Most cities have a village or two. They are the places that seemed out of synch with the world during our childhoods but by the time we have reached adulthood have changed into something else. They are a kind of urban sundial tracking the days until it is time to settle down or leave.
Mine was in Victoria.
At first the village is a run-down collection of knitting shops and shabby grocery stores. There is a used book store that is always empty and a china shop that carries Royal Albert. My Aunt is proud of the pieces of Royal Albert China she owns and seeing this makes me cringe. The saloon-spitoon shape of their teacups combined with the matron’s-nightgown floral motifs communicate a kind of ignorant yearning for beautiful things that I wish my Aunt did not possess. Even as a child, I looked for ways to show her better things but thankfully, I could never be as blunt as the task required. She loved cheap beauty until she died, polyester flowers, grocery store cakes, mass produced “art prints” and factory-made furniture; and why not? Her husband was able to provide all of these things in abundance without ever compromising their security, all of her children grew up well fed and cared for and every aspect of her life gave her joy.
Nevertheless, it sometimes makes me sad to think she died without ever really knowing how much finer a china cup could be.
When I was ten, the village was also home to a pharmacy that carried absolutely nothing of interest and very few recognizable items to me. All of the shops catered to the needs of the elderly ladies who populated South Fairfield. To me it seemed like the most boring place on earth.
I never considered those ladies much. They were the legions of loggers’ widows, ex-wives of military officers, teachers, milkmen and civil servants. Their children grew into doctors, lawyers or sometimes real estate agents, some became teachers, like their fathers, nearly all moved away to the suburbs or out of town altogether.
There was a small nursery with a chain-link front and back wall and clapboard sides. It had a dirt floor and carried an array of dubious looking vegetables in the summer, Christmas trees in December. There was a dimly lit bakery with long oak and glass cabinets. The bakery specialized in the kinds of thing I did not like to eat but would later crave from time to time; sticky buns, covered in a glass-like caramel glaze and studded with candied cherries and pecans, cupcakes adrift in butter cream frosting, pink pillowy confections of cake, icing, coconut and jam and of course, lofty white bread square on the bottom and mushrooming out on the top in paper bags dotted with grease spots.
There was a shoe repair shop. I remember it clearly.
One day when I was walking to the beach with my best friend, we passed by the shoe repair. Someone was waving at the side door near the back, we paused to look and saw an old man with a round, taut belly, chest tufted with grey hair and baggy, wrinkled knees, stepped out onto the path that ran alongside the shop. He stood on the cracked paving stones, flanked by a cedar hedge and he called to us. I don’t remember what he said but I remember the image clearly. He was wearing a green crocheted tam-o-shanter, it looked like one of the tea cosies my grandmother liked to knit and send, I could almost feel the acrylic yarn, thick and smooth. He gestured for us to come closer and when we just stood there looking at him, he took his penis in his hand and waved it at us, nodding it up and down like it was bait.
We resumed our walk. Neither one of us said a word.
Later, our parents refused to believe us. Nevertheless, we were forbidden to explore the village alone from that day on. I felt as though they thought we would make up terrible things and stir up trouble. In retrospect, I think it is more likely they wanted to protect their children without having to endure a confrontation. Such is the Canadian way.
Gradually, the village changed.
The grocery stores cleaned up. The tea room became fashionable. The bakery and the shoe repair closed.
The elderly ladies died or were moved to convalescent homes and their married children moved into their houses or fixed them up for sale. Apartment houses were aired out and refurbished. The deserted entrance to the park, once known as a dangerous place where gay lovers or prostitutes sometimes met for rough sex and drug dealers arranged transactions was cleaned up. The underbrush was cleared away along with the condoms and needles. It was noted that a family of eagles made their nest in the cottonwoods above the park sign. Eventually there would be a webcam there.
A Starbucks opened.
