miss class too much, particularly for VCE, as this is frowned upon and affects one’s overall grade.
I began to become aware that our lad was slowly shrinking from the world. He gradually began to literarily disappear, fading like an evaporating fog in winter. By July, however, he made his exit, passed away to the other side, faded into invisibility with an appreciative, lovely smile. I believe he died because of the harshness of life.
As I sit in my study and read those wonderful works of literature and poetry, gaze at his art folio and marvel at the realistic brilliance of his style, I continue to wonder where he is now, such a beautiful, gifted young soul.
A true pleasure to know and teach …
I miss this lonely genius...
The young man’s teachers were astounded at his stories, including myself, however a few superficial teachers believed the quiet boy plagiarized his writings, copied the words from the great masters because really, they could not even write half as well as the boy. These small hearted and malice teachers soon had to relent in their accusations because, one day a few years back, the lad was made to sit in a classroom alone, a test of his integrity, and asked to write on a particular subject. The topic was unfairly a first year philosophy subject, Existentialism: and for any average Year 9 student, this was an absurd task. He was given one hour, and the question read as follows:
“Explain why the philosophy of Existentialism had such a major impact in post WW2 France?”
To be fair, most educated adults would struggle with this obscure question.
What truly upset me at the time was the attitude of these “teachers”; out of their small and black hearts, they wanted the lad to fail, reveal some sort of fraud therefore appearing “right” to the rest of the world. Of course this is pathetic, but I felt worse as these were teachers, my apparent fellow educators, one of the last Noble Professions, and they were smearing its name across the boards; treating a special child with contempt, jealousy and spite – I felt embarrassed and mostly shame.
(This was not one of the high points of my career).
Needless to say, our quiet lad sat for the hour and turned in a hand written 3000 word essay. This had been the most sensitive, insightful and informed piece on existentialism that it has been my good fortune to read. (I still have the hand written essay in my study as evidence…)
He turned the paper in to the doubters, and out of denial, psychosis or extreme anti- social behaviour, would not believe the lad had written the piece.
This is the point that I jumped in and attempted to set the record straight.
“You people are truly a cancer in our profession. The lad was not given a clue what the subject of the essay would be; you, like true fascists, searched him for hidden microphones and receivers and found absolutely nothing. We all observed him throughout the hour writing his little heart out…and still you do not accept the boy’s gifts!”
The ugly, and most sarcastic of the three, Mr. B, a teacher that is hated by most students, (and he likes it!) piped up: “Mr. M… though we appreciate your unbounding enthusiasm, this boy is obviously a fraud and it is our job to prove the fact.”
This teacher was not in the profession to nurture young people but to rise to power in his little pond of influence: though a small fish a very nasty one.
“Mr. B, you have had the opportunity to prove that our student is a fraud and you have failed. What is your next port of call...torture, getting the boy to admit to cheating as he is electrocuted to the point of passing out from the pain!?”
Startlingly, the worm’s eyes looked up to the ceiling, revealing my suggestion might have some credence! His reptilian eyes came back to mine, squinting like a snake in the desert sun.
“Mr. M…we do believe your arguments have some value. Let the committee come back to you with our judgement.”
Mr. Reptile, after making this statement, disappeared out the back, his shrivelled, pathetic cronies following in tow.
Our young lad waited outside in the hall looking like the end of the world had actually arrived in his lifetime, pale like a sheet; eyes full of fear and as large as an owls…his right leg shook at top speed to the point where I thought the boy was on the brink of a Cardiac arrest!
“You did fine, son. C’mon mate, I’ll buy you a coke…what do you say?”
He seemed to relax, and agreed to the coke, but after that experience, he never, really trusted people again.
The lad’s school work duly followed this change in attitude, his marks plummeted. He just did not try anymore.
Mr. B. and his legion of snakes looked smug, happy with themselves that our lad was a fraud and they had revealed this fact to the school.
It was a few years later that our lad reached Year 12. To be fair, I had to fight the committee again to let him into VCE (Year 12 curriculum) and with a little blood and sweat…and a few tears, he was permitted entry.
What followed was nothing less than astounding!
Every test the boy sat for he aced: 100%, perfect. And the snake patrol could do nothing because he followed State protocols and won top marks every time.
It was mid year that the lad began to look more sick than usual, he began to miss class too much, particularly for VCE, as this is frowned upon and affects one’s overall grade.
I began to become aware that our lad was slowly shrinking from the world. He gradually began to literarily disappear, fading like an evaporating fog in winter. By July, however, he made his exit, passed away to the other side, faded into invisibility with an appreciative, lovely smile. I believe he died because of the harshness of life.
As I sit in my study and read those wonderful works of literature and poetry, gaze at his art folio and marvel at the realistic brilliance of his style, I continue to wonder where he is now, such a beautiful, gifted young soul.
A true pleasure to know and teach …
I miss this lonely genius...
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
O’ Henry and the Spirit of Giving
After teaching for some years in Australia, it is only after the reports are completed that I can at last breathe a sigh of relief and look at the festive season. It is only tonight that my list was made for gifts, although rather slim under the circumstances, (less cash than usual) lack of $ somehow turns Christmas into a more meaningful event. Why? One needs to really put thought into the gift because we want the gift to “mean” something for the receiver.
This reminds me of an O’Henry story.
I cannot remember the title but recall reading it as a teenager, and it having a significant affect on my basic outlook on Christmas and the world.
It has been many years since reading this gem, so bare with my sparse and general prose, at least, hopefully the basic theme, the “message”, will be made clear:
Around the 19th century in grand old London, a couple lived in a very small flat on the East end, but a flat was only large enough to cook their breakfast and dinner, and sleep together in a single bed. Their home was humble yet clean as the wife ensured their home remained spotless, their sheets crisp and white; their windows clear, ensuring what little sun they captured, would shine through…
Unfortunately the husband lost his job as a clock maker because times were hard and people could not purchase fine crafted time pieces. But it was Christmas, and the season for giving, acknowledging life’s miracles and the birth of a true Man of God.
In only a few weeks all their money had evaporated, not from frivolous wants but from basic needs.
One thing you should know about this special couple is that they were wonderfully in love. Fine home, beautiful clothes, objects of beauty made no difference to them, as long as they had each other.
She had the longest most beautiful hair in London. In fact people on the streets, both gentleman and lady, would stop her and comment on its colour, sheen and magnificent appeal.
He, though dressed in an old suit, managed to maintain an air of respectability. His most prized possession was a gold pocket watch that had been given to him from his father, which had been given to his father from his grandfather and so on. The watch had been in his family for many years.
Carelessly, as a young man, he lost the gold chain that was attached to the watch. From that day on, he kept the watch in a special box above the fire place, fearing he would lose the object that represented a long and important family tradition.
Christmas meant so much to both of them.
Because of the intense love they had for each other, both felt a need to give each other a gift at this most important time of the year. But with no money, what could they do?
On Christmas Eve, both ventured out into the city determined to find the most perfect present.
