23 June, 2013

Week XXI: Babel, Pt. 1 - The Fall

In the beginning was the word
The word was God the power within
From naught to draw the wind, the seed
To cast upon a fallowed field

The darkness, silent muted strings
Beyond the breath in chaos formed
Unmoved as yet by careful bidding
Without the cast of the word

The night and day were there divided,
Dark retreating in blackened streams
The shadows cast as effigies
For truth to burn in pits of flame

The word was God immutable
The dark defiant to the last
To name creation into being
Then cry for its unmaking

Behold the dusk's collision
The event horizon on the earth
Turning valleys into ink wells
And mountains into clouds

And lo, creation's breath arises
Sculpted clay of dust and ash
The greatest art, the word complete
But knowing not itself

And from the word sprang forth a tree
The fruit as red as a harlot's lips
The provenance of understanding
The mind, the meat, the carnal self

O that ignorance was bliss
The soul kiss of a lover's lips
The song from which, long since forgotten
Would calm the storm in mind

But the lustre of forbidden fruit
A beacon to the words of clay
Held forth as God in memory
And beckoned unto them

And with one bite the word complete
Flowed red like blood now coursing through
The veins like strings, a plucked lament
For Eden and the face of God

A mark in clay, the agony
Of choice laid bare upon their flesh
The knowledge they in trespass gained
Capitulating to the word

Come crashing from a higher plane
Come Raphael, the fruit it seems
To cut away the silver cord
And drive the lovers from the sun

Eastward from the garden then
The cherubim with swords of flame
Came forth to guard the tree within
And point towards the dawn

The bleeding breach of morning sun
Came forth to light the day of death
The fall from grace, the God unmet
The dawn of humankind


15 June, 2013

Week XX: Roughing it

I've spent the past few days at a place with no internet connection. I didn't bring a laptop, and I avoided the TV until tonight - GO BRUINS! But such is my dedication to this blog that I've poached my brother's computer and a painfully slow connection to bring yet another thousand words into being.

I have nothing in particular to write about this week. Let's call it a stream-of-consciousness piece. Haven't done one of those in a while. It's a rather dressed-up sort of a way to say that I'm about to spew a bunch of bullshit. Get out now while there's still time.

This was another week that I was really tempted to post "on vacation" and leave it at that. I took a picture of my son with his little fishing rod, sitting at the end of the dock. I'd thought that I might post that up and leave it with the caption "sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words." Clever, no? And yet once again, the twinge of my writer conscience compelled me to sit down and write, even though no thought of a topic was extant.

I'm on a roll. With this entry, I'll have matched my first round on this blog with 20 entries. I've done better this time, though. Last time around, I frequently posted late, and I missed a couple of weeks. With this, I'll have published by my deadline every week for 20 weeks. I'm gonna allow myself a bit of self-congratulation, even though I'm coming into my 20th post absent much in the way of style, substance, content... I'm just going through the motions and fulfilling my obligation. Like my friend Scott Cook says about touring with his band - it's a lot like working blue collar, a whole lot of gettin' 'er done.

As I type this, I'm watching the sun set behind the mountains surrounding Shuswap Lake. It's been a wonderful break from reality. I'm staying in a place that I'd hesitate to call a cabin - it's more of a house that's much fancier than any place I've ever lived. I've been out exploring on the beach and along the forest trails with my boy, reading good books, ignoring my phone, and playing guitar on the beach. Couldn't ask for a better place to sit and reflect and be truly grateful for all of the love and good opportunities in my life.

I was thinking a little bit about what I wrote last week - ending off my missive with that bit about my words being carried on the winds of love or something to that effect. I almost deleted it, it seemed too hippie, even for me. I realize that I'm constantly running the risk of pigeonholing myself by my attire, diet, frequent acoustic guitar playing and large beard, and I don't know that I need those sorts of phrases following me around. This was a case of feeling that I need to get out of my own way every once in a while and just let what comes out stand on its own. It's a rather nihilistic project to suppose that people want to read what I have to say anyways, so it's not like I'll have any means of veiling myself from criticism.

