I believe in the barking dog. He keeps me awake for a reason. He digs holes and jumps fences. He wags his tale without shame and cares not what he knocks over with his happiness. He smells things I don’t want to and when he smiles, the smile is pure, never hiding guilt, always a joyful expression.
I believe in the barking dog. He sleeps in the sun and shade. Sometimes when I call to him, he just looks at me with disbelief. Other times he scampers to my side. But always when I am sad, he is there licking my face. If I ignore him, he slaps my arm with his paw, then licks the scratch he dug into my skin.
I believe in the barking dog. He warns me of danger. The spark in his eye is constant, even when he is tired or sad. He does not need much, some food and water, a pat on the head, a walk down the lane. When he is concerned, the hair on his back stands up. When he rolls onto his back to show me his belly, I know he believes in me. Sometimes he slobbers on my pillow or steals the blankets and looks curiously at me while I scold him. I know he dreams by the way he moans at night, though he never seems to want to share them with me. I like the sound of his toe nails on the wood floor, how they click a message as he patrols the house at night.
I believe in the barking dog. He has sharp teeth that could kill me and a heart that knows nothing of such evil. He thinks I am a better person than I am, no matter what I do. He feels his life clearly. I think he knows that dog is god spelled backwards.
05 July, 2009
30 June, 2009
I am confused. Well, not really.
I must be a glutton for punishment. I listen to Rush Limbaugh for entertainment even though I end up most often shaking my head at the puff headed, manipulative banter he spits out. Even so, he is funny in the most twisted of ways. Ok, that says something about my own twisted mind!
Anyway...I found this little piece I wrote, tucked away.
It was awhile back now, Puffy (aka Rush Limbaugh) was poking fun at Jim Edwards' "Poverty Tour." I will admit the notion of a poverty tour in and of itself seems bizarre, but I will let that go. Puffy's criticism of Edwards was that the photos of the tour were of Edwards and fat people (fat women to be precise).
That confused Puffy (or so he said), but it wasn;t confusion really. His political point was that fat people can't be poor. If you are poor you must be starving or something, you know thin like a rail, bones sticking out, stuff like that.
Of couse he never really said that. Puffy is no dummy. He knows that poor people tend not to eat the best of diets. Debating Puffy will do no good. He really doesn't debate. He just looks for ways to promote his conservative agenda which ultimately does not care about poor people. It would be interesting to know what Puffy thinks a poor person ought to really look like. And I also wonder if what Puffy is really saying is that only rich people like him are justified in being fat.
Even worse was some guy, a 71year old professor (I can't remember his name) who was sitting in for Puffy one day. The professor was going on about how there is nothing in the constitution that allows for charity and that the goverment should not be doing anything that is charitable. No social programs. No medicare. No welfare. And he also said (though I don't believe him) no government handouts to corporations either. He said that one's tax money should not be used on anyone else.
I am confused. I guess I thought the American Way of Life was about making life better for all of us. People living in communities, helping one another, helping to grow strong, caring communities. I did not ever fathom that one's patriotism, one's belief in community, our traditional values of helping one's neighbor and so forth really was only about each person getting theirs, the rest of the country be damned. Sad.
The professor got a call from another professor who asked what advice he had for people struggling to get by on $6.00 per hour and no health benefits (Only 45% of American businesses offer health care by the way -- it used to be much higher). The professor -- let's call him Professor Puffy Junior -- came up with a stellar answer. He said it is easier to get by on $6.00 per hour than zero dollars per hour and then he hung up on his professor colleague.
When will the majority of Americans -- those who barely get by while the Mister Puffys of the world live like Kings -- understand that conservatives like Rush and his cohorts ultimately only care about themselves but are quite content to have their supports believe they care about them?
How is it that Americans hurting from the trickle down mantras and trust the marketplace dogma have turned against their own self-interest to kiss the ring of Puffy et al?
Anyway...I found this little piece I wrote, tucked away.
It was awhile back now, Puffy (aka Rush Limbaugh) was poking fun at Jim Edwards' "Poverty Tour." I will admit the notion of a poverty tour in and of itself seems bizarre, but I will let that go. Puffy's criticism of Edwards was that the photos of the tour were of Edwards and fat people (fat women to be precise).
That confused Puffy (or so he said), but it wasn;t confusion really. His political point was that fat people can't be poor. If you are poor you must be starving or something, you know thin like a rail, bones sticking out, stuff like that.
Of couse he never really said that. Puffy is no dummy. He knows that poor people tend not to eat the best of diets. Debating Puffy will do no good. He really doesn't debate. He just looks for ways to promote his conservative agenda which ultimately does not care about poor people. It would be interesting to know what Puffy thinks a poor person ought to really look like. And I also wonder if what Puffy is really saying is that only rich people like him are justified in being fat.
Even worse was some guy, a 71year old professor (I can't remember his name) who was sitting in for Puffy one day. The professor was going on about how there is nothing in the constitution that allows for charity and that the goverment should not be doing anything that is charitable. No social programs. No medicare. No welfare. And he also said (though I don't believe him) no government handouts to corporations either. He said that one's tax money should not be used on anyone else.
I am confused. I guess I thought the American Way of Life was about making life better for all of us. People living in communities, helping one another, helping to grow strong, caring communities. I did not ever fathom that one's patriotism, one's belief in community, our traditional values of helping one's neighbor and so forth really was only about each person getting theirs, the rest of the country be damned. Sad.