Christmas morning arrived and they rose from their single bed to the chilling cold of their flat.
Excited he opened his present first to find a gold chain for his most precious gold watch.
She looked at her lover’s face to find disappointment. Why would he not want a gold chain to wear his precious watch?
His lover opened her present to find the most beautiful ivory comb for her lovely long hair.
They looked at each other and the truth had become clear to both: She removed a string from her hair to reveal that she had cut her beautiful hair.
“I am sorry my love! I had to cut my hair to sell it to buy the gold chain for your watch!”
He smiled though felt a pang of guilt.
“I am sorry my love! I sold my gold watch to buy this ivory comb for your lovely hair.”
To them it did not matter.
It was Christmas and they had each other.
This is a wonderful story about the true spirit of giving.
I’ve never ever forgotten this beautiful tale and seem to remember it at this time of the season.
This reminds me of an O’Henry story.
I cannot remember the title but recall reading it as a teenager, and it having a significant affect on my basic outlook on Christmas and the world.
It has been many years since reading this gem, so bare with my sparse and general prose, at least, hopefully the basic theme, the “message”, will be made clear:
Around the 19th century in grand old London, a couple lived in a very small flat on the East end, but a flat was only large enough to cook their breakfast and dinner, and sleep together in a single bed. Their home was humble yet clean as the wife ensured their home remained spotless, their sheets crisp and white; their windows clear, ensuring what little sun they captured, would shine through…
Unfortunately the husband lost his job as a clock maker because times were hard and people could not purchase fine crafted time pieces. But it was Christmas, and the season for giving, acknowledging life’s miracles and the birth of a true Man of God.
In only a few weeks all their money had evaporated, not from frivolous wants but from basic needs.
One thing you should know about this special couple is that they were wonderfully in love. Fine home, beautiful clothes, objects of beauty made no difference to them, as long as they had each other.
She had the longest most beautiful hair in London. In fact people on the streets, both gentleman and lady, would stop her and comment on its colour, sheen and magnificent appeal.
He, though dressed in an old suit, managed to maintain an air of respectability. His most prized possession was a gold pocket watch that had been given to him from his father, which had been given to his father from his grandfather and so on. The watch had been in his family for many years.
Carelessly, as a young man, he lost the gold chain that was attached to the watch. From that day on, he kept the watch in a special box above the fire place, fearing he would lose the object that represented a long and important family tradition.
Christmas meant so much to both of them.
Because of the intense love they had for each other, both felt a need to give each other a gift at this most important time of the year. But with no money, what could they do?
On Christmas Eve, both ventured out into the city determined to find the most perfect present.
Christmas morning arrived and they rose from their single bed to the chilling cold of their flat.
Excited he opened his present first to find a gold chain for his most precious gold watch.
She looked at her lover’s face to find disappointment. Why would he not want a gold chain to wear his precious watch?
His lover opened her present to find the most beautiful ivory comb for her lovely long hair.
They looked at each other and the truth had become clear to both: She removed a string from her hair to reveal that she had cut her beautiful hair.
“I am sorry my love! I had to cut my hair to sell it to buy the gold chain for your watch!”
He smiled though felt a pang of guilt.
“I am sorry my love! I sold my gold watch to buy this ivory comb for your lovely hair.”
To them it did not matter.
It was Christmas and they had each other.
This is a wonderful story about the true spirit of giving.
I’ve never ever forgotten this beautiful tale and seem to remember it at this time of the season.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
When Machines Refuse to Comply
This time of year in Victoria Australia, teachers across the state sweat, sometimes sweat bullets, because the Reports are due: these reports are the academic results of their students. This may sound like complaining, but in some cases, in secondary school, a teacher will have over 250 students, (a lot of work) and each report must reflect the student’s progress and achievements. What happens every five years is the Department of Education decides the current system of curriculum and reporting is not up to standards, thus they change everything. Looking back on these “changes” over a period of time, one finds “change for change sake” as the foundations remain the same – similar to the old cliché, “Same wine, new bottle.”
The Reports were due today, organized to be handed out to the students by 3:00 p.m., and as the day progressed, it became more and more obvious to me that the deadline was not going to be met – we were dead because those in charge of the new software had been hitting problems, one after the other, and continued to hit the wall until I left, around 5:00. If it wasn’t the network shutting down, it was the software not doing what it was designed for; everything that could go wrong did, and the exasperation on my colleague’s faces told their true feelings at that moment, despair and utter exhaustion.
While driving home, I began to think about Carl Jung, the famous Swiss psychiatrist and his interesting biography, “Memories, Dreams and Reflections.” There is a section in the book where he has just finished building his little house by the lake down about a kilometre from his home on the hill. On the walls of this interesting structure are his many murals of his dreams and the characters that inhabited his dreams. When Jung finally moved into his new home, his first port of call was to “talk” to his tools, that is to say, pots and pans, the poker for the fire place, and the old stove he’d brought down from the main house especially for cooking.
Paraphrased: Now my good and important friends, we must live with one another, and in order to live in harmony, we must work ‘together’, so let us celebrate our new relationship.
This may sound like the illusions of an old man, but Jung understood that harmony with material objects, particularly tools for survival, was absolutely necessary.
As my father would say, when manually working, attempting to repair a car, screen door or a toilet, “You have to make friends with it son, or it will fight you all the way.”
Maybe, just possibly, my colleague’s should have made friends with the new software, accepted the five year change and flowed with it.
The machines might have cooperated, making our lives a little less of a burden.
____________________________________
As a scientist, I am not sure anymore that life can be reduced to a class struggle, to dialectical materialism, or any set of formulas. Life is spontaneous and it is unpredictable, it is magical. I think that we have struggled so hard with the tangible that we have forgotten the intangible.
Diane Frovlov and Andrew Schneider
The Reports were due today, organized to be handed out to the students by 3:00 p.m., and as the day progressed, it became more and more obvious to me that the deadline was not going to be met – we were dead because those in charge of the new software had been hitting problems, one after the other, and continued to hit the wall until I left, around 5:00. If it wasn’t the network shutting down, it was the software not doing what it was designed for; everything that could go wrong did, and the exasperation on my colleague’s faces told their true feelings at that moment, despair and utter exhaustion.
While driving home, I began to think about Carl Jung, the famous Swiss psychiatrist and his interesting biography, “Memories, Dreams and Reflections.” There is a section in the book where he has just finished building his little house by the lake down about a kilometre from his home on the hill. On the walls of this interesting structure are his many murals of his dreams and the characters that inhabited his dreams. When Jung finally moved into his new home, his first port of call was to “talk” to his tools, that is to say, pots and pans, the poker for the fire place, and the old stove he’d brought down from the main house especially for cooking.
Paraphrased: Now my good and important friends, we must live with one another, and in order to live in harmony, we must work ‘together’, so let us celebrate our new relationship.
This may sound like the illusions of an old man, but Jung understood that harmony with material objects, particularly tools for survival, was absolutely necessary.