I moved into a one-bedroom apartment two blocks from the beach and chose a lover based on his potential as a long-term mate and not on my attraction to him, which was largely absent. When we kissed, he seemed to have no muscle tone in his lips. They lay there flaccid on my face. He placed them there and seemed proud of his initiative in doing so but they felt like two banana slugs carefully laid over my mouth. It was repellent. I told myself I would get used to it. The relationship lasted for eight years. I never got used to it. He never noticed.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Signs and Omens: 2
The second time it happened was at night. This was well before the transit strike, on an ordinary Wednesday. I had just finished talking to someone who is still in my life so I suppose that's enough about that. The discussion had been fairly intense and it should be said that there are circumstances that seemed impossible to resolve one way or the other.
I was not unhappy but felt at an impasse.
The moment I saw the computer screen go dark there was a loud peal of thunder directly over my building, the sky flashed white with lightening and the TV (where one of the digital music channels had been playing in the background) and all of the lights winked out.
I went to the window and looked out. Half of the street was dark. The first snow of the season had laid a thin white gloss over everything.
It felt as though a window of possibility was suddenly open. I realized I could go out into the neighborhood and walk in the dark and nobody could stop me, nobody would know.
I stood at the window and considered it for a long time, looking into the street and seeing the world as a blank page upon which I might write almost anything. Going to bed felt like surrender. For a long time I thought about it, finally I went to bed.
I was not unhappy but felt at an impasse.
The moment I saw the computer screen go dark there was a loud peal of thunder directly over my building, the sky flashed white with lightening and the TV (where one of the digital music channels had been playing in the background) and all of the lights winked out.
I went to the window and looked out. Half of the street was dark. The first snow of the season had laid a thin white gloss over everything.
It felt as though a window of possibility was suddenly open. I realized I could go out into the neighborhood and walk in the dark and nobody could stop me, nobody would know.
I stood at the window and considered it for a long time, looking into the street and seeing the world as a blank page upon which I might write almost anything. Going to bed felt like surrender. For a long time I thought about it, finally I went to bed.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Contradictions
Recently, whenever I take a bath, I find myself thinking about something a former boyfiend said to me when we met. We were talking the way people dating do when I mentioned how much I enjoy reading in the bath.
"I don't take baths." he said, "I haven't had a bath since I was a kid." He seemed a little put off by the very idea of having a bath so I, like any other reckless dater, pressed him. "Why not?" I asked, "Maybe taking a bath could help you loosen up the muscles in your neck - you know, the one you're always saying are to tight? Baths are very relaxing"
"I can't stand the idea of soaking in my own filth" was his answer. I felt smacked. The way he said it made it clear that he thought baths were disgusting, as though the detritus of walking through his daily life was so revolting the thought of touching it was enough to make him sick.
Later in the relationship this same person refused to clean the shower. His reason? Since he used the shower to get clean and since he was basically clean and only used soap and water in the shower, the shower could not be dirty.
At the time, I let it go. Despite my natural inclination to point out weaknesses in people's arguments I do try very hard to allow people to hang on to the ideas that seem to trigger their strongest responses. It is only by accident that I end up hitting them so hard and so often.
Now I take a bath and sit there while whatever it was that was most recently clinging to my skin, presumably swirls around me and I think that kind of contradictory belief may be central to how many of us move through the world.
The boyfriend in question suffered from severe kidney disease. His horror of his own waste was, I suppose, quite natural for him as was his belief that an external force could carry that waste away leaving no trace at all.
We all have these central metaphors that we live, I think. The trick is to find a way to see our own so that we can understand our own motivations and learn to stop navigating blind.
"I don't take baths." he said, "I haven't had a bath since I was a kid." He seemed a little put off by the very idea of having a bath so I, like any other reckless dater, pressed him. "Why not?" I asked, "Maybe taking a bath could help you loosen up the muscles in your neck - you know, the one you're always saying are to tight? Baths are very relaxing"
"I can't stand the idea of soaking in my own filth" was his answer. I felt smacked. The way he said it made it clear that he thought baths were disgusting, as though the detritus of walking through his daily life was so revolting the thought of touching it was enough to make him sick.