The professor got a call from another professor who asked what advice he had for people struggling to get by on $6.00 per hour and no health benefits (Only 45% of American businesses offer health care by the way -- it used to be much higher). The professor -- let's call him Professor Puffy Junior -- came up with a stellar answer. He said it is easier to get by on $6.00 per hour than zero dollars per hour and then he hung up on his professor colleague.
When will the majority of Americans -- those who barely get by while the Mister Puffys of the world live like Kings -- understand that conservatives like Rush and his cohorts ultimately only care about themselves but are quite content to have their supports believe they care about them?
How is it that Americans hurting from the trickle down mantras and trust the marketplace dogma have turned against their own self-interest to kiss the ring of Puffy et al?
Breakfast in Plant City Florida
One morning, Ruth and I went for breakfast and sat in a booth next to two young men. One was dressed in a sleeveless tee-shirt (fondly known as wife beaters in these parts), with a skull and crossbones tattoo on his arm. The other was decked out in a dirty green gators shirt and seemed to smile too much for my liking. You know the kind - that goofy, omnipresent grin that has nothing to do with happiness, much less enlightenment.
Now we are not the type to eavesdrop, but also believe that if people's voices are of sufficient volume to cross the border of our personal space, we should not be judged harshly for listening.
I am not a naïve man, but at times I find it hard to believe there are people in the world with thoughts as twisted as the minds of these two men. Somewhere in the middle of their pancakes and fritters, one of them said, "Dem Gays."
That's all he said. Just out of the blue - "Dem Gays."
The other fellow kind of grunted as if to signify his understanding of what his friend was saying. But after he swallowed his food, he added, "Huh?"
"You know. Things would be better if it weren't for dem gays."
"Oh, yeh. They're sick."
'It all began in San Francisco, you know."
The other man nodded. "Yep."
"They all got together there. Even have parades and all."
"That's sick."
"They shoulda stayed spread out, don't you think?"
"Yeh. Spread out."
"The economy would be better if it weren't for those kind."
"Gay Jews are worse ya know."
"Yeh, no kidding."
I'll stop here. But I have to add this: true story. Okay, true sad story. What's even worse is these two young men probably go to church on Sunday and carry concealed weapons legally at night. All you need to do to carry a gun around these parts is ask for permission and carry a piece of paper that says you can. You can be denied if you have a criminal record, but not for being a racist, homophobic or just plain stupid. Sometimes you just have to love America!
Now we are not the type to eavesdrop, but also believe that if people's voices are of sufficient volume to cross the border of our personal space, we should not be judged harshly for listening.
I am not a naïve man, but at times I find it hard to believe there are people in the world with thoughts as twisted as the minds of these two men. Somewhere in the middle of their pancakes and fritters, one of them said, "Dem Gays."
That's all he said. Just out of the blue - "Dem Gays."
The other fellow kind of grunted as if to signify his understanding of what his friend was saying. But after he swallowed his food, he added, "Huh?"
"You know. Things would be better if it weren't for dem gays."
"Oh, yeh. They're sick."
'It all began in San Francisco, you know."
The other man nodded. "Yep."
"They all got together there. Even have parades and all."
"That's sick."
"They shoulda stayed spread out, don't you think?"
"Yeh. Spread out."
"The economy would be better if it weren't for those kind."
"Gay Jews are worse ya know."
"Yeh, no kidding."
I'll stop here. But I have to add this: true story. Okay, true sad story. What's even worse is these two young men probably go to church on Sunday and carry concealed weapons legally at night. All you need to do to carry a gun around these parts is ask for permission and carry a piece of paper that says you can. You can be denied if you have a criminal record, but not for being a racist, homophobic or just plain stupid. Sometimes you just have to love America!
27 June, 2009
On Homelessness & a Guy Named Earnie
[Re-Posted. This is a piece I wrote when I lived in Edmonton, Alberta, a city of nearly a million people in the snowy north. I just re-read it, made a few changes and felt it fit this blog… It’s long, but I hope worth the read.]
I heard on the radio the other day that a church had to fight off an appeal from neighbouring businesses in order to open an emergency shelter for the homeless. I listened to this while driving to work in 40 below weather. It was snowing and the forecast was for another 24 hours of flurries and bitter cold.
Fortunately the church won the appeal, but as I walked from my car to my office – wind blasting against my face – I recalled my years spent working in the inner city as a community worker and, later, as the executive director of a skid row social service agency. I recalled that some of the finest people I ever met were the so-called “bums” of 96th Street. Certainly, they bore responsibility for many of their challenges and situations. But more often than not they were trapped by the attitudes of others, by folks who had jobs, nice homes, a decent income, by folks who, it often seemed, wished that the homeless and otherwise disadvantaged would keep a low profile.
A friend of mine – now ex-friend – used to rant about all the homeless people who went to the public library to keep warm. He couldn’t understand why the City would allow such people to sit around and, as he put it, “stink up the place.” It didn’t matter to him that the library is a public service. The homeless were not part of his public. His solution was to round them all up and put out cots in a warehouse and make them pick up litter along the highway for a square meal. In other words, just another form of the mission mentality: sing for your supper or pick up litter.