As my father would say, when manually working, attempting to repair a car, screen door or a toilet, “You have to make friends with it son, or it will fight you all the way.”
Maybe, just possibly, my colleague’s should have made friends with the new software, accepted the five year change and flowed with it.
The machines might have cooperated, making our lives a little less of a burden.
____________________________________
As a scientist, I am not sure anymore that life can be reduced to a class struggle, to dialectical materialism, or any set of formulas. Life is spontaneous and it is unpredictable, it is magical. I think that we have struggled so hard with the tangible that we have forgotten the intangible.
Diane Frovlov and Andrew Schneider
Beauty vs. Basic Manners
Dinner with an old friend tonight at one of our favourite Italian restaurants; as it had been a hot day, the evening breezes from the sea wafted over our table, giving us that needed relief, sitting outside watching humanity walk along the boulevard.
Because it is the Christmas season, all are out and about, catching up, shopping, dining and simply enjoying the evening.
Once the meal had finished, sat back, glass of wine in hand, listening to my old friend tell me about her new job and her latest marks from University. She is doing well.
My eye wandered across the court yard to see a group of women arrive and sit at a table directly in my line of vision. They were a group of three with a baby carriage. I deduced three generations of women: an older woman about seventy, a lovely head of blond-silver hair and another attractive middle-aged woman, dressed elegantly and fussing over the new born. She looked young for her age, blond, tall and slender. Next to her was her daughter, a blond extremely attractive woman around the age of twenty five. Four generations of stunners, including the new born, truly beautiful women out on a warm summer night.
All three women were dressed casually, bright cotton dresses, styled hair and tasteful make up – men walked by their table and would inappropriately stare, however it seemed they were used to this show of admiration as it did not appear to bother them in the least.
My good friend continued to fill me in on all and sunder, when I noticed the waiter serving the stunner’s their dinner.
When they began to eat and continued to “eat” over the next twenty minutes, I could not believe what I was actually seeing: the most beautiful of the women, the new mother, would stuff as much food in her mouth as humanly possible, then chew and talk at the same time, bits of food escaping her mouth a falling on the plate below. Her mother, the slender attractive and seemingly elegant one, did the same, stuffing too much food in her mouth, chewing and talking at the same time. Grandmother too, would fill her mouth with food, too much food, and chomping with her mouth wide open. It got to the point that I couldn’t look over there because the scene did not make sense: three beautiful women, three generations in fact, eating like drunken sailors after a big night on the town.
Beauty and basic manners do not necessarily exist in the same space, at least in this place, on this almost perfect summer’s evening.
Because it is the Christmas season, all are out and about, catching up, shopping, dining and simply enjoying the evening.
Once the meal had finished, sat back, glass of wine in hand, listening to my old friend tell me about her new job and her latest marks from University. She is doing well.
My eye wandered across the court yard to see a group of women arrive and sit at a table directly in my line of vision. They were a group of three with a baby carriage. I deduced three generations of women: an older woman about seventy, a lovely head of blond-silver hair and another attractive middle-aged woman, dressed elegantly and fussing over the new born. She looked young for her age, blond, tall and slender. Next to her was her daughter, a blond extremely attractive woman around the age of twenty five. Four generations of stunners, including the new born, truly beautiful women out on a warm summer night.
All three women were dressed casually, bright cotton dresses, styled hair and tasteful make up – men walked by their table and would inappropriately stare, however it seemed they were used to this show of admiration as it did not appear to bother them in the least.
My good friend continued to fill me in on all and sunder, when I noticed the waiter serving the stunner’s their dinner.
When they began to eat and continued to “eat” over the next twenty minutes, I could not believe what I was actually seeing: the most beautiful of the women, the new mother, would stuff as much food in her mouth as humanly possible, then chew and talk at the same time, bits of food escaping her mouth a falling on the plate below. Her mother, the slender attractive and seemingly elegant one, did the same, stuffing too much food in her mouth, chewing and talking at the same time. Grandmother too, would fill her mouth with food, too much food, and chomping with her mouth wide open. It got to the point that I couldn’t look over there because the scene did not make sense: three beautiful women, three generations in fact, eating like drunken sailors after a big night on the town.
Beauty and basic manners do not necessarily exist in the same space, at least in this place, on this almost perfect summer’s evening.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
On Beingness and Living in the World
The overman...Who has organized the chaos of his passions, given style to his character, and become creative. Aware of life's terrors, he affirms life without resentment.
Be not the slave of your own past. Plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Be not the slave of your own past. Plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old.
Friedrich Nietzsche
From "Culture and Value".
Bach said that all achievements were simply the fruit of industry. But industry like that requires humility and an enormous capacity for suffering, hence strength. And someone who, with all this, can also express himself perfectly, simply speaks to us in the language of a great man.
Ludwig Wittgenstein
Ludwig Wittgenstein
Friday, December 15, 2006
Rude People
It must be that time of the season. There has not been a day without someone, no matter what the circumstance, flowing inward, thrashing out for no real reason. I must admit that people become more impatient with others during the Christmas season. I'll never forget my father picking up the family after church, and the congregation turning the parking lot into a war zone, beeping horns, yelling at each other...my father sat without starting the car and said, "Well, that must have been a good sermon."
Today while driving to work, an old lady, possibly 75 to 85, tailgated me, yelling at the top of her voice. (I saw her hatred in the rear view mirror) She drove a bulking four wheel drive, black, petrol guzzling, with bull bar, seriously wanting to crash the back end of my car because, I suspect, I was driving too slow.
Finally she passed me, waving her fist in the air, her expression a combination of blankness and hatred.
A few years ago sitting in the doctors office, situated in one of the cities largest shopping centres, at Christmas time, a woman entered carried by two men, her head had been bashed: blood covered her entirely.
She told me later that she had entered a parking space in front of this man, he thought the parking space was his; he jumped out of his car with a iron stick and began to beat her. Why? Well, it was HIS parking space. No other reason.
He was Christmas shopping, the season of Giving and Good Will for All.
I guess he missed the point.
When I ask anyone these days about Christmas, they say it's a painful time, a time they would sooner do without.
We've missed the point.
Christ is about love and compassion, about humility, about sacrifice, but most of all about LOVE.
"Ask and You Shall Receive." Love, care and try to see around you, then, and then only, will you see...
The old woman in the four wheel drive obviously was very angry, not at me, but someting or someone else. Knowing this turned my response to one of pity and laughter. She didn't wreck my car but evidently expressed her anger, wrong target, but expressed nevertheless.
No doubt, to be sure, I'm ambivilent about Christmas because there is so much bagage that carries with the holiday, way too much.
Maybe someday, we'll understand what the REAL holiday is all about.
LOVE.
Today while driving to work, an old lady, possibly 75 to 85, tailgated me, yelling at the top of her voice. (I saw her hatred in the rear view mirror) She drove a bulking four wheel drive, black, petrol guzzling, with bull bar, seriously wanting to crash the back end of my car because, I suspect, I was driving too slow.
Finally she passed me, waving her fist in the air, her expression a combination of blankness and hatred.