Later in the relationship this same person refused to clean the shower. His reason? Since he used the shower to get clean and since he was basically clean and only used soap and water in the shower, the shower could not be dirty.
At the time, I let it go. Despite my natural inclination to point out weaknesses in people's arguments I do try very hard to allow people to hang on to the ideas that seem to trigger their strongest responses. It is only by accident that I end up hitting them so hard and so often.
Now I take a bath and sit there while whatever it was that was most recently clinging to my skin, presumably swirls around me and I think that kind of contradictory belief may be central to how many of us move through the world.
The boyfriend in question suffered from severe kidney disease. His horror of his own waste was, I suppose, quite natural for him as was his belief that an external force could carry that waste away leaving no trace at all.
We all have these central metaphors that we live, I think. The trick is to find a way to see our own so that we can understand our own motivations and learn to stop navigating blind.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Signs and Omens
This is an excerpt from a work in progress:
If it happens once more, I will have to go.
Sometimes signs are easy, everyday things remind you to pay attention to the larger events happening around you.
Sometimes they are hard, despite everything we work very hard at seeing things the way they are most comfortably digested. When they become so broad and heavy that we can no longer overlook them, we kick ourselves for refusing to pause and consider their meaning. And we endure the consequences.
At other times, I think we see indicators and skip the step where we think about what they mean. Instead we go directly to the action. I think there is a kind of grace in that.
Three days before they announced the bus strike I felt compelled to do everything I would normally do in a month by bus over the span of three days or rather, three evenings, after work.
I bought heavy things, went to distant stores, stocked up on flour, potatoes, things that come in bottles or cans; dill pickles, liquor, tomato sauce. I filled the freezer with meat and frozen vegetables, went to the bank machine, bought long distance phone cards, laundry soap, tinfoil, batteries and boots.
It was exhausting; every day I would remember things that, it seemed, I needed urgently. I felt pressed. Objectively there was no reason to think this way; the bus is something one assumes will simply carry on more or less uninterrupted forever. I suppose, as a person who routinely takes the bus to work, I must have noticed the signs of it coming despite the news story about how rarely transit strikes occur and how, with a seven per cent raise already on the table, neither side anticipated any cause for concern. Negotiations would be routine and swift.
In retrospect, as impatient as I was with myself, I am grateful for the impulse. More than once, I have noticed that what people declare turns out to be exactly the opposite of what turns out to be true. Maybe it’s karma teaching us all lessons, maybe it’s human nature to cling most tightly to the things we know we do not really have – either way, I think it is always a good idea to question any claim volunteered with such offhanded vehemence.
It still seems impossible for me to believe there are things within my community that have been rendered out of reach for the duration of the strike. The National Gallery is now a day trip, I usually walk one way and take the bus the other. With no bus, that means a solid two hours of walking in the snow. Added to the time spend walking around the gallery itself, it is simply too much. I have had to plan for my monthly cycle and lay in a stock of supplies since, unless I am going into the office my particular brand of tampons are out. They are widely available downtown but living, as I do, on Ottawa’s ethnic fringe, brand names tend to be a little less familiar to me. However, I will not want for Chinese, Italian, Indian, Malaysian or African food or supplies and that has its own appeal.
Friday night I walked home from work.It was a long and difficult walk and although I had done all the heavy shopping I could, I could not lay in a store of everything and needed milk. This meant a stop at the grocery store near downtown which made the walk even longer. I remembered my mother suggesting I stop for coffee or a rest somewhere along the way if the walk home was too cold or difficult and dismissed it. No need to be weak.
It was snowing and the sky was completely white – no moon or stars at all and the wind was getting fierce. Although I did not need anything more, I remembered my mother’s advice and thought a stop at the Chinese grocer could qualify as a little break even though it is very close to my apartment. When I arrived at the door, I just stepped inside. Once there, I bought a few things, limes, green onions, pepper, noodles. It was reassuring to see the fresh vegetables, the butcher’s counter, the fish section, well stocked and prepared. It was reassuring to see the crowd bustling and shopping as though nothing could ever happen to really disrupt their weekly routine.