The homeless problem here is not that of Toronto or other huge cities, but there is danger in making such comparisons. Knowing it is worse in other cities does not make things better for a homeless person in Edmonton or anywhere else for that matter. Then there is the use of the word, “problem.” For a homeless person, the problem is clearly that he or she is homeless. But I am concerned that too many of us really believe the homeless problem is about where the indigent congregate, how they affect property values, or business. No one wants to shop for camera phones, garden gargoyles, or satin sheets and have to walk past an outstretched hand to spend their hard earned money. Those who protested the church’s desire to shelter the homeless in 40 below weather are, in a sense, protesting the location of the problem rather than being duly concerned about the problem itself.
We forget sometimes that the panhandler or the bottle collector or the old woman in tattered clothing jabbering to herself were not born that way. When I worked in the inner city, I learned that the people there had been nurses, farmers, engineers, chiefs of Aboriginal bands, policemen, railroad workers, not to mention fathers and mothers. Something happened in their lives. They lost their job, suffered a tragedy, became mentally ill. Some took to drugs or drinking. Young people abused at home escaped to the streets and fell into prostitution. These are the people that the church was trying to help.
Of course sheltering someone from the cold for night will not solve homelessness, just like food banks will not overcome poverty in our community. Shelters and food banks are temporary answers to complex social problems. But solving these problems is possible, especially in a city the size of Edmonton, which is located in the richest province in Canada. Affordable housing is the answer along with decent paying jobs for those who can work.
It begins with attitude, understanding, and empathy. Things go wrong in people’s lives and they can go wrong in your life or in the life of your neighbor. Living in a society means that all of us need to nurture that society, protect it, and strengthen it. By doing so, all of us benefit. Higher income for the poor means more economic activity. People with homes cost society less than people without homes. People with decent paying jobs do not have to rely on tax revenue for support. Helping others does result in tangible benefits to those helping. But you know what? These aren’t the best reasons. Some times the greatest benefit is in knowing you are doing the right thing. It might sound corny to you in this day and age of profit margins and the myth of individualism (remember that old bootstrap theory?). And maybe I am corny, but I can’t help but think it is right for a church to give shelter to a homeless person in 40 below weather. How can anyone reasonably argue otherwise?
One more thing. Like you, I am frequently approached for a hand-out by someone on the street. Sometimes I hand over some change. Sometimes I don’t. When I don’t is when I find myself rationalizing that I don’t want to support someone’s drinking habit. Giving them a sandwich would be more appropriate, I tell myself. But of course, I don’t get them a sandwich. I just walk away with my self-congratulatory rationale.
I bet most of us do that more often than not. Yes, I know. Handing over a dollar won’t solve anything. What difference will I make? Maybe I will cause more harm than good. Who knows? Then I remember a fellow I knew years ago. His name was Ernie. He had been on the streets for twenty years – a heavy drinker, the personification of a “bum.” All of my colleagues figured he would die on the streets. Ernie comes to mind for a couple reasons. First, because he was always willing to share what he had – which wasn’t much – with anyone who asked. He was just that way, an all around nice guy, even when drunk on Lysol or cheap wine. Second – and this is really why Ernie comes to mind today – one day Ernie just quit drinking and never started again -- at least for as long as I kept track of him anyway, which was for several years. One day I asked why he just stopped drinking.
He gave me a big smile and shook his head. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I just woke up one morning and said that’s it. I’m done. I threw out what little booze I had in my room, took the empties to the depot and headed to the Gold Nugget for breakfast.”
I guess I was looking for more of a watershed moment from Ernie, some kind of spiritual turning point – anything other than “I don’t really know.”
“Something troubling you, son?”
I shook my head. “I just thought you would know the reason.”
Ernie laughed. “I can think of them now, looking back. Like I didn’t want to die yet. But at the time, the honest truth is I didn’t know. I just quit.” He paused for a moment. Ernie had always been a thoughtful man and had an uncanny sense of other people. “You,” he said. “You were good to me – and the others at the drop-in, you know, the workers there.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I wasn’t fishing though…”
“Maybe you were, maybe you weren’t,” Ernie said. “But it’s true anyways. It wasn’t that you were social workers. You were just people, good people. You gave me change, bummed me smokes, gave me rides when my arthritis was bad. You just hung out and talked. I never got the feeling you were trying to save me. I hated that – people trying to save me.”
I didn’t know quite what to say, so I shifted gears. “So did you enjoy your breakfast that first day – you know, at the Gold Nugget.”
“Nope,” Ernie said. “I gave all my change to Stanley – you know him, right?”
I nodded.
“He was in a bad way and needed a fix.”
“I see,” I said. And for the first time I actually did see.
I don’t know where Ernie is today, but I have a feeling he is alive and sober. He’s still poor and living day to day on his disability checks. He’s off the streets living in a small room on 96th Street or somewhere along 118th Avenue. But one thing I know for sure. When Ernie comes across an outstretched hand, he stops and gives them what he can. Knowing him, he likely has a chat as well. And when he finally does move along, he’s not wondering if he should have bought them a sandwich. Maybe he understands these things better than we do because he was there and then one day things just changed. I figure that if that can happen to an old alcoholic bum named Ernie, maybe it can happen to folks like you and me.
The very last time I saw Ernie was a couple years after I left my job in the inner city. I was walking along Whyte Avenue on my way to Greenwoods to buy a book. He was headed the other way, moving slowly with his wooden cane.
“Hey, Ernie,” I said. “Long time.”
Ernie looked up at me and smiled. It took him a moment to recognize me. “Mark,” he said. “How’s things?”
“Good,” I said. “Real good. You?”