This blog began as a promise to a writers group that I joined about 6 months ago. There was threat of physical punishment if I failed to make good on my promise to deliver a thousand words by our next meeting. We've been too scattered to meet the past couple of months, and I miss the encouragement. Sometimes I coast and don't work very hard on my posts. Like this week - just banging out a few words to hit the count and the deadline. Next week we'll be meeting for the first time in a good while, and I'm going to renew my commitment to working harder on my writing and producing better content. 

I'm barging into people's Facebook lives every Sunday with entreaties to read what I've written. Is it arrogant to presume that anybody would actually be interested in taking valuable minutes out of their lives to read something like this? I'm in frequent conflict with myself about this blog. To write and ask of others to read or listen is unquestionably an act of vanity. There are other facets as well, but there is undoubtedly an element of self-aggrandizement. I like to hear that people enjoy reading my work, but I don't respond well to simple compliments. I think that they ought to be commensurate with the work that was put into the piece. I think that I said something similar a few weeks ago when I nearly missed my deadline.

It's a game of statistics. Write a thousand words every week for a whole bunch of weeks and they'll start to bell-curve. There'll be a few outliers, like Week XII, which I think is my best piece of writing to date, then there'll be works like this one that don't amount to much, then a bunch of decent pieces to fill up the middle. But I don't want to write just filler. I want to be an excellent writer. That's what I'm aiming for, and I need to put in more time if I want to make good on that goal. Maybe I just need to add the threat of physical punishment back into the mix - write something awesome, or we'll beat you senseless!


Word count: 914

09 June, 2013

Week IXX: I am but one man

I don't often sit and read full articles from the world news section. I'll skim the headlines once in a while. I spend a lot less time reading about American politics than I used to because I've more or less figured it out. They're unbelievably corrupt. This tells me much of what I need to know to understand what's happening. Perhaps that's an incredibly ignorant viewpoint. Like missing the forest for the tress, but in reverse.

The news is upsetting. I read about the civil war in Libya today. Apparently Russia is still selling weapons to the Assad regime. As with every war, the real losers are the innocent civilians caught in the crossfire. It's a humanitarian crisis, the tragedy and scale of which is unfathomable to me, to you, and to anyone else who's never lived in a war zone.

War is too big and I'm too small. I can't influence the actions of governments halfway around the world. I can't help those people. I'll continue to make my small donations to a couple of organizations that I believe in each month. It'll never be enough. Enter one of my favourite turns of phrase from the many protests I've attended and the many volunteer organizations I've joined: think globally, act locally. Easy.

Consider an issue in which the Canadian government is presently invested. Education for women and girls in Afghanistan, for instance. Now follow the (simplified) chain: international humanitarian issue - Canadian diplomatic envoy - local governments and public policy navigation - Canadian embassy - Minister of Foreign Affairs (the Honourable John Baird, Conservative) - office of the Minister - underpaid intern staffer charged with Education in Afghanistan portfolio - you get the point. I'm a lot of steps removed from something that I'd like to see changed, but don't have the wherewithal to influence.

Things like women's rights in countries where religious extremists control public policy aren't prone to rapid improvement. Consider, though, that one might still be an influence for good in this complicated arena while acting on a very local scale. Follow the simplified chain in reverse - attend a supper hosted by the International Women's Catering society - eat some delicious curries - listen to a talk about the group who'll fly to Afghanistan with books and school building supplies paid for by the proceeds from dinner - eat more curry.

It's tempting at this point to run off on a tangent about how leaving the government out of it simplifies the hell out of the chain. That's a topic for another time. I'm just rambling here. Perhaps I'm getting my point across that a small local act can indeed have a profound effect on the world. I eat the samosas from the International Women's Catering society most Saturdays at the market. I like to think that I've really made a difference.

Today I participated in Victoria's first annual SlutWalk. It was organized by friends, and I'm grateful and inspired by their dedication in making the event such a tremendous success. I heard some excellent speakers and some truly humbling and heartbreaking stories from men, women, and trans people about their experiences as victims of rape and sexual violence.