At the checkout counter I scanned the pastry display. There were the usual assortment of things that might or might not go well with coffee. I chose a small package of ornately detailed moon cakes. They are always available and there are other pastries I like more but it seemed like the right thing to do – it seemed unavoidable. When I feel a particular urge to eat sweets I buy the ones that are not my favourites as a means of portion control – silly, but it seems to work.
Later that night my mother called again. She asked if I could see the moon. I told her the snow was falling thick and fast and at this time of year I do not count on seeing the moon for a week at a time. It seemed like this was going to be one of those weeks.
She told me that was really a shame since the full moon was at perigee and would not be this close again for 15 years. Somehow, without knowing, the animal side of me must have known that. My stepmother is Chinese and I try to offer a nod of respect to Chinese traditions whenever I think of it.
In a typical symbolic reversal, mooncakes are traditionally eaten to remind us of reunion. They are made to be eaten during the autumn moon festival but, like fruitcake, are available year-round. I have never heard the stories associated with them but because it was such a strange coincidence that I would seek out these particular cakes on this particular day, I decided to look it up.
On Wikipedia, I found this story:
"A long, long time ago, a terrible drought plagued the earth. Ten suns burned fiercely in the sky like smoldering volcanoes. The trees and grass were scorched. The land was cracked and parched, and rivers were dried. Many people died of hunger and thirst.
The King of Heaven sent Hou Yi down to the earth to help. When Hou Yi arrived, he took out his red bow and white arrows and shot down nine suns one after another. The weather immediately turned cooler. Heavy rains filled the rivers with fresh water and the grass and trees turned green. Life was restored and humanity was saved.
One day, a charming young woman Chang'er made her way home from a stream, holding a bamboo container. A young man came forward, asking for a drink. When she saw the red bow and white arrows hanging round his belt, Chang'er realized that he was their savior, Hou Yi. Inviting him to drink, Chang'er plucked a beautiful flower and gave it to him as a token of respect. Hou Yi, in turn, selected a beautiful silver fox fur as his gift for her. This meeting kindled the spark of their love. And soon after that, they got married.
A mortal's life is limited, of course. So in order to enjoy his happy life with Chang'er forever, Hou Yi decided to look for an elixir of life. He went to the Kunlun Mountains where the Western Queen Mother lived.
Out of respect for the good deeds he had done, the Western Queen Mother rewarded Hou Yi with the elixir, a fine powder made from kernels of fruit which grew on the tree of eternity. At the same time, she told him that if he and his wife shared the elixir, they would both enjoy eternal life; but if only one of them took it, that one would ascend to Heaven and become immortal.
Hou Yi returned home and told his wife all that had happened and they decided to drink the elixir together on the 15th day of the eighth lunar month when the moon was full and bright.
A wicked and merciless man named Feng Meng overheard their plan. He wished Hou Yi an early death so that he could drink the elixir himself and become immortal. His opportunity finally arrived. One day, when the full moon is rising, Hou Yi was on his way home from hunting. Feng Meng killed him. The murderer then ran to Hou Yi's home and forced Chang'er to give him the elixir. Without hesitating, Chang'er picked up the elixir and drunk it all.
Overcome with grief, Chang'er rushed to her dead husband's side, weeping bitterly. Soon the elixir began to have its effect and Chang'er felt herself being lifted towards Heaven.
Chang'er decided to live on the moon because it was the nearest to the earth. There she lived a simple and contented life. Even though she was in Heaven, her heart remained in the world of mortals. Never did she forget the deep love she had for Hou Yi and the love she felt for the people who had shared their sadness and happiness."
There is more symbolic resonance for me in this story than I can possibly relate.