“Same as usual. My leg hurts a bit more lately than usual, but can’t complain really.”
We stood there for a few minutes, talking about other folks we knew, those who had died, others who had left town, the few who were still walking 96th Street each day. People streamed by us, oblivious to our reunion, except for a young man in a business suit who gave us a dirty look for being in his way.
Ernie smiled at the man. “To have old friends, son, you got to make a few first.”
I laughed. The young man didn’t, but he went away.
And then it was time. “Mark,” Ernie said. “I should be getting on.”
We said our goodbyes and then continued on our separate ways. A few steps later, I turned around. “Ernie,” I yelled.
Ernie turned half way toward me
“Good to see you,” I said.
Ernie nodded and gave me a little wave with his cane and then shuffled off through the crowd.
I looked at my hand, closed it, and crossed the street and walked into the bookstore a better man than minutes before, thanks to an old man with a bum leg who had quit drinking years ago for reasons he didn’t understand at the time.
Like most people, I wish for a lot of things in my life. I hope my children will be happy. I would like more money. I hope I won’t die lonely. I also wish I could be more like Ernie. And on that day in the middle of summer, I wished for that more than anything.
I heard on the radio the other day that a church had to fight off an appeal from neighbouring businesses in order to open an emergency shelter for the homeless. I listened to this while driving to work in 40 below weather. It was snowing and the forecast was for another 24 hours of flurries and bitter cold.
Fortunately the church won the appeal, but as I walked from my car to my office – wind blasting against my face – I recalled my years spent working in the inner city as a community worker and, later, as the executive director of a skid row social service agency. I recalled that some of the finest people I ever met were the so-called “bums” of 96th Street. Certainly, they bore responsibility for many of their challenges and situations. But more often than not they were trapped by the attitudes of others, by folks who had jobs, nice homes, a decent income, by folks who, it often seemed, wished that the homeless and otherwise disadvantaged would keep a low profile.
A friend of mine – now ex-friend – used to rant about all the homeless people who went to the public library to keep warm. He couldn’t understand why the City would allow such people to sit around and, as he put it, “stink up the place.” It didn’t matter to him that the library is a public service. The homeless were not part of his public. His solution was to round them all up and put out cots in a warehouse and make them pick up litter along the highway for a square meal. In other words, just another form of the mission mentality: sing for your supper or pick up litter.
The homeless problem here is not that of Toronto or other huge cities, but there is danger in making such comparisons. Knowing it is worse in other cities does not make things better for a homeless person in Edmonton or anywhere else for that matter. Then there is the use of the word, “problem.” For a homeless person, the problem is clearly that he or she is homeless. But I am concerned that too many of us really believe the homeless problem is about where the indigent congregate, how they affect property values, or business. No one wants to shop for camera phones, garden gargoyles, or satin sheets and have to walk past an outstretched hand to spend their hard earned money. Those who protested the church’s desire to shelter the homeless in 40 below weather are, in a sense, protesting the location of the problem rather than being duly concerned about the problem itself.
We forget sometimes that the panhandler or the bottle collector or the old woman in tattered clothing jabbering to herself were not born that way. When I worked in the inner city, I learned that the people there had been nurses, farmers, engineers, chiefs of Aboriginal bands, policemen, railroad workers, not to mention fathers and mothers. Something happened in their lives. They lost their job, suffered a tragedy, became mentally ill. Some took to drugs or drinking. Young people abused at home escaped to the streets and fell into prostitution. These are the people that the church was trying to help.
Of course sheltering someone from the cold for night will not solve homelessness, just like food banks will not overcome poverty in our community. Shelters and food banks are temporary answers to complex social problems. But solving these problems is possible, especially in a city the size of Edmonton, which is located in the richest province in Canada. Affordable housing is the answer along with decent paying jobs for those who can work.
It begins with attitude, understanding, and empathy. Things go wrong in people’s lives and they can go wrong in your life or in the life of your neighbor. Living in a society means that all of us need to nurture that society, protect it, and strengthen it. By doing so, all of us benefit. Higher income for the poor means more economic activity. People with homes cost society less than people without homes. People with decent paying jobs do not have to rely on tax revenue for support. Helping others does result in tangible benefits to those helping. But you know what? These aren’t the best reasons. Some times the greatest benefit is in knowing you are doing the right thing. It might sound corny to you in this day and age of profit margins and the myth of individualism (remember that old bootstrap theory?). And maybe I am corny, but I can’t help but think it is right for a church to give shelter to a homeless person in 40 below weather. How can anyone reasonably argue otherwise?
One more thing. Like you, I am frequently approached for a hand-out by someone on the street. Sometimes I hand over some change. Sometimes I don’t. When I don’t is when I find myself rationalizing that I don’t want to support someone’s drinking habit. Giving them a sandwich would be more appropriate, I tell myself. But of course, I don’t get them a sandwich. I just walk away with my self-congratulatory rationale.
I bet most of us do that more often than not. Yes, I know. Handing over a dollar won’t solve anything. What difference will I make? Maybe I will cause more harm than good. Who knows? Then I remember a fellow I knew years ago. His name was Ernie. He had been on the streets for twenty years – a heavy drinker, the personification of a “bum.” All of my colleagues figured he would die on the streets. Ernie comes to mind for a couple reasons. First, because he was always willing to share what he had – which wasn’t much – with anyone who asked. He was just that way, an all around nice guy, even when drunk on Lysol or cheap wine. Second – and this is really why Ernie comes to mind today – one day Ernie just quit drinking and never started again -- at least for as long as I kept track of him anyway, which was for several years. One day I asked why he just stopped drinking.
