Feb 9
The snow is falling thick and beautiful. Feel it touch your face and dissolve. Become a part of you. How many eternities, how many worlds before that flake touched you? It was meant for you. And now you are young again, and you just know you are about to discover something beautiful.
The Shittiest Generation
The other day a friend and I went to see the movie 1917. It’s an Oscar favourite, this film, a unique technical achievement, and straight forward exposition of virtue amidst the chaos of war. Uniquely though, it’s one devoid of politics, and the engine that drives the story is not the unhappy necessity of war, but of one human’s commitment to another.
Commitment to people– and I suppose I mean the physical, practical presence in the lives of others– seems harder to recognize now than it did in the movie. I think of my generation, Gen X (1965-1980, roughly). In the west, we were the first generation to not surpass our parents in terms of opportunity and economic reward. Born into an already fallen world, our strategy seemed to be to opt-out, to create an ironic distance between ourselves and the primary institutions and culture that governed us.
Everything was a scam, everything was insincere. The truth veiled and remote. We bonded more over the things we hated than loved, and whatever “shared values” we had were inherited rather than earned, accidentally reduced to rights rather than privileges. But most important, was that the self was centre of all, and that our unique, individual “cool” must be cast into the world. We hoped, I think, that it seemed as if we had intentionally positioned ourselves out of reach of the institutions that we knew would never admit us, attempting to create a moral victory from what we intuited would be certain defeat. This act of curation was deemed punk, and so we floated, suspended between the juvenile and the adult, never quite letting go of the myth of our own potential.
And now, older, we text one another about what we’re watching on Netflix. We blog. We post favourite book covers from our youth. Photograph our meals. Share charts that depict the certainty of our politics. Each of these gestures a ghost, a messenger from outside of time suggesting what sort of person we could be, rather than evidence of the person we actually became.
As much as we’d like to, we don’t get to define ourselves.
Our identities are collaborative efforts, requiring the give and take–and the wild, unpredictable stresses of a near infinite variety of encounters– before a shared understanding of who we are begins to emerge.
We need to engage with people, not just the thought bubbles they post above their heads, and we need to learn to live with, and understand, not just their horrible flaws and complexities, but our own, too.
As they say, no person is an island.
January in Toronto.
Days the colour of concrete.
They seem to encircle you, these days.
I am up early for an appointment and am standing on the sidewalk waiting for my ride. The day is just now lightening, and two squirrels chase one another on the street before me. It seems more than playful, it seems joyous. As if a time of liberty before the human world rises up to dominate this still floating morning.
People, crisply dressed for work, begin to exit homes. Fresh and unsullied, they’re putting their best foot forward. They’re going to crush meetings. They’re going to fall in love. They’re going to be kind. They’re going to do better than they did yesterday. Each one of them hopeful, still free from the accumulations and defeats of the day, still their best version of themselves. And above a blue sky opening up, a blue sky stretching over us all, and if that isn’t optimism I don’t know what is.
The walk back from school is slow transit.
More so, when there is snow.
For Jones, it’s like some sort of magical Play-Doh has blanketed the city. He throws himself into snowbanks. Lies there like a soldier waiting to take a hill. Tumbles off and into a neighbouring yard, makes a snow angel. Stomps on the thin ice puddles, cracks them up, and then slushes through the remainder. He lifts every snow boulder he can find. Holds it over his head like The Incredible Hulk and then smashes it on the ground.
A big, fresh grin on his face.
His cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling.
His little bowtie peeking up beneath his vivid, blue snowsuit.
And then he picks up a stick. The perfect stick. Ideal weight and length. It is an instrument of magic. Jones trails it along a wrought iron fence, delighting in the sound. “Daddy, I am playing a song for you, a song you like.” And then he starts ringing the bells of the bicycles locked against the fence, and the song becomes something larger. The sparrow cheeping from within a hedge, distant voices arriving and vanishing, a car driving slickly past on the road, the swish-swish of Jones’ snowsuit, my breathing. All these sounds now alive and in concert. One song instead of many. This music, as if called forth by Jones to come into being at this exact time and place.