History is full of examples of people taking signs and omens from the world around them. We congratulate ourselves that we would never be so superstitious as to act on the little stories nature and circumstance tell us every day but I wonder if instead of telling ourselves and our intimates about these stories, about our interpretations and about the action we plan to carry out in order to fulfill our part in the greater story being told - if we haven’t simply buried them so deeply that now we act on them without even realizing what we are doing.
We move under the same ancient sky, within the cup of the same seasons, buffeted by the same disasters and kissed by the same blessings as anyone who came before us ever did. I think it is a mark of the all-too-human tendency to think we are always getting better than our ancestors to assume we are prompted to act in a way that is somehow more effective by merit of being more rational. Everybody thinks they are rational. If they thought otherwise, they would act otherwise and thus return to at least an internal sense of reason. And if that sense of reason could not find a place and a way to function with the consent of others in the world, those people would live in institutions or on the street. nevertheless, they would still consider themselves to be reasonable.
Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy. Likewise, people who are influenced never understand the root of it or the influence wouldn’t work. The people who lived before us thought they had reached the apex of civilization, sense and reason and they were right.
Now we think the same. We are right too and we are at the same time, absolutely wrong just as the people who thought the earth was supported by four dragons were right and wrong – just as the people who come after us will look back and find us silly for seeing cause and effect where they know none exists.
To see the world as being flat and dangerous at the edges is not such an irrational thing in a society where travel by ship is the only means of covering great distances and perishable food cannot be adequately preserved. Death by malnutrition or thirst must be a very fearsome dragon to face. Maybe death was the dragon at the edge of the world – maybe it still is. We speak the language we know. How can anyone do otherwise?
I am trying to wake up, trying to see. Nevertheless, I am aware that my ability to do so is limited by my small and specific perspective as one human being trapped within the amber of time.
Still – if it happens once more, I think I will have to go.
If it happens once more, I will have to go.
Sometimes signs are easy, everyday things remind you to pay attention to the larger events happening around you.
Sometimes they are hard, despite everything we work very hard at seeing things the way they are most comfortably digested. When they become so broad and heavy that we can no longer overlook them, we kick ourselves for refusing to pause and consider their meaning. And we endure the consequences.
At other times, I think we see indicators and skip the step where we think about what they mean. Instead we go directly to the action. I think there is a kind of grace in that.
Three days before they announced the bus strike I felt compelled to do everything I would normally do in a month by bus over the span of three days or rather, three evenings, after work.
I bought heavy things, went to distant stores, stocked up on flour, potatoes, things that come in bottles or cans; dill pickles, liquor, tomato sauce. I filled the freezer with meat and frozen vegetables, went to the bank machine, bought long distance phone cards, laundry soap, tinfoil, batteries and boots.
It was exhausting; every day I would remember things that, it seemed, I needed urgently. I felt pressed. Objectively there was no reason to think this way; the bus is something one assumes will simply carry on more or less uninterrupted forever. I suppose, as a person who routinely takes the bus to work, I must have noticed the signs of it coming despite the news story about how rarely transit strikes occur and how, with a seven per cent raise already on the table, neither side anticipated any cause for concern. Negotiations would be routine and swift.
In retrospect, as impatient as I was with myself, I am grateful for the impulse. More than once, I have noticed that what people declare turns out to be exactly the opposite of what turns out to be true. Maybe it’s karma teaching us all lessons, maybe it’s human nature to cling most tightly to the things we know we do not really have – either way, I think it is always a good idea to question any claim volunteered with such offhanded vehemence.
It still seems impossible for me to believe there are things within my community that have been rendered out of reach for the duration of the strike. The National Gallery is now a day trip, I usually walk one way and take the bus the other. With no bus, that means a solid two hours of walking in the snow. Added to the time spend walking around the gallery itself, it is simply too much. I have had to plan for my monthly cycle and lay in a stock of supplies since, unless I am going into the office my particular brand of tampons are out. They are widely available downtown but living, as I do, on Ottawa’s ethnic fringe, brand names tend to be a little less familiar to me. However, I will not want for Chinese, Italian, Indian, Malaysian or African food or supplies and that has its own appeal.