A few years ago sitting in the doctors office, situated in one of the cities largest shopping centres, at Christmas time, a woman entered carried by two men, her head had been bashed: blood covered her entirely.
She told me later that she had entered a parking space in front of this man, he thought the parking space was his; he jumped out of his car with a iron stick and began to beat her. Why? Well, it was HIS parking space. No other reason.
He was Christmas shopping, the season of Giving and Good Will for All.
I guess he missed the point.
When I ask anyone these days about Christmas, they say it's a painful time, a time they would sooner do without.
We've missed the point.
Christ is about love and compassion, about humility, about sacrifice, but most of all about LOVE.
"Ask and You Shall Receive." Love, care and try to see around you, then, and then only, will you see...
The old woman in the four wheel drive obviously was very angry, not at me, but someting or someone else. Knowing this turned my response to one of pity and laughter. She didn't wreck my car but evidently expressed her anger, wrong target, but expressed nevertheless.
No doubt, to be sure, I'm ambivilent about Christmas because there is so much bagage that carries with the holiday, way too much.
Maybe someday, we'll understand what the REAL holiday is all about.
LOVE.
Monday, December 11, 2006
It was a time of fear, a time of diplomacy, death and steamrollers, dust… and a brave sister.
As a little child, I felt a quasi- fear of my parents, the strong feeling that they were total strangers. However it was me who was the stranger, a spirit lost between two worlds. My parents had somehow become something apart…the reason for my exile... From this childhood perception, or illusion, no matter what could or might happen, I would finally sleep again, despite strange lights and distant cries from the dark; mum would crawl next to me and the feeling of security would send me, amongst my screams against the entities that surrounded me, back to safety, the calm place, and eventually, restful sleep.
My father and mother thought best that a separation was the appropriate action…for them.
Although never hearing a sharp action or sudden word, the decision had been made.
This was about Christmas time, circa 1959.
Suddenly the house felt to be calm, my father coming home for lunch, eating his tuna sandwich, and listening to my mother play the piano. He loved her playing. Later he would tell me that she performed difficult pieces such as Chopin and Beethoven. This had been his solace, a short time away, an escape from the killing, the experiments necessary to create useful weapons for the country... but again, I ‘m getting ahead of myself.
He always had his head in his hands as if he had a terrible headache.
Peering around the corner from the hallway, father’s seat was positioned in the exact place to hear the music. Mother would perform, pushing down on the wrong peddle, shaking her head like a drunken conductor, though the music came through, despite the dramatics, somehow calming my father to leave and go back to the killing fields.
The emotional last chord seemed to go on forever, that peddle again, and the handsome man would rise, kiss his wife, mumble something, and leave the house. Mother stood from the piano, and walked to the window seeing him drive away through the curtains. She too was sad. Her once beautiful face had turned a shocking shade of white, her head bowed as she collapsed on the couch.
However we were living in Denver, the snow had been falling since late November.
My mother felt lost and wanted to go home.
***
Mother became seriously ill during that Christmas. My little sister and I would rise early in the morning in search of breakfast. Mum would still be sleeping, waving her hand over us to go away. As always, little Lou would take the initiative, finding the cereal, the bowls and the milk. She acted, despite being only two years of age, like the hired help, taking care of the basics, because the ‘madam’ was not feeling well. We ate our breakfast and laughed at each other’s jokes in our pyjamas and nightgowns.
This morning was different. Mum was really sick.
As always, I would disappear in my imaginary world while my little sister had to face cold reality. I remember walking out to the front room as Lou placed a cloth on mum’s brow. Lou was crying and in our little world, I knew something terrible, something beyond our understanding, was about to happen. Suddenly, my sister turned and walked back to her room in a huff of disgust. She waddled across the room, slamming her bedroom door.
Looking at Mum, she was not herself; screaming out names and cries for someone…
I picked up the cloth that my sister had been placing on her forehead, when there was a knock at the door. Jumping up to turn the doorknob, the door swung open, and there through the screen stood a tall, dark man with a stove hat, like Abraham Lincoln.
“Is your mother at home, child?”
I remember the darkness of his clothes, the shadows that danced around his head.
‘No mum’s sick now, so you should go away.”
“But I was told to come here, child. Can I come in?”
A wisp of wind came through the door and with all my might, I slammed it shut causing mum to wake up.
“God damn, Craig, why are you out of bed. Go! Before I get the wooden spoon!”
It was early afternoon.
.
I ran to my room and slammed the door, knowing that mum would turn back to the person she would always be, that beautiful caring person…despite the Angel of Death arriving at our doorstep; my first Christmas arrived, surprisingly. Despite the man that I would later equate to Abraham Lincoln. To this day, I have never seen him again, but knew, in time, that all of us would see him at some time or another.
**
My memories at this time are strong.
Bathed, clean and in cotton pyjamas watching two men on the television, which later I was told were John Kennedy and the Republican candidate, R.M. Nixon. Dad and mum were arguing about the T.V., because dad liked the ugly one, Nixon, and mum thought the young one was charming. They were arguing and laughing at the same time, which in my then view of existence; was a good thing. As usual, when everything started to get good, the bumps in the road began to smooth, we were sent to bed. It was only a few years later that I became aware that Kennedy won the debate, and eventually was elected the President of the United States.
It turned out to be the time that we left dad and America to visit Australia.
**
Denver in the fifties, as my dad would say, was an oversized Cow Town.
There are pleasant memories of that time, but the bad memories cling, like flies in the summer heat.
There is one memory that is so present in my consciousness, so strong, that I continue to smell the dust, the sound of the steam roller, and the experience would haunt me into puberty.
There were construction workers re-surfacing the road right next to our rented apartment. It was a summer’s morning because I can still smell the flowers and feel the warmth against my face looking through the window.
Dressed in jeans and tee shirt, and ready to go, I walked to the sidewalk and began my own little imaginary “construction world”: creating a place of my own construction, building houses, creating roads, moving dirt around in a big machine.
All at once my dream crumbled as an ugly man in a red hard hat stood over me, yelling that I had made a mess on the sidewalk and to clean the mess or else!
The sound of the Steam Roller coming close to me on the road, the angry man yelling down at me for dirtying the sidewalk put me in shock. Only a few seconds later, the shock turned to tears.
Crying as toddlers do, suddenly my little sister Lou arrived on the scene. (A mere two and a half and not much taller) She stood, looking up at the jerk, and started screaming at the ugly man who had made me cry.
‘Don’t yell at my brother! What did he do?”
Truthfully I do not know what happed next, except remembering my mother coming outside, and sweeping the side walk, saying, “You bloody low-life cowboy’s should be ashamed of yourselves, picking on a five year old boy.” Sweeping the dust off the sidewalk into there faces.
My sister at the innocent age of three, stood up for me against burly hard-hated twits, telling them what they needed to know, because her brother had been picked on, bullied by a middle-aged moron.
As time moved forward, my nightmares always included a huge Steam Roller, chasing me along dusty sidewalks, wanting to take my life.