He gave me a big smile and shook his head. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I just woke up one morning and said that’s it. I’m done. I threw out what little booze I had in my room, took the empties to the depot and headed to the Gold Nugget for breakfast.”
I guess I was looking for more of a watershed moment from Ernie, some kind of spiritual turning point – anything other than “I don’t really know.”
“Something troubling you, son?”
I shook my head. “I just thought you would know the reason.”
Ernie laughed. “I can think of them now, looking back. Like I didn’t want to die yet. But at the time, the honest truth is I didn’t know. I just quit.” He paused for a moment. Ernie had always been a thoughtful man and had an uncanny sense of other people. “You,” he said. “You were good to me – and the others at the drop-in, you know, the workers there.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I wasn’t fishing though…”
“Maybe you were, maybe you weren’t,” Ernie said. “But it’s true anyways. It wasn’t that you were social workers. You were just people, good people. You gave me change, bummed me smokes, gave me rides when my arthritis was bad. You just hung out and talked. I never got the feeling you were trying to save me. I hated that – people trying to save me.”
I didn’t know quite what to say, so I shifted gears. “So did you enjoy your breakfast that first day – you know, at the Gold Nugget.”
“Nope,” Ernie said. “I gave all my change to Stanley – you know him, right?”
I nodded.
“He was in a bad way and needed a fix.”
“I see,” I said. And for the first time I actually did see.
I don’t know where Ernie is today, but I have a feeling he is alive and sober. He’s still poor and living day to day on his disability checks. He’s off the streets living in a small room on 96th Street or somewhere along 118th Avenue. But one thing I know for sure. When Ernie comes across an outstretched hand, he stops and gives them what he can. Knowing him, he likely has a chat as well. And when he finally does move along, he’s not wondering if he should have bought them a sandwich. Maybe he understands these things better than we do because he was there and then one day things just changed. I figure that if that can happen to an old alcoholic bum named Ernie, maybe it can happen to folks like you and me.
The very last time I saw Ernie was a couple years after I left my job in the inner city. I was walking along Whyte Avenue on my way to Greenwoods to buy a book. He was headed the other way, moving slowly with his wooden cane.
“Hey, Ernie,” I said. “Long time.”
Ernie looked up at me and smiled. It took him a moment to recognize me. “Mark,” he said. “How’s things?”
“Good,” I said. “Real good. You?”
“Same as usual. My leg hurts a bit more lately than usual, but can’t complain really.”
We stood there for a few minutes, talking about other folks we knew, those who had died, others who had left town, the few who were still walking 96th Street each day. People streamed by us, oblivious to our reunion, except for a young man in a business suit who gave us a dirty look for being in his way.
Ernie smiled at the man. “To have old friends, son, you got to make a few first.”
I laughed. The young man didn’t, but he went away.
And then it was time. “Mark,” Ernie said. “I should be getting on.”
We said our goodbyes and then continued on our separate ways. A few steps later, I turned around. “Ernie,” I yelled.
Ernie turned half way toward me
“Good to see you,” I said.
Ernie nodded and gave me a little wave with his cane and then shuffled off through the crowd.
I looked at my hand, closed it, and crossed the street and walked into the bookstore a better man than minutes before, thanks to an old man with a bum leg who had quit drinking years ago for reasons he didn’t understand at the time.
Like most people, I wish for a lot of things in my life. I hope my children will be happy. I would like more money. I hope I won’t die lonely. I also wish I could be more like Ernie. And on that day in the middle of summer, I wished for that more than anything.
26 June, 2009
Sunday
reprinted from another blog I used to write.
It's Sunday and the day is bright sun, hot humid air dappled by a lone bird’s cry, and the dog's strategic barking. I have ignored the dog’s rants at passing bicyclists and delivery trucks. Usually I scream at him, achieving nothing for the neighbors but a barking dog and screaming owner. No one should be sleeping at 1:30 in the afternoon anyway. Let the dog shout and run.
There is work to do, but I am not doing it. There are web sites to build, advertisements to create, printing to arrange, plans to develop, a front porch to paint, laundry to do, and the second floor of our home requires attention, especially now that I cleaned the first floor yesterday. There might even be some jealously involved.
I should phone my children – both adults now – just to say hello, to hear about their latest adventures, but I won’t. Not today. I should talk to our youngest son about yesterday’s behaviour – his and mine – and work through it, but all I have done so far is revoke the punishment of no computer. My small reconciliation.
The list of discussions my wife and I should have is a long one now. Between my job and her launch of two businesses, we seem too tired for dialog. Understandable, but I wonder if the list will eventually end up folded in some drawer to become a piece of history we wonder about in the future.
Today, I take my recreation in the pen, driven by a voice deep from the interior — so far away from here. I feel like I am writing aimlessly, but I know better. Perhaps the movement of the pen will shake me free, allow the voice to emerge from its cavernous hideout to mark the page with eloquent, powerful meaning.
Is it birth I seek? Am I that ordinary? I think not; the metaphor is too simple, the image too predictable, and — now don't take this the wrong way — somehow too feminine. In the midst of this quiet confusion, I do find some things to be clear. For example, the distant voice has a duality to it. It is simultaneously my voice (pure albeit muffled) and not my voice at all (foreign and obnoxious). Of course, this observation — or is it a realization? — could be little more than the ploy of my imagination or perhaps a sublimation.