Friday night I walked home from work.It was a long and difficult walk and although I had done all the heavy shopping I could, I could not lay in a store of everything and needed milk. This meant a stop at the grocery store near downtown which made the walk even longer. I remembered my mother suggesting I stop for coffee or a rest somewhere along the way if the walk home was too cold or difficult and dismissed it. No need to be weak.
It was snowing and the sky was completely white – no moon or stars at all and the wind was getting fierce. Although I did not need anything more, I remembered my mother’s advice and thought a stop at the Chinese grocer could qualify as a little break even though it is very close to my apartment. When I arrived at the door, I just stepped inside. Once there, I bought a few things, limes, green onions, pepper, noodles. It was reassuring to see the fresh vegetables, the butcher’s counter, the fish section, well stocked and prepared. It was reassuring to see the crowd bustling and shopping as though nothing could ever happen to really disrupt their weekly routine.
At the checkout counter I scanned the pastry display. There were the usual assortment of things that might or might not go well with coffee. I chose a small package of ornately detailed moon cakes. They are always available and there are other pastries I like more but it seemed like the right thing to do – it seemed unavoidable. When I feel a particular urge to eat sweets I buy the ones that are not my favourites as a means of portion control – silly, but it seems to work.
Later that night my mother called again. She asked if I could see the moon. I told her the snow was falling thick and fast and at this time of year I do not count on seeing the moon for a week at a time. It seemed like this was going to be one of those weeks.
She told me that was really a shame since the full moon was at perigee and would not be this close again for 15 years. Somehow, without knowing, the animal side of me must have known that. My stepmother is Chinese and I try to offer a nod of respect to Chinese traditions whenever I think of it.
In a typical symbolic reversal, mooncakes are traditionally eaten to remind us of reunion. They are made to be eaten during the autumn moon festival but, like fruitcake, are available year-round. I have never heard the stories associated with them but because it was such a strange coincidence that I would seek out these particular cakes on this particular day, I decided to look it up.
On Wikipedia, I found this story:
"A long, long time ago, a terrible drought plagued the earth. Ten suns burned fiercely in the sky like smoldering volcanoes. The trees and grass were scorched. The land was cracked and parched, and rivers were dried. Many people died of hunger and thirst.
The King of Heaven sent Hou Yi down to the earth to help. When Hou Yi arrived, he took out his red bow and white arrows and shot down nine suns one after another. The weather immediately turned cooler. Heavy rains filled the rivers with fresh water and the grass and trees turned green. Life was restored and humanity was saved.
One day, a charming young woman Chang'er made her way home from a stream, holding a bamboo container. A young man came forward, asking for a drink. When she saw the red bow and white arrows hanging round his belt, Chang'er realized that he was their savior, Hou Yi. Inviting him to drink, Chang'er plucked a beautiful flower and gave it to him as a token of respect. Hou Yi, in turn, selected a beautiful silver fox fur as his gift for her. This meeting kindled the spark of their love. And soon after that, they got married.
A mortal's life is limited, of course. So in order to enjoy his happy life with Chang'er forever, Hou Yi decided to look for an elixir of life. He went to the Kunlun Mountains where the Western Queen Mother lived.
Out of respect for the good deeds he had done, the Western Queen Mother rewarded Hou Yi with the elixir, a fine powder made from kernels of fruit which grew on the tree of eternity. At the same time, she told him that if he and his wife shared the elixir, they would both enjoy eternal life; but if only one of them took it, that one would ascend to Heaven and become immortal.
Hou Yi returned home and told his wife all that had happened and they decided to drink the elixir together on the 15th day of the eighth lunar month when the moon was full and bright.
A wicked and merciless man named Feng Meng overheard their plan. He wished Hou Yi an early death so that he could drink the elixir himself and become immortal. His opportunity finally arrived. One day, when the full moon is rising, Hou Yi was on his way home from hunting. Feng Meng killed him. The murderer then ran to Hou Yi's home and forced Chang'er to give him the elixir. Without hesitating, Chang'er picked up the elixir and drunk it all.