My sister, however, has always been there for me, telling the hard-hated morons to stop and leave her brother alone.
The Steam Roller is always there…
My father and mother thought best that a separation was the appropriate action…for them.
Although never hearing a sharp action or sudden word, the decision had been made.
This was about Christmas time, circa 1959.
Suddenly the house felt to be calm, my father coming home for lunch, eating his tuna sandwich, and listening to my mother play the piano. He loved her playing. Later he would tell me that she performed difficult pieces such as Chopin and Beethoven. This had been his solace, a short time away, an escape from the killing, the experiments necessary to create useful weapons for the country... but again, I ‘m getting ahead of myself.
He always had his head in his hands as if he had a terrible headache.
Peering around the corner from the hallway, father’s seat was positioned in the exact place to hear the music. Mother would perform, pushing down on the wrong peddle, shaking her head like a drunken conductor, though the music came through, despite the dramatics, somehow calming my father to leave and go back to the killing fields.
The emotional last chord seemed to go on forever, that peddle again, and the handsome man would rise, kiss his wife, mumble something, and leave the house. Mother stood from the piano, and walked to the window seeing him drive away through the curtains. She too was sad. Her once beautiful face had turned a shocking shade of white, her head bowed as she collapsed on the couch.
However we were living in Denver, the snow had been falling since late November.
My mother felt lost and wanted to go home.
***
Mother became seriously ill during that Christmas. My little sister and I would rise early in the morning in search of breakfast. Mum would still be sleeping, waving her hand over us to go away. As always, little Lou would take the initiative, finding the cereal, the bowls and the milk. She acted, despite being only two years of age, like the hired help, taking care of the basics, because the ‘madam’ was not feeling well. We ate our breakfast and laughed at each other’s jokes in our pyjamas and nightgowns.
This morning was different. Mum was really sick.
As always, I would disappear in my imaginary world while my little sister had to face cold reality. I remember walking out to the front room as Lou placed a cloth on mum’s brow. Lou was crying and in our little world, I knew something terrible, something beyond our understanding, was about to happen. Suddenly, my sister turned and walked back to her room in a huff of disgust. She waddled across the room, slamming her bedroom door.
Looking at Mum, she was not herself; screaming out names and cries for someone…
I picked up the cloth that my sister had been placing on her forehead, when there was a knock at the door. Jumping up to turn the doorknob, the door swung open, and there through the screen stood a tall, dark man with a stove hat, like Abraham Lincoln.
“Is your mother at home, child?”
I remember the darkness of his clothes, the shadows that danced around his head.
‘No mum’s sick now, so you should go away.”
“But I was told to come here, child. Can I come in?”
A wisp of wind came through the door and with all my might, I slammed it shut causing mum to wake up.
“God damn, Craig, why are you out of bed. Go! Before I get the wooden spoon!”
It was early afternoon.
.
I ran to my room and slammed the door, knowing that mum would turn back to the person she would always be, that beautiful caring person…despite the Angel of Death arriving at our doorstep; my first Christmas arrived, surprisingly. Despite the man that I would later equate to Abraham Lincoln. To this day, I have never seen him again, but knew, in time, that all of us would see him at some time or another.
**
My memories at this time are strong.
Bathed, clean and in cotton pyjamas watching two men on the television, which later I was told were John Kennedy and the Republican candidate, R.M. Nixon. Dad and mum were arguing about the T.V., because dad liked the ugly one, Nixon, and mum thought the young one was charming. They were arguing and laughing at the same time, which in my then view of existence; was a good thing. As usual, when everything started to get good, the bumps in the road began to smooth, we were sent to bed. It was only a few years later that I became aware that Kennedy won the debate, and eventually was elected the President of the United States.
It turned out to be the time that we left dad and America to visit Australia.
**
Denver in the fifties, as my dad would say, was an oversized Cow Town.
There are pleasant memories of that time, but the bad memories cling, like flies in the summer heat.
There is one memory that is so present in my consciousness, so strong, that I continue to smell the dust, the sound of the steam roller, and the experience would haunt me into puberty.
There were construction workers re-surfacing the road right next to our rented apartment. It was a summer’s morning because I can still smell the flowers and feel the warmth against my face looking through the window.
Dressed in jeans and tee shirt, and ready to go, I walked to the sidewalk and began my own little imaginary “construction world”: creating a place of my own construction, building houses, creating roads, moving dirt around in a big machine.
All at once my dream crumbled as an ugly man in a red hard hat stood over me, yelling that I had made a mess on the sidewalk and to clean the mess or else!
The sound of the Steam Roller coming close to me on the road, the angry man yelling down at me for dirtying the sidewalk put me in shock. Only a few seconds later, the shock turned to tears.
Crying as toddlers do, suddenly my little sister Lou arrived on the scene. (A mere two and a half and not much taller) She stood, looking up at the jerk, and started screaming at the ugly man who had made me cry.
‘Don’t yell at my brother! What did he do?”
Truthfully I do not know what happed next, except remembering my mother coming outside, and sweeping the side walk, saying, “You bloody low-life cowboy’s should be ashamed of yourselves, picking on a five year old boy.” Sweeping the dust off the sidewalk into there faces.
My sister at the innocent age of three, stood up for me against burly hard-hated twits, telling them what they needed to know, because her brother had been picked on, bullied by a middle-aged moron.
As time moved forward, my nightmares always included a huge Steam Roller, chasing me along dusty sidewalks, wanting to take my life.
My sister, however, has always been there for me, telling the hard-hated morons to stop and leave her brother alone.
The Steam Roller is always there…
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Food for thought
Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
Plato
God grant the philosopher insight into what lies in front of everyone’s eyes.
Ludwig Wittgenstein
I'm astounded by people who want to 'know' the universe when it's hard enough to find your way around Chinatown.
Woody Allen
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
Plato
God grant the philosopher insight into what lies in front of everyone’s eyes.
Ludwig Wittgenstein
I'm astounded by people who want to 'know' the universe when it's hard enough to find your way around Chinatown.
Woody Allen
Friday, December 08, 2006
Childhood, Music & Exile.
Is music part of our souls? Or is music’s magic, its transporting quality, something that we learn through others and living? Really, music touches every spirit, music can motivate men to war, to murder each other without conscience, or bring two lovers together in a tender embrace. Music transcends all other art forms and without it, as one philosopher has stated, life would not be worth living.
My first memory of music, ironically, was on a new invention, the television.
The violin is a remarkable instrument. In the hands of a true genius, it can alter one’s state of mind; it can change one’s mood to whatever the music decides to take you. Even now I can hear certain sonatas that take me to lands and spaces only imagined.
In our apartment in Toronto, Canada, before my sister came into the world, while my mother was pregnant with her, we lived in a small flat in the middle of the city. Interestingly, my memories of Toronto are much happier than Montreal. I remember the flat being dark, warm and smaller with a much happier atmosphere. Mother and I had an exclusive relationship. I did not have to share her with anyone. It was the end of the day, around dinnertime that the magic box was turned on to listen to the weekly concert on the then public channel. It was at that time I discovered music.