Is there something I am avoiding? Of course, that's the wrong question, a scheme to move me sideways instead of forward. Such are questions: tools to unearth discovery and change, yet devices we use to cover up what is essential for true inquiry. What I am is but one more artist no one will know in the way artists crave to be known. Not fame; please, don't insult me. Fame is distortion, pleasant at times no doubt, but it offers nothing but image and ultimately failure.
Ah, yes, the voice. Back to the voice. I'm sure you can hear it, too. And it is likely the very same voice, the difference being in what we hear, how we respond, how it vibrates our bellies, how it never wanes to silence in the same way.
Yesterday I cleaned the house for three years (ok, I mean “hours”), with blues and rock and roll on the stereo. I took my time. I turned away feelings that would lead me to do something else. I worked at a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. I swept, I vacuumed, did dishes, started laundry, put things away, took out trash, cleaned the bathroom, washed all the floors, and when I was done, I savoured those few moments of accomplishment before resigning myself to the inevitable return of the chores. Life is dirty and messy. We can’t really clean it up. We can just deploy stop-gap measures – the best we can do.
I wonder if I am doing the best I can do. I figure it depends on the question. Sometimes I am the best I can be. Often, not.
Sometimes, I watch my wife. I watch her walk across a room or take in her face as she sleeps on the couch during a television show. I am always aware of loving her, though often I am uneasy because I am sure I don’t really know her as well as I would like to or should. Does she really tell me what she thinks about things? Sometimes does she think back to her past lover, her time with him, and miss certain days, certain times when life was good and the future was bright? Does she really think I am the loner that I pretend to be?
Is it good to ask questions? I suppose in the long run it is, but sometimes I wish I were a much simpler man, without a voice within. Life would be easier, maybe better. I don’t know really.
But if I am to be who I am, I am glad I can write, put thoughts to paper, even rambles like this one. I am grateful for that.
The dog is curled up in the shade now. I wonder if the incessant chirp of the bird bothers him. I wonder if his thirst is ever bigger than wanting water. I wonder if he ever shakes his head at me as he wonders what on earth I was thinking when I thought I would make a great dog owner. And when he brings me the ball to throw, does he do that because he wants me to know he loves me and wants to spend time with me? I have to think he does.
It's Sunday and the day is bright sun, hot humid air dappled by a lone bird’s cry, and the dog's strategic barking. I have ignored the dog’s rants at passing bicyclists and delivery trucks. Usually I scream at him, achieving nothing for the neighbors but a barking dog and screaming owner. No one should be sleeping at 1:30 in the afternoon anyway. Let the dog shout and run.
There is work to do, but I am not doing it. There are web sites to build, advertisements to create, printing to arrange, plans to develop, a front porch to paint, laundry to do, and the second floor of our home requires attention, especially now that I cleaned the first floor yesterday. There might even be some jealously involved.
I should phone my children – both adults now – just to say hello, to hear about their latest adventures, but I won’t. Not today. I should talk to our youngest son about yesterday’s behaviour – his and mine – and work through it, but all I have done so far is revoke the punishment of no computer. My small reconciliation.
The list of discussions my wife and I should have is a long one now. Between my job and her launch of two businesses, we seem too tired for dialog. Understandable, but I wonder if the list will eventually end up folded in some drawer to become a piece of history we wonder about in the future.
Today, I take my recreation in the pen, driven by a voice deep from the interior — so far away from here. I feel like I am writing aimlessly, but I know better. Perhaps the movement of the pen will shake me free, allow the voice to emerge from its cavernous hideout to mark the page with eloquent, powerful meaning.
Is it birth I seek? Am I that ordinary? I think not; the metaphor is too simple, the image too predictable, and — now don't take this the wrong way — somehow too feminine. In the midst of this quiet confusion, I do find some things to be clear. For example, the distant voice has a duality to it. It is simultaneously my voice (pure albeit muffled) and not my voice at all (foreign and obnoxious). Of course, this observation — or is it a realization? — could be little more than the ploy of my imagination or perhaps a sublimation.
Is there something I am avoiding? Of course, that's the wrong question, a scheme to move me sideways instead of forward. Such are questions: tools to unearth discovery and change, yet devices we use to cover up what is essential for true inquiry. What I am is but one more artist no one will know in the way artists crave to be known. Not fame; please, don't insult me. Fame is distortion, pleasant at times no doubt, but it offers nothing but image and ultimately failure.
Ah, yes, the voice. Back to the voice. I'm sure you can hear it, too. And it is likely the very same voice, the difference being in what we hear, how we respond, how it vibrates our bellies, how it never wanes to silence in the same way.
Yesterday I cleaned the house for three years (ok, I mean “hours”), with blues and rock and roll on the stereo. I took my time. I turned away feelings that would lead me to do something else. I worked at a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. I swept, I vacuumed, did dishes, started laundry, put things away, took out trash, cleaned the bathroom, washed all the floors, and when I was done, I savoured those few moments of accomplishment before resigning myself to the inevitable return of the chores. Life is dirty and messy. We can’t really clean it up. We can just deploy stop-gap measures – the best we can do.
I wonder if I am doing the best I can do. I figure it depends on the question. Sometimes I am the best I can be. Often, not.