Overcome with grief, Chang'er rushed to her dead husband's side, weeping bitterly. Soon the elixir began to have its effect and Chang'er felt herself being lifted towards Heaven.
Chang'er decided to live on the moon because it was the nearest to the earth. There she lived a simple and contented life. Even though she was in Heaven, her heart remained in the world of mortals. Never did she forget the deep love she had for Hou Yi and the love she felt for the people who had shared their sadness and happiness."
There is more symbolic resonance for me in this story than I can possibly relate.
History is full of examples of people taking signs and omens from the world around them. We congratulate ourselves that we would never be so superstitious as to act on the little stories nature and circumstance tell us every day but I wonder if instead of telling ourselves and our intimates about these stories, about our interpretations and about the action we plan to carry out in order to fulfill our part in the greater story being told - if we haven’t simply buried them so deeply that now we act on them without even realizing what we are doing.
We move under the same ancient sky, within the cup of the same seasons, buffeted by the same disasters and kissed by the same blessings as anyone who came before us ever did. I think it is a mark of the all-too-human tendency to think we are always getting better than our ancestors to assume we are prompted to act in a way that is somehow more effective by merit of being more rational. Everybody thinks they are rational. If they thought otherwise, they would act otherwise and thus return to at least an internal sense of reason. And if that sense of reason could not find a place and a way to function with the consent of others in the world, those people would live in institutions or on the street. nevertheless, they would still consider themselves to be reasonable.
Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy. Likewise, people who are influenced never understand the root of it or the influence wouldn’t work. The people who lived before us thought they had reached the apex of civilization, sense and reason and they were right.
Now we think the same. We are right too and we are at the same time, absolutely wrong just as the people who thought the earth was supported by four dragons were right and wrong – just as the people who come after us will look back and find us silly for seeing cause and effect where they know none exists.
To see the world as being flat and dangerous at the edges is not such an irrational thing in a society where travel by ship is the only means of covering great distances and perishable food cannot be adequately preserved. Death by malnutrition or thirst must be a very fearsome dragon to face. Maybe death was the dragon at the edge of the world – maybe it still is. We speak the language we know. How can anyone do otherwise?
I am trying to wake up, trying to see. Nevertheless, I am aware that my ability to do so is limited by my small and specific perspective as one human being trapped within the amber of time.
Still – if it happens once more, I think I will have to go.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Orlando's Ottawa
Winter has arrived in a way that reminds me of the opening scenes of Virgina Woolf's "Orlando."
Ottawa is frozen over. We received about 25 cms of snow last night and a nice hard candy shell of ice rain as well. We are firmly into the season.
To add to the anachronistic atmosphere, last night Ottawa's mass transit workers went on strike. The city has lost one of its main traffic arteries, a bridge that links Quebec and Ontario just west of Parliament Hill. The act of moving from one part of the city to another has gone from being something you do without giving it much thought to being a deliberate, complex act of will. It is very quiet on the streets without the busses - the lazy part of me might miss them but the better part is glad they're gone.
To move around Ottawa you have two choices; walk or take a car. Since I no longer own a car I chose to call a taxi this morning and will walk home this afternoon. The taxi took over 2 hours to arrive. I am, however, looking forward to the walk. It is sunny and -7 C outside (21 F ). At the moment the snow is drifting down lightly through the sunshine - it is all very lovely.
Even if I did still have a car, it really wouldn't matter much. Regardless of how you choose to proceed from point A to point B you will not be doing so at a rate of more than 10 K an hour in Ottawa, especially between the hours of 7 - 10 a.m. and 4 - 6 p.m. a lot like Elizabethan England.
In this kind of situation your world becomes smaller and more fully detailed. Like looking at a painting, from a distance you may get a better sense of the composition but all the details are up close.