Feb 9
Today I have given The Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund:
****************************************************
Know Paw Patrol?
It really big deal.
Cartoon for two-legged pups.
Make billions of treats and bones for bloated two-leggers who exploit worker dogs.
They assholes.
Heidi bite every one of them in most vulnerable spot.
Heidi imagine so much blood. So many two-legger screaming. Pools of enemy blood everywhere, Heidi lap it up. Help Heidi fall asleep thinking of such things. Make her happy.
HAHAHAHA!
So fun!
Heidi ask know Marshall?
He fireman/paramedic dog on Paw Patrol.
Dalmatian.
He big deal.
He party with Peppa the Pig, Dora the Explorer, Boss Baby and Iggy Azalea.
So pretty big.
Heidi screw him.
It true.
Many times.
Marshall CRAZY about Heidi.
Would not leave her alone. Would not stop licking Heidi. And let Heidi tell you, what they say about Dalmatians is true. Big dick. Very big. Black blotches on white. Chocolate and vanilla. Heidi like that very much. Heidi a little bit kinky. A sexual adventurer. But what Heidi no like is Marshall. He not smart and very negative!! All he do when not talking about career is complain. “No way,” Heidi say! “You take all your negative energy to the Twitter and leave Heidi alone!”
So yeah, Heidi broke up with him.
Heidi don’t care about Paw Patrol money. Heidi just care about being happy and eating and killing.
Heidi no respond to friend request on Facebook from Marshall.
It over.
Heidi simple dog.
Heidi very, very good dog.
It is early.
Way too early.
Our bedroom is still pitch black, and with the window open a crack, it’s also very, very cold. Another night of rolling, insufficient sleep, and all Rachelle and I want to do is dig deeper into the duvet, into dream, and sleep until we’re rested. We could rise in the next century, for all we care. It doesn’t matter. And then through the baby monitor I can hear Jones. He has probably been awake for 20 minutes, but he knows not to come into our bedroom until the alarm goes off, and so he waits sweetly in the dark. This morning he is amusing himself by singing.
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
And as I am listening to his small voice, I know that he is lying on his back, his bare feet up and against the wall. His Frankenstein pillows scattered about, a drawing of a shark on his desk, his tiny teddy bear ‘Little’ in his arms.
The astonishing beauty of arriving at this point in time.
This small, quiet moment.
Something one day we will surely close our eyes to recall.
Last week one of Iran’s top military men was assassinated by the USA.
Qasem Soleimani.
I had never heard of him before, nor do I suspect had the vast majority of people who like me, live somewhere within the mainstream. And so, the media gave us blanket coverage of his assassination, and in short order, after gathering as much as we could from social media, we all began to feel like we could go online and speak knowledgeably about the complicated history and uncertain future that encircled this radioactive event. The social media armies assembled, firing off memes, proclamations and supportive links. #WWWIII was trending on Twitter, as ironically, was Weight Watchers, who by dint of their hashtag in support of an Oprah tour– #thisismyWW–got sucked into the algorithimic machinery and were happily capitalizing on the extra publicity an obliterating nuclear apocalypse might yield.
And such is the world we live in.
In no time at all, people were absolutely set in their opinions. It was as if some sort of magic had just been deployed. In a flash, people went from absolute ignorance that this man existed, to absolute certainty about the motives behind his death, and what it all might mean to the poor world trying to keep up. This– the rapid mobilization of certainty in a population in which there can be no certainty– is in it’s way, as chilling as the act of war itself.
But it’s all chilling, very chilling, and here’s hoping our better angels call to us all in the new year.
These are the text messages I received from my wife Rachelle the other day:
****************************************************
Rachelle: Who is Alexis?
Rachelle: The Bluetooth speaker thing that talks?
Rachelle: Pickle, her name isn’t Alexis, it’s Alexa.