Sometimes, I watch my wife. I watch her walk across a room or take in her face as she sleeps on the couch during a television show. I am always aware of loving her, though often I am uneasy because I am sure I don’t really know her as well as I would like to or should. Does she really tell me what she thinks about things? Sometimes does she think back to her past lover, her time with him, and miss certain days, certain times when life was good and the future was bright? Does she really think I am the loner that I pretend to be?
Is it good to ask questions? I suppose in the long run it is, but sometimes I wish I were a much simpler man, without a voice within. Life would be easier, maybe better. I don’t know really.
But if I am to be who I am, I am glad I can write, put thoughts to paper, even rambles like this one. I am grateful for that.
The dog is curled up in the shade now. I wonder if the incessant chirp of the bird bothers him. I wonder if his thirst is ever bigger than wanting water. I wonder if he ever shakes his head at me as he wonders what on earth I was thinking when I thought I would make a great dog owner. And when he brings me the ball to throw, does he do that because he wants me to know he loves me and wants to spend time with me? I have to think he does.
Revelation at Dennys
I have reached that pinnacle of life that sadly is not reached by everyone. I can’t say I did anything special to get here; in fact, it appears I have come this far not really paying much attention to doing so. Nevertheless, I can’t truly convey how it felt when I found out that for the rest of my life, between the hours of 4:00 and 10:00 p.m. I will receive a 20% discount at Denny’s. My reward for becoming, in their eyes, a senior citizen at the age of 55.
My daughter and her finance were with me when I discovered my eligibility for this wonderful perk. For some reason they found it amusing or, to clarify, they found the ghastly look on my face amusing. My daughter was quick to point out, however, that it was only one o’clock and that I would still have to pay full price on this outing. She surprised me later by picking up the tab, a mercy gift I think.
I ordered eggbeaters in my omelet, somehow hoping that by doing that and putting no sugar in my coffee, there would be sufficient counterpoint to the sausage links and pancakes that came along for the ride. We all know how that works. We try to trick ourselves into believing that by doing something that is not as bad for us as doing something else that what we are doing is actually better for us. Case in point: baked potato chips. People say, these baked potato chips are better for you than fried potato chips. In truth, neither is good for us. And some would say the baked ones are worse because we end up eating more of them. Why? Because they are better for us, of course.
The guilt I felt with each bite of sausage and pancake was considerable, but my resolve to have one last hurrah overcame that emotion. After all I would be paying penance for my sins for the rest of my life. One last sin would not matter, at least that is what I preferred to believe.
Five days after my 55th birthday and two days before my revelation at Denny’s I sat quietly as my doctor reviewed my latest blood tests. I figure he is about 35 and married. My guess is he’s Muslim, though I do know he was born in Florida. I mentioned him to a friend a while back who asked me how it felt to have a Muslim for a doctor. I gave him an odd look, I guess, because he went on to say something about the War in Iraq and terrorists and never really knowing who to trust.
“You need to stop listening to Glenn Beck,” I said.
“I’m just saying,” he said, though he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Do you think my doctor is engaging in some sort of medical jihad in Plant City, Florida?” I smiled.
“We just need to be careful,” my soon to be ex-friend said. “You never know.”
My doctor cleared his throat and gave me a quick glance. He rubbed his chin and returned to his computer screen for one last look.
“Your sugar is at 6.9 and your cholesterol is 200,” he said. “I’ve been monitoring this for six months now, you know.”
I didn’t know I was being monitored, which made me feel a little like my doctor was engaged in some sort of clandestine operation, but I just smiled and said,” I see.”
There was that silence everyone fears. That lull in a conversation that makes people worry, fret, and sweat, no matter what the context. Two lovers are talking and then the lull sneaks in and before it’s over both parties have concluded the relationship is a big mistake. Three seconds of silence and everything changes. We never learn either. Nearly always, the lull dissipates and everything is just fine. The lovers still love each other. The world is still spinning on its axis as it should.
“So,” I said. “What does that all mean?”
“You are pre-diabetic,” the doctor said. He said this plainly. His voice was not cold but it was tempered. After all one does not want to sound enthusiastic about such pronouncements. I marveled at how easy and simple it was to hear his words. No judgment. No alarm bells ringing.
“And…” He glanced one last time at the monitor. “You need to go on meds for the cholesterol and lose 100 pounds.”
If the doctor made any mistake, it was sitting back in his chair after saying that last part, as if he had accomplished something remarkable and deserved to lean back to enjoy his success. I know he wasn’t thinking that, but it looked like that. It made me wonder what his body language might convey after telling someone they had three months to live, but I didn’t dwell on that. After all, my appointment wasn’t over yet.
The conversation continued, and he let me know that it was quite possible to bring my sugars to normal levels if I changed my diet and lost weight. My cholesterol would go down as well if I did that. Oh, yeh, he also told me to quit smoking. Tagged that on like an after thought. Actually, that was his first after thought. He followed that one up with: “Make sure you exercise every day.”
So I left the Doctor’s office with prescriptions and the realization I had to quit smoking, change my diet, exercise, and lose 100 pounds. Two days later, at Denny’s, I wanted my last small rebellion before surrendering to a life devoid of fried foods, sugar loaded lattes, and the relaxing pleasure of smoking toxins each day.
My doctor’s diagnosis and my newly discovered status of senior citizen (according to Denny’s) seemed oddly juxtaposed. I freaked a little about the doctor's visit, but thankfully my future health is still in my hands if I make the right changes, but the age thing. I can’t stop that.