I am meeting my neighbors, learning more about the people in my neighborhood. Talking to the shopkeepers, making more eye contact with people - in this weather we must look out for each other. Perhaps best of all, I am aware of the degree of my self-sufficiency. The money I make goes directly into my neighborhood now. As I walk home I have the choice of stopping at the neighborhood Western European grocer, the South American grocer, most of the city's Asian grocers, the Italian grocer or, a little further along, the Quebecois bargain basement. I realize I am blessed. Shopping by flyers, deciding to take a bus to get the best price on something - those actions are a thing of the past. Really, those behaviors were adopted by me under peer pressure. I'm happier without them
Today I will walk home. I will time my walk to coincide with the sunset. My apartment is due west of the downtown core. I will buy some provisions on the way and carry them home myself gaining a bit of very welcome exercise in the process. It might cost me $5 more - the benefits are more than worth it.
The white snow will sparkle in the setting sun. The sky will go from blue and white to rose and indigo. The snow will crunch and slide a little under my feet but I won't slip. It will feel good to carry the things I need home under my own steam. And it will feel very good to know that the old cliche is true: as long as I have my health, I am fully capable of taking care of the rest myself.
Ottawa is frozen now. In a few months we will have winterlude to celebrate that fact and until the thaw my feet will not touch the ground. Everything hovers. Everything is light.
Ottawa is frozen over. We received about 25 cms of snow last night and a nice hard candy shell of ice rain as well. We are firmly into the season.
To add to the anachronistic atmosphere, last night Ottawa's mass transit workers went on strike. The city has lost one of its main traffic arteries, a bridge that links Quebec and Ontario just west of Parliament Hill. The act of moving from one part of the city to another has gone from being something you do without giving it much thought to being a deliberate, complex act of will. It is very quiet on the streets without the busses - the lazy part of me might miss them but the better part is glad they're gone.
To move around Ottawa you have two choices; walk or take a car. Since I no longer own a car I chose to call a taxi this morning and will walk home this afternoon. The taxi took over 2 hours to arrive. I am, however, looking forward to the walk. It is sunny and -7 C outside (21 F ). At the moment the snow is drifting down lightly through the sunshine - it is all very lovely.
Even if I did still have a car, it really wouldn't matter much. Regardless of how you choose to proceed from point A to point B you will not be doing so at a rate of more than 10 K an hour in Ottawa, especially between the hours of 7 - 10 a.m. and 4 - 6 p.m. a lot like Elizabethan England.
In this kind of situation your world becomes smaller and more fully detailed. Like looking at a painting, from a distance you may get a better sense of the composition but all the details are up close.
I am meeting my neighbors, learning more about the people in my neighborhood. Talking to the shopkeepers, making more eye contact with people - in this weather we must look out for each other. Perhaps best of all, I am aware of the degree of my self-sufficiency. The money I make goes directly into my neighborhood now. As I walk home I have the choice of stopping at the neighborhood Western European grocer, the South American grocer, most of the city's Asian grocers, the Italian grocer or, a little further along, the Quebecois bargain basement. I realize I am blessed. Shopping by flyers, deciding to take a bus to get the best price on something - those actions are a thing of the past. Really, those behaviors were adopted by me under peer pressure. I'm happier without them
Today I will walk home. I will time my walk to coincide with the sunset. My apartment is due west of the downtown core. I will buy some provisions on the way and carry them home myself gaining a bit of very welcome exercise in the process. It might cost me $5 more - the benefits are more than worth it.
The white snow will sparkle in the setting sun. The sky will go from blue and white to rose and indigo. The snow will crunch and slide a little under my feet but I won't slip. It will feel good to carry the things I need home under my own steam. And it will feel very good to know that the old cliche is true: as long as I have my health, I am fully capable of taking care of the rest myself.
Ottawa is frozen now. In a few months we will have winterlude to celebrate that fact and until the thaw my feet will not touch the ground. Everything hovers. Everything is light.
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