I cannot remember the composer or the artist but the actual live performance entered me in such a way that is difficult to translate. Music can be a private experience, and my experience with this particular classical solo changed everything. My father came home from work and I was duly sent to bed, the notes echoing in my mind. I knew that music was everything; it grounded everything, made everything good.
The next morning despite my communication skills at a minimum, I was trying to tell mother that I wanted to play music. She seemed to understand.
These particular images are prevalent despite many years as they pushed my being; or more so thrust my soul into the harshness of reality, of the living.
The bright lights of the supermarket and the many colours it contains are always an exciting time for any child. Everything is for the taking: toys, candy, cereal and strange items that you just have to have…suddenly I looked up and saw a violin: the same exact instrument as the man on the television. I remember yelling instead of talking and pointing like a deaf-mute. Mother saw what I was pointing to and retrieved and purchased it even though the family could not afford the few dollars. I owned a violin and would play like a real classical musician. We would arrive home and father would get home and hear me play Beethoven, Hayden and Tchaikovsky.
Mother asked me to not open the instrument until the concert came on the television.
Father arrived home, and as I recall the scene, it somehow felt like a set up, something to amuse the adults. Finally the programme appeared and the violinist began his solo performance. Mother handed me my new instrument. Lifting it under my chin, placing the bow upon the strings, taking a deep breath, the performance began.
What was wrong? It did not sound anything like the man on the television. In fact, my attempt at playing sounded like a squawking goose. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how hard I closed my eyes imagining the virtuoso on the television, the music would not come forth. I felt devastated. Then, looking up at mother, I could see her attempting to hide a smile. I tried to play the toy instrument again to no avail. I was a failure, and never picked up a musical instrument until many, many years later. I cried and acted like a spoiled child. Let’s face it: I was a mere eighteen months, frustrated and terribly angry.
This memory actually depicts the inner feelings that haunted me for many years. This planet is about struggle, striving against obstacles that will prevent you from attaining your wants and ultimate desires. Then again, in the right circumstance, the right context, would give everything…for pain and a price.
In bed that night, I imagined mother and father laughing about my failure as a violinist before falling to sleep. Again I lapsed slowly into a child’s sleep, wondering why I had been exiled, once again, from my home.
My first memory of music, ironically, was on a new invention, the television.
The violin is a remarkable instrument. In the hands of a true genius, it can alter one’s state of mind; it can change one’s mood to whatever the music decides to take you. Even now I can hear certain sonatas that take me to lands and spaces only imagined.
In our apartment in Toronto, Canada, before my sister came into the world, while my mother was pregnant with her, we lived in a small flat in the middle of the city. Interestingly, my memories of Toronto are much happier than Montreal. I remember the flat being dark, warm and smaller with a much happier atmosphere. Mother and I had an exclusive relationship. I did not have to share her with anyone. It was the end of the day, around dinnertime that the magic box was turned on to listen to the weekly concert on the then public channel. It was at that time I discovered music.
I cannot remember the composer or the artist but the actual live performance entered me in such a way that is difficult to translate. Music can be a private experience, and my experience with this particular classical solo changed everything. My father came home from work and I was duly sent to bed, the notes echoing in my mind. I knew that music was everything; it grounded everything, made everything good.
The next morning despite my communication skills at a minimum, I was trying to tell mother that I wanted to play music. She seemed to understand.
These particular images are prevalent despite many years as they pushed my being; or more so thrust my soul into the harshness of reality, of the living.
The bright lights of the supermarket and the many colours it contains are always an exciting time for any child. Everything is for the taking: toys, candy, cereal and strange items that you just have to have…suddenly I looked up and saw a violin: the same exact instrument as the man on the television. I remember yelling instead of talking and pointing like a deaf-mute. Mother saw what I was pointing to and retrieved and purchased it even though the family could not afford the few dollars. I owned a violin and would play like a real classical musician. We would arrive home and father would get home and hear me play Beethoven, Hayden and Tchaikovsky.
Mother asked me to not open the instrument until the concert came on the television.
Father arrived home, and as I recall the scene, it somehow felt like a set up, something to amuse the adults. Finally the programme appeared and the violinist began his solo performance. Mother handed me my new instrument. Lifting it under my chin, placing the bow upon the strings, taking a deep breath, the performance began.
What was wrong? It did not sound anything like the man on the television. In fact, my attempt at playing sounded like a squawking goose. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how hard I closed my eyes imagining the virtuoso on the television, the music would not come forth. I felt devastated. Then, looking up at mother, I could see her attempting to hide a smile. I tried to play the toy instrument again to no avail. I was a failure, and never picked up a musical instrument until many, many years later. I cried and acted like a spoiled child. Let’s face it: I was a mere eighteen months, frustrated and terribly angry.
This memory actually depicts the inner feelings that haunted me for many years. This planet is about struggle, striving against obstacles that will prevent you from attaining your wants and ultimate desires. Then again, in the right circumstance, the right context, would give everything…for pain and a price.
In bed that night, I imagined mother and father laughing about my failure as a violinist before falling to sleep. Again I lapsed slowly into a child’s sleep, wondering why I had been exiled, once again, from my home.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
His Excuse for Loving
by Ben Jonson.
Let it not your wonder move, Less your laughter, that I love. Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers. Poets, though divine, are men; Some have loved as old again. And it is not always face, Clothes, or fortune gives the grace, Or the feature, or the youth; But the language and the truth, With the ardor and the passion, Gives the lover weight and fashion. If you then would hear the story, First, prepare you to be sorry That you never knew till now Either whom to love or how; But be glad as soon with me When you hear that this is she Of whose beauty it was sung, She shall make the old man young, Keep the middle age at stay, And let nothing hide decay, Till she be the reason why All the world for love may die.
Sir William Osler
The greater the ignorance the greater the dogmatism.
The natural man has only two primal passions, to get and to beget.
The desire to take medicine is perhaps the greatest feature which distinguishes man from animals.
What is the student but a lover courting a fickle mistress who ever eludes his grasp?
No bubble is so iridescent or floats longer than that blown by the successful teacher.
Let it not your wonder move, Less your laughter, that I love. Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers. Poets, though divine, are men; Some have loved as old again. And it is not always face, Clothes, or fortune gives the grace, Or the feature, or the youth; But the language and the truth, With the ardor and the passion, Gives the lover weight and fashion. If you then would hear the story, First, prepare you to be sorry That you never knew till now Either whom to love or how; But be glad as soon with me When you hear that this is she Of whose beauty it was sung, She shall make the old man young, Keep the middle age at stay, And let nothing hide decay, Till she be the reason why All the world for love may die.
Sir William Osler
The greater the ignorance the greater the dogmatism.
The natural man has only two primal passions, to get and to beget.
The desire to take medicine is perhaps the greatest feature which distinguishes man from animals.
What is the student but a lover courting a fickle mistress who ever eludes his grasp?