Many of the speakers today addressed the issue that I brought up earlier - the rights and lack thereof for women and girls in many other countries around the world. The prevalence of rape and abuse in many parts of the world is sickening and staggering. Over and over it was stressed that we need to stop the violence and I agree wholeheartedly, but unfortunately a crowd of 300 waving signs and chanting slogans will have little effect on the Taliban's decision making process.

Fortunately, our sign-waving and slogan-chanting can have an immediate effect on people here in Victoria. Perhaps as a consequence of our collective efforts, more women will feel confident in coming forward and naming their abusers. Maybe a few men will remember the admonitions from the speakers today and look to how they might behave differently when interacting with women in social or sexual situations.

I have not been a victim of abuse. I grew up in a good home and I was fortunate to be raised by a good man who taught me that respect for women and girls was paramount. I can't undo the poor example that's set for my local brethren by other parents/relatives/friends/media outlets/whoever else. What I can do is speak out about what's right, and try to set the best example that I can for my friends, my relatives, and my son.

My number one goal in life to be a good father. I want to raise a child who makes the world better by his presence in it. I suppose that's a common goal for most parents. My son is not yet four years old, and I can already see my influence on his behaviour beginning to wane as he explores his own mind, his emotions, his ways of interacting with the world. I can't force him to be a good person. I can do my best to set a good example and hope that it sticks. When I think of the world I'd like to leave for him, it most certainly features men who are self-assured, forthcoming, responsible, communicative, and respectful towards the women in their lives.

It's difficult to find good role models as a man in today's world. They're not readily available. A lot of attention to this issue tends to focus on the unfair and damaging portrayal of women in popular culture. While this is unquestionably an important topic and well worth addressing, it's a lot less common to hear about the lack of influential men in pop culture and how that lack might cause some confusion among the ranks of adolescent boys.

I'm not well versed in pop culture, and I would struggle to provide many examples of popular male role models, good or bad. I suppose that I'm assuming things based on my impression of what's taught to be acceptable behaviour. It's especially galling to me that a pervasive and accepted model of interaction between men and women is essentially a game of predator/prey. But men are not predators, and women are not prey. I abhor the notion that sex is a pursuit of capture and conquest, and that gaining consent is like a war of attrition where women are taught to fend off the relentless advance of men who seem to have little respect for stated boundaries. The whole of the characterization needs to be thrown out for the sake of new language and new understanding.

I worry about the messages that my son will be exposed to when he starts to seek out media on his own. I hope that I can equip him with the tools to think about them critically and skeptically. I'm a bit far on to be changing courses towards international diplomacy, but maybe he'll take up a banner and a cause and get to changing the world. Or maybe he'll do what he can to make his neighbourhood and his community better. That's what I'm trying to do. I'm doing my best to raise my child in the company of people who will teach him about respect, justice, honesty, consent, and a genuine and enduring love for the people who he meets.

It feels like hubris to say that I can change the world, but on the other hand, it feels like resignation to say that I can't. I feel like I'd get about equal weight on both sides of that argument. Of course you can change the world, get out there and do it! Or, like David Bowie says, planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do. Maybe my local actions will ripple out internationally some day. I'll probably never know either way. As far as I can tell, that lack of knowledge is perhaps the most important element.

I'll never know how far my actions and words will reach. It's not my privilege in life to know. Their course is their own, and I cannot dictate it. I'll never know how many lives will be touched by the things that I choose to put out into the world. All the more reason to ensure whether for the community association meeting, the protest, the lesson, or just the chat with my neighbours, that my words and actions come from a desire to see them carried on the winds of love, honesty, and good intentions.


Word count: 1,408


02 June, 2013

Week ƢƥƧ: Relapsing in the 6th world

They swore they'd swear upon throwns and jouls I was barking mad if I ever tolled the tail. That the price would be the gratest pane, that my very life should be forfeit should I brake the silence of their story. That they wood most assuredly remove my head and put it upon a pike. Eye've knot yet scene a fish of sufficient size. Thus I press on as applique hoping the holes in my looming yarn might befit a shuttle. Here proceeds the tail of the Fools who did once command the thrown, but were duelly deposed.