Rachelle: Yes, I am sure.
Rachelle: Well, I don’t know why you think it’s Alexis. Did you ever stalk an Alexis when you were younger?
Rachelle: Oh. What was it called then if it wasn’t “stalking?”
Rachelle: “Displays of ardor.”
Rachelle: Fine.
Rachelle: Did you display a lot of ardor in your youth, Pickle?
Rachelle: Just committed to the idea of love. I see.
Rachelle: Yes.
Rachelle: Of course the question includes celebrities! Why wouldn’t it???
Rachelle: “Because it never went anywhere?!” Sweet Jesus, Pickle.
Rachelle: Alexis Carrington Colby. Who is she?
Rachelle: The evil ex-wife of Blake Carrington as played by Joan Collins on Dynasty?
Rachelle: Before my time.
Rachelle: Waaay before my time.
Rachelle: I sometimes forget just how old you are. It’s no wonder you’re having so much trouble with technology. If you don’t call her by the right name, then ALEXA won’t respond.
Rachelle: She doesn’t hate you.
Rachelle: She just not fluent in Picklese yet.
Rachelle: I’m glad you like the Christmas gift, though.
Rachelle: Jones certainly loves it.
Rachelle: So much shouting and shrieking as my two Alpha Males fight it out for dominance over the music.
Rachelle: Yes, Jones does seem to be winning.
Rachelle: I saw him push you over the other day so he could shout his choice at Alexa before you did!
Rachelle: I was. Very proud.
Rachelle: He’s a winner, Pickle.
Rachelle: And I have to admit, I do like his picks more than yours.
Rachelle: The Ants Go Marching, Ghostbusters, The Theme from Jaws? They’re classics.
Rachelle: You seem to request an awful lot of Garth Brooks.
Rachelle: Yeah, you’re right.
Rachelle: Very little of it gets played because of your elocution, I guess. Who is this Gary US Bonds Alexa keeps playing instead?
Rachelle: Another old timer, eh?
Rachelle: What did he die of?
Rachelle: Really??
Rachelle: Shut the front door!!
Rachelle: I mean, keeping a Boa as a pet just seems to be asking for trouble, but I guess they think differently down in Florida.
Rachelle: Live and let live, I guess.
Rachelle: Okay, the dentist just called me in, wish me luck, Pickle! xo
The limbo between Christmas and New Year’s. The city drifting the quiet days before one thing changes into the next. It’s twilight, and the trees outside are inky silhouettes set against the sky. Beautiful and uncanny, they resemble x-rays. The leafless branches, each one like a vein stemming off a parent artery, each one revealing some greater magnitude of order. Such vast and intricate architecture, and so much more unseen and buried beneath.
A flickering light, a plane, slowly crosses over the moon.
Every one of us in some form of transit.
All things holy and mysterious.
They’re tearing about the gym in the moments before the recital. Running and sliding, their shoes squeaking on the floor, they collide and bounce off of one another. Smiling, drinking the air, they radiate simple, animal happiness. Every cell in their bodies humming, every cell glowing.
It’s hard to tell when this fun stops and the recital begins, but it begins and Jones is in to it. He waves his snowflake wand about like Thor’s hammer. And then he loses his place, looks lost for a moment. He then catches sight of Rachelle and I and brightens. He smiles and gives a little wave before stepping back into the performance. And this unexpected moment goes deep into me. As if something permanently shifted. To be the anchor and not the kite. That is my life. And Jones pulls himself together and is preforming Santa Shark with the rest of the junior kindergarten class. There he is, wearing his favourite suit, his arms opening and closing like a shark’s jaw, his hunger for the world so limitless, his love for all that it contains, so urgent.
Did you know you can write your own about section just like this one? It's really easy. Navigate to Appearance → Widgets and create a new Text Widget. Now move it to the Footer 1 sidebar.
A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now.
Linen Theme by The Theme Foundry
Copyright © 2024 . All rights reserved.