Receiving a discount from Denny’s for the rest of my life for no other reason than getting old. That freaked me out even more. I didn’t want that stupid discount. I even told my daughter I had no intention of ever taking such a discount, but I knew inside that eventually I would. I would rationalize it of course. Like we all do. Like we all do about just about everything.
Before leaving Denny’s I did glance through the menu to see what fare they offered a pre-diabetic man with high cholesterol who needed to lose 100 pounds. That’s when I realized the discount was the restaurant chain’s attempt at cynical humor.
I chuckled at that but didn’t bother to explain why when asked so by my daughter. Some discoveries are best made in secret.
My daughter and her finance were with me when I discovered my eligibility for this wonderful perk. For some reason they found it amusing or, to clarify, they found the ghastly look on my face amusing. My daughter was quick to point out, however, that it was only one o’clock and that I would still have to pay full price on this outing. She surprised me later by picking up the tab, a mercy gift I think.
I ordered eggbeaters in my omelet, somehow hoping that by doing that and putting no sugar in my coffee, there would be sufficient counterpoint to the sausage links and pancakes that came along for the ride. We all know how that works. We try to trick ourselves into believing that by doing something that is not as bad for us as doing something else that what we are doing is actually better for us. Case in point: baked potato chips. People say, these baked potato chips are better for you than fried potato chips. In truth, neither is good for us. And some would say the baked ones are worse because we end up eating more of them. Why? Because they are better for us, of course.
The guilt I felt with each bite of sausage and pancake was considerable, but my resolve to have one last hurrah overcame that emotion. After all I would be paying penance for my sins for the rest of my life. One last sin would not matter, at least that is what I preferred to believe.
Five days after my 55th birthday and two days before my revelation at Denny’s I sat quietly as my doctor reviewed my latest blood tests. I figure he is about 35 and married. My guess is he’s Muslim, though I do know he was born in Florida. I mentioned him to a friend a while back who asked me how it felt to have a Muslim for a doctor. I gave him an odd look, I guess, because he went on to say something about the War in Iraq and terrorists and never really knowing who to trust.
“You need to stop listening to Glenn Beck,” I said.
“I’m just saying,” he said, though he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Do you think my doctor is engaging in some sort of medical jihad in Plant City, Florida?” I smiled.
“We just need to be careful,” my soon to be ex-friend said. “You never know.”
My doctor cleared his throat and gave me a quick glance. He rubbed his chin and returned to his computer screen for one last look.
“Your sugar is at 6.9 and your cholesterol is 200,” he said. “I’ve been monitoring this for six months now, you know.”
I didn’t know I was being monitored, which made me feel a little like my doctor was engaged in some sort of clandestine operation, but I just smiled and said,” I see.”
There was that silence everyone fears. That lull in a conversation that makes people worry, fret, and sweat, no matter what the context. Two lovers are talking and then the lull sneaks in and before it’s over both parties have concluded the relationship is a big mistake. Three seconds of silence and everything changes. We never learn either. Nearly always, the lull dissipates and everything is just fine. The lovers still love each other. The world is still spinning on its axis as it should.
“So,” I said. “What does that all mean?”
“You are pre-diabetic,” the doctor said. He said this plainly. His voice was not cold but it was tempered. After all one does not want to sound enthusiastic about such pronouncements. I marveled at how easy and simple it was to hear his words. No judgment. No alarm bells ringing.
“And…” He glanced one last time at the monitor. “You need to go on meds for the cholesterol and lose 100 pounds.”
If the doctor made any mistake, it was sitting back in his chair after saying that last part, as if he had accomplished something remarkable and deserved to lean back to enjoy his success. I know he wasn’t thinking that, but it looked like that. It made me wonder what his body language might convey after telling someone they had three months to live, but I didn’t dwell on that. After all, my appointment wasn’t over yet.
The conversation continued, and he let me know that it was quite possible to bring my sugars to normal levels if I changed my diet and lost weight. My cholesterol would go down as well if I did that. Oh, yeh, he also told me to quit smoking. Tagged that on like an after thought. Actually, that was his first after thought. He followed that one up with: “Make sure you exercise every day.”
So I left the Doctor’s office with prescriptions and the realization I had to quit smoking, change my diet, exercise, and lose 100 pounds. Two days later, at Denny’s, I wanted my last small rebellion before surrendering to a life devoid of fried foods, sugar loaded lattes, and the relaxing pleasure of smoking toxins each day.
My doctor’s diagnosis and my newly discovered status of senior citizen (according to Denny’s) seemed oddly juxtaposed. I freaked a little about the doctor's visit, but thankfully my future health is still in my hands if I make the right changes, but the age thing. I can’t stop that.
Receiving a discount from Denny’s for the rest of my life for no other reason than getting old. That freaked me out even more. I didn’t want that stupid discount. I even told my daughter I had no intention of ever taking such a discount, but I knew inside that eventually I would. I would rationalize it of course. Like we all do. Like we all do about just about everything.
Before leaving Denny’s I did glance through the menu to see what fare they offered a pre-diabetic man with high cholesterol who needed to lose 100 pounds. That’s when I realized the discount was the restaurant chain’s attempt at cynical humor.
I chuckled at that but didn’t bother to explain why when asked so by my daughter. Some discoveries are best made in secret.
21 June, 2009
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