Twas the heaviest year of hour Lourd, and the reign water flooded cobblestone streets, storming the keeps as aye may halve in my younger daze. All the Fools were golled, embossed as promoted men in pyrite. Their florid faces watched us minute by minute from towers and banners, darkening as their dopplegangers slowly dyed, as Patina dusted their visages with soot from the mine which swept them like chimneys each mourning.

We prostrated ourselves beneath their iron gays, cursing allowed and greaving, that their holey legs may be braced against the midnight cadjunkling of shins on low-slung furnishings in their ornately appointed hauls and rheums. Our own ankles brews the more purpling for want of the greaves of our making. Such was the injustice of the Fools.

Then came the day that Shens Blintz the Greaver peed at knight. And upon his return, his tibia made fast the gap between its protuberances and the rude footstool in his hows. And it was in this moment, as his whales were carried fourth upon the wind, that he took up his maul and swore a sacred packed that the sweat of his brow and the lay boar of his hands would never again protect the ossifications of the Fools.

Twas then that Blintz carried out what would come to be gnome as The Grate Greaving. For he left his hows right that moment and betowned the door at the blacksmith where he did greave by day. There did he wheeled his maul and bring it to bare upon the hilt of the anvil! And the spangtingulation caused all who whirr thayer to cassed their ayes upon him. And he gathered a pear of greaves from the bench and equipped his own shins, and all were agape four they had never dared to ware the greaves of the Fools. And with rage in his ayes and pain in his shins, he there stood and cried out, that all who greaved with him day and knight might here his oratorio. And he spoke thusly, in temorious tones:

I shall greave my Lords no moor! Four bye day eye greave for the Fools, and bye knight likewise for the bones of my legs, four yew and eye are swot of pane! Such grate and terrible pane! Our legs are brewsed upon hour footstools and our tables and our beds! No moor shall the iron gays of the Fools in their banners and busts caws me to maul the steal that they might traverse their floors uncandled buy knight! The thyme is nigh for revolt and the season of grate change is upon us! We shall brews the shins of our oppressors!

And the greavers proclaimed him grate and my tea! And they took up their mauls and pax, and upon their own legs did they greave until awl were justly equipped. And they took wrest for cake. Then a caul went up among them and they dawned their hoods and marched upon the Fools. The time for greaving was nigh, the wreck owning close at hand. They marched up the rowed, all begreaven and clanking, and their numbers did swell as they traversed the town square and turned up the hill towards the howses of the Fools.

Twas a quarter passed don, all the Fools still abed, all the Fools still asnooze as the greavers were led by the newly benighted Sir Blintz, who knelt before the blacksmiths at the Fountain of Foolainia and was there brewsed by their mauls upon the head. And when he regained consciousness, they bid him arise! Their words whirr prowed and terce as the hour of prayer - Arise, Sir Blintz! And carry us into an unsplinted future!

The Fools in their beds, their galipot burned lo and smoldering, awoke to the cantankerous clambering commotion of the critical collection of captious, choleric company chips, clanging and crying curdling charges! Change! Commutation! A cabal of churlish citizens champing to complete the coup and correct centuries of corruption!

The Fools did espy awl the smiths in their greaves, and whirr soar afraid. They bolted from their beds, bashing themselves on posts and pots and stools and sots, seeking to flea before Sir Blintz and his greaven hoard. But alas, twas no use, too little and too late, four the Fools had groan fat. The speedy, greaven shins of Blintz and his men made short work of the shorings about the Fools palace, and the doors were kicked down!

Taste our tibias! Suffer of our shins! Such whirr the cries about the palace as the irate, iron-clad chattel burst through the burros of the Fools and booted them from their rheums. And in little thyme a tall, the lassed of the Fools had quailed and the footstools and coffee tables all about them were kicked into kindling. And in their screaming decampment, the Fools could be herred to say that Sir Blintz would besotted and fowned gill tea of hie tree son!

But their cries were awl four naught, and their whirreds as gangue, and they did flea as dusted motes. Sir Blintz was made to rain over the lands and nourish the folk that they might greave in peas until the enned of their daze. And here concludes our tail.


Whirred count:  : ҉҉҉҉