No bubble is so iridescent or floats longer than that blown by the successful teacher.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
He wouldn’t leave her alone, but...
Walking through the supermarket today, in the cereal section of all places, a handsome couple were in the midst of a battle.
Boy: “…I want to kill you! Did you f..k him or not?”
Girl: “How many times do I need to tell you, NO!”
While rummaging through the Frosted Flakes, not wanting to eavesdrop, thinking the situation could explode at any a second, I continued to look at Tony the Tiger on the cereal box,
attempting to seem like a serious shopper. The battle moved on…
Boy: “So, you didn’t f..k him but everyone in the school knows about it except me!”
Girl: “I’ve had enough, Tom, yes, I slept with the idiot, are you happy?”
Boy: “Happy! Happy…I’m f..ken delirious!”
Once told the truth the boy went into meltdown, destroying the cereal section of the supermarket. By the time he was done or held back by the supermarket staff, we stood in a sea of cereal up to our knees of every brand imaginable.
The police finally arrived and carted the jealous, cuckold lover away.
The police spoke to the young girl in order to establish the boy’s motivations for destroying the place.
I couldn’t hear what she was saying but it felt to be a lie. She had got what she wanted. Her current boyfriend in jail, thus free to pursue other interests.
I know this because of her smile as she walked to her car with an expression on her face of self-appreciation: she had got what she wanted.
Watching the police car drive out of the parking lot with that expression of desperation and betrayal on the boy’s face, made me remember my past, my betrayals, my lost loves.
Another afternoon in the suburbs.
Boy: “…I want to kill you! Did you f..k him or not?”
Girl: “How many times do I need to tell you, NO!”
While rummaging through the Frosted Flakes, not wanting to eavesdrop, thinking the situation could explode at any a second, I continued to look at Tony the Tiger on the cereal box,
attempting to seem like a serious shopper. The battle moved on…
Boy: “So, you didn’t f..k him but everyone in the school knows about it except me!”
Girl: “I’ve had enough, Tom, yes, I slept with the idiot, are you happy?”
Boy: “Happy! Happy…I’m f..ken delirious!”
Once told the truth the boy went into meltdown, destroying the cereal section of the supermarket. By the time he was done or held back by the supermarket staff, we stood in a sea of cereal up to our knees of every brand imaginable.
The police finally arrived and carted the jealous, cuckold lover away.
The police spoke to the young girl in order to establish the boy’s motivations for destroying the place.
I couldn’t hear what she was saying but it felt to be a lie. She had got what she wanted. Her current boyfriend in jail, thus free to pursue other interests.
I know this because of her smile as she walked to her car with an expression on her face of self-appreciation: she had got what she wanted.
Watching the police car drive out of the parking lot with that expression of desperation and betrayal on the boy’s face, made me remember my past, my betrayals, my lost loves.
Another afternoon in the suburbs.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Byron. A Few quotes from his work.
But words are things; and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
All tragedies are finish'd by death. All comedies are ended by marriage.
Lord Byron.
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
All tragedies are finish'd by death. All comedies are ended by marriage.
Lord Byron.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
A Ring Tone in the Night
The early morning began with a text message: "I love you more than myself. I wish I was wrapped in your arms, our lips touching, our arms in an embrace; the feeling as if one is home… and wouldn’t be any where else in the world. Please come over. I know it’s late, but please try…
The man’s mobile phone rings in two tones one after the other.
This sound has become familiar, as he rests between sleep and wakefulness, a ring which announces the voice of the one he loves.
As it is terribly late, his arm reaches for the alarm clock, thinking or dreaming that it is time to rise and go to work. Opening his eyes he sees the time on the digital: 3:30. He realizes that his lover is awake, looking at the ceiling, wanting and needing him next to her.
He closes his eyes and wonders. As his sleep is deep, he slowly closes his eyes once again, forgetting about the message, willing his soul towards her.
Their dreams coincide, a difficult task though as natural as the sun rising in the mornings.
He loves her and wants her love.
Arriving though not in the flesh, he lays next to her listening to her heart and her breathing, seeing her beauty though never disturbing her sleep.
‘This will do.’ he ponders.
The man’s mobile phone rings in two tones one after the other.
This sound has become familiar, as he rests between sleep and wakefulness, a ring which announces the voice of the one he loves.
As it is terribly late, his arm reaches for the alarm clock, thinking or dreaming that it is time to rise and go to work. Opening his eyes he sees the time on the digital: 3:30. He realizes that his lover is awake, looking at the ceiling, wanting and needing him next to her.
He closes his eyes and wonders. As his sleep is deep, he slowly closes his eyes once again, forgetting about the message, willing his soul towards her.
Their dreams coincide, a difficult task though as natural as the sun rising in the mornings.
He loves her and wants her love.
Arriving though not in the flesh, he lays next to her listening to her heart and her breathing, seeing her beauty though never disturbing her sleep.
‘This will do.’ he ponders.
Another Entry from the BLOG of Writer Jonathan Carroll
“At dinner the other night someone was talking about a couple who had recently divorced after a long, pretty happy relationship. The way it was described reminded me of that nice line from Gabriel Marquez "there are long loves and there are short loves." This sounded like a long love that had run its course and now was over. But as is so often the case at the end of marriages, things got ugly and acrimonious. Words were said, lawyers were hired, etcetera. The woman was a novelist and was working on a book in which she included things about their failed relationship and subsequent break up. Before the divorce was finalized the novel was published, the husband read it, and was both offended and deeply hurt by what she said. When he confronted her, she said ‘"As soon as we started this divorce you stopped being a person to me and now you're just material."’
Interesting.
Carroll's Blog entries are always interesting.
Is it necessary after a long marriage, when it finally ends, where most of the experience was positive, even romantic, lower one self and the relationship to the level of petty hates and barbs?
A writer can do the most harm in this situation. Issues the man was never aware of, situations through the years that he once thought were reconciled, now turn up in his ex-wife’s surly book. Did the man do anything to deserve this insidious behaviour? Probably not, but as the old saying goes,
“Hell hath no fury like a Woman’s scorn.”
See: http://www.jonathancarroll.com/blog1/archiveMain.html
Interesting.
Carroll's Blog entries are always interesting.
Is it necessary after a long marriage, when it finally ends, where most of the experience was positive, even romantic, lower one self and the relationship to the level of petty hates and barbs?
A writer can do the most harm in this situation. Issues the man was never aware of, situations through the years that he once thought were reconciled, now turn up in his ex-wife’s surly book. Did the man do anything to deserve this insidious behaviour? Probably not, but as the old saying goes,
“Hell hath no fury like a Woman’s scorn.”
See: http://www.jonathancarroll.com/blog1/archiveMain.html
Friday, December 01, 2006
Break the Chains of Routine
Journeying into the unknown, assuming the mental state of adventure and serendipity, can present the most interesting results.
All too often we are bogged down (without realizing it) in our day-to-day routines: bed by 9:30, rise at 6:30, drink coffee and take one’s vitamins; drive to work seeing the same people on the road because they leave at the same time you do; work hard and drive home, seeing the same morning drivers; drink the happy hour cocktail and eat dinner at the same time you’ve eaten for many years; back to bed, read and beg for sex but you know every Saturday night is a sure thing and has been a sure thing in your marriage for the last twenty years. Rise in the morning at 6:30 and…you get the point.
Breaking the chain of habit is a difficult thing to do. For some, it can be almost physically painful because change of any kind means death.
Many, including myself, find routine a type of security blanket, no surprises, and no sudden changes, just more of the same equals comfort. But is this so-called “comfort place” the place you really want to be in?
Similar to the man who has the proverbial paper bag over his head, does not know the difference because he knows nothing else. For many it takes courage to change and sometimes a tremendous amount of effort.
Then, of course, life throws you a curve ball, change is thrust upon you without mercy, and there’s no choice, you have to change and adapt. Some never recover and withdraw further into their self-created caves of desperate solitude. The again, some have the stamina to meet change head-on, like Jacob wrestling the angel, life is designed to be engaged with, getting one’s hands dirty, so to speak, otherwise what’s the point?
The reason I bring this topic up is my experience this morning. My friend and I decided to go to a different shopping centre than the usual one to do a little clothes shopping. Bought a few items and then decided to have lunch. Rather than our places of secure habit, we decided to drive in the opposite direction, heading towards the countryside. We continued to drive admiring the landscape - olive groves and wineries abounded.
Only about 15 miles from where we started we came across a local pub. Walking into the place reminded me of the country bars in mid west America. It was if we transported back in time to circa 1970, live Blues music filled the air from an old guy on the stage who sounded like the country music and Blues artists of the fifties and sixties. He played that guitar like a third arm and had the perfect gravely voice that gave his music an authentic quality like we were hearing the real thing…and we were.
The lady tending bar, a middle-aged ex-hippy suggested we try the local wine and set two glasses on the bar. Wow, it had to be the best tasting Cabernet I’ve had in many years. Her smile would melt the hardest of people and you simply felt welcome.
Our meals were excellent for a meagre price; and the wine alone, worth the trip.
Although the sound of the Blues filled the air, everyone looked to be very happy, eating and drinking, enjoying the sunshine in the leafy open area out the back.
Unfortunately it was time to go because of our habitual obligations and our daily routines.
Returning to our “normal” lives, surprisingly, was not a let-down because we had journyed forth into the unknown, breaking with the humdrum, thus feeling re-energised, more positive about the world in general.
Change can be rewarding and necessary in order to merely stay awake and appreciate what one has and what one is, mindful of the moment.
All too often we are bogged down (without realizing it) in our day-to-day routines: bed by 9:30, rise at 6:30, drink coffee and take one’s vitamins; drive to work seeing the same people on the road because they leave at the same time you do; work hard and drive home, seeing the same morning drivers; drink the happy hour cocktail and eat dinner at the same time you’ve eaten for many years; back to bed, read and beg for sex but you know every Saturday night is a sure thing and has been a sure thing in your marriage for the last twenty years. Rise in the morning at 6:30 and…you get the point.
Breaking the chain of habit is a difficult thing to do. For some, it can be almost physically painful because change of any kind means death.
Many, including myself, find routine a type of security blanket, no surprises, and no sudden changes, just more of the same equals comfort. But is this so-called “comfort place” the place you really want to be in?
Similar to the man who has the proverbial paper bag over his head, does not know the difference because he knows nothing else. For many it takes courage to change and sometimes a tremendous amount of effort.
Then, of course, life throws you a curve ball, change is thrust upon you without mercy, and there’s no choice, you have to change and adapt. Some never recover and withdraw further into their self-created caves of desperate solitude. The again, some have the stamina to meet change head-on, like Jacob wrestling the angel, life is designed to be engaged with, getting one’s hands dirty, so to speak, otherwise what’s the point?
The reason I bring this topic up is my experience this morning. My friend and I decided to go to a different shopping centre than the usual one to do a little clothes shopping. Bought a few items and then decided to have lunch. Rather than our places of secure habit, we decided to drive in the opposite direction, heading towards the countryside. We continued to drive admiring the landscape - olive groves and wineries abounded.
Only about 15 miles from where we started we came across a local pub. Walking into the place reminded me of the country bars in mid west America. It was if we transported back in time to circa 1970, live Blues music filled the air from an old guy on the stage who sounded like the country music and Blues artists of the fifties and sixties. He played that guitar like a third arm and had the perfect gravely voice that gave his music an authentic quality like we were hearing the real thing…and we were.
The lady tending bar, a middle-aged ex-hippy suggested we try the local wine and set two glasses on the bar. Wow, it had to be the best tasting Cabernet I’ve had in many years. Her smile would melt the hardest of people and you simply felt welcome.
Our meals were excellent for a meagre price; and the wine alone, worth the trip.
Although the sound of the Blues filled the air, everyone looked to be very happy, eating and drinking, enjoying the sunshine in the leafy open area out the back.
Unfortunately it was time to go because of our habitual obligations and our daily routines.
Returning to our “normal” lives, surprisingly, was not a let-down because we had journyed forth into the unknown, breaking with the humdrum, thus feeling re-energised, more positive about the world in general.
Change can be rewarding and necessary in order to merely stay awake and appreciate what one has and what one is, mindful of the moment.
He recalls...
He recalls his youth and the celebrations and tragedies that were the norm.
He recalls his first love, her soft legs and her over willing smile.
He recalls the accident called a murder that no one sees all the while.
This is not your fault, she says, you were not driving, though you were our leader, attempting to make us something of style.
He broods, he ponders, though remembers the night in full, because the incident is all on file.
Why did he leave without a trace, leaving those he thought he loved the most; because death on one’s shoulders is hard to bare, no matter how hard the penetrating stares.
When he is about to fall asleep, he thinks again about this worthy smile.
It is those dark eyes, those witty sayings, that face anyone would love all the while.
You left in time before its too late; loving all those things that have become third rate.
But let us not forget our first love and our last, though do not forget those witty sayings and deep brown eyes.
He recalls it is Friday night, and she is long and gone, think of her still, and never ever notice to hear their song.
He recalls his first love, her soft legs and her over willing smile.
He recalls the accident called a murder that no one sees all the while.
This is not your fault, she says, you were not driving, though you were our leader, attempting to make us something of style.
He broods, he ponders, though remembers the night in full, because the incident is all on file.
Why did he leave without a trace, leaving those he thought he loved the most; because death on one’s shoulders is hard to bare, no matter how hard the penetrating stares.
When he is about to fall asleep, he thinks again about this worthy smile.
It is those dark eyes, those witty sayings, that face anyone would love all the while.
You left in time before its too late; loving all those things that have become third rate.
But let us not forget our first love and our last, though do not forget those witty sayings and deep brown eyes.
He recalls it is Friday night, and she is long and gone, think of her still, and never ever notice to hear their song.
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