What stunned my class most about the book was the casual attitude the characters had toward slavery. I mean, how could they not know that slavery was an evil? Nothing could have been more clear to us, nothing. Slavery was pretty much the most evil thing we could think of, and it was mind-blowing to imagine that this wasn’t vividly reflected in the experience of our ancestors.
And so we figured that people back then must have been hateful and stupid monsters, willfully acting in their own best interests at the cost of others. And so we judged everybody in the book, imagining ourselves morally superior to the louts, trolls and insane people who populated the past.
But this didn’t make any sense.
There was absolutely no reason for me to think I had a more finely developed sense of morality than anybody who came before me. There must have been some decent people who participated in slavery and had no idea that what they were doing was wrong, no? They were simply living in the world into which they were born, and to them slavery, like the weather or landscape, was an unexamined fact of life rather than a conscious act of moral will.
This seemed clear to me. I was not unique. I was like everybody else, and that, of course, is a very scary thing to admit to oneself.
Technology has accelerated and amplified our culture in ways that are inconceivable. Every year it seems that the world has changed more than in all the previous millennia stacked before it. It’s dislocating, and I often think of technology, in particular our online lives, as an emergent dimension we don’t yet understand or know how to interact with. Whenever we’re uncomfortable or bored with our physical lives, however briefly, a smart phone serves as a magic wand we can wave to take us to this other realm, and put in that context, none of us should be surprised to find discontent, even anger there.
Our desire for social justice has far outstripped our ability to deliver it, and in many ways I see ideological conflicts as dimensional clashes rather than moral ones. By the standards of today, so much of what we as a society did just ten years ago seems appalling, but as we judge it’s worth remembering that ten years ago we had no idea what we were doing was wrong or unfair. We were just operating within the framework of time and place. So how then to police this if every generation, indeed, every person, is going to be witlessly complicit in ghastly acts ?
Of course, revolution is not about justice, it’s about change.
And as the future and the past battle for supremacy in a ruined present, it seems that the only way it can end, the only way it has always ended, is like in a Shakespearean tragedy—everybody on stage dies, and then, the world purified and laid bare, is seized by those, now done with watching, who had been waiting in the wings.
As a child it’s a time of unquestioned magic. Delirious with excitement, we charged about like maniacs while wonderful things fell all around us. Time had no meaning. Everything and everybody was imperishable and glowing, weightless.
As adults, now visited by disappointment and loss, sidetracked and mortal, Christmas has a depth that often feels like weight. Everything ages– we miss people and sometimes, we miss the people we were, too. Vulnerable in ways we never quite imagined, we watch the children now, and knowing that all things change, a subtle undercurrent of nostalgia and melancholy runs through the holiday, and even as we’re living the moment, we’re aware of its passing.
This year, our families were with us, intact and safe.
It’s a stunningly beautiful thing, that, and to consider for one moment all the small, unseen miracles that took place in order to keep us together through the years, distance and unimaginable fires is to be filled with respect and gratitude.
At any rate, all families are miracles, and on this Christmas there were probably around 20 of us sitting around a long, make-shift table. Our two nephews are about 11 and 13 now, and we’ve had the privilege of being close to them and watching them grow.
They look like angels. Talented and mysterious, they hover on a periphery as if a beautiful visitation.
Their parents told us that they wanted to do a small performance after dinner, and when the time came they quietly, shyly, even, stood at the end of the table– one wearing the fur hunting cap that he got for Christmas, the other with bracelets of candy on his thin wrists. Then, after glancing at one another and nodding, they began to snap their fingers in rhythm and sing.
I had never heard them sing before. I’d never even thought about it. And so, right there, something I had never considered, something I had never imagined, was taking place before me. And they sang beautifully. It was utterly stunning, as dislocating and awesome a discovery as if suddenly finding a majestic snow-capped mountain where the 7-11 had always been. It was, I thought, magic.
They were singing the old John Lennon song “Beautiful Boy,” and they were singing it to Jones, our four month old baby boy. They weren’t up there looking for attention or validation, they weren’t pushed by their parents. They were self-directed and acting out of love. It was a pledge, I think, a rite of welcome. Jones would always be protected and loved by everybody in that room and the family beyond. It was such a pure and astonishing moment, so holy, that it felt like time expanded in all directions and was really just one big circle that contained us all.
It was not an easy year for us, but Lord, we were so lucky, and there was Jones, sitting on the lap of his beaming mother, and all around him, for as many years as could be counted, family, each one a loving star in his cosmos.
The nurses found him elbow deep in the garbage can, sifting through the spent trash as if it were the soil of his native PEI. He was harvesting anything that felt like a potato to his hands, and then dropping whatever it was on the floor by his hospital bed for later use.
Whether it was a sleeping dream he was having or a waking one no longer mattered. Lost on the rolling seas of dementia, Marcel had passed into the timeless overlap of memory where reality is nothing more than an unbidden chemical spark from deep within the mystery of his receding brain.
Marcel was harmless and never given to rage, and the nurses seemed to love him, treating him more like a pet than a patient. You could see the gentleness within him, the shapes of the men he used to be who now pushed against the diseased exterior: the fair trader, the husband, the guy who was always the first to dive in off the dock, the grandfather who did corny magic tricks and loved fishing.
Now in his mid-nineties, he wandered the corridors half-dressed. Like a poltergeist given form, he drifted in and out of the rooms on the 14th floor as if living all the lives contained therein, with each visit subtly rearranging the small articles he came upon, always setting this new house in order. The expression on his face that must have once been so clear was now lost and uncertain. He seemed blinded, a subterranean creature guided through these alien and unnaturally smooth corridors not by sight but by scent, called to this strange transit by a timeless ocean that only he could discern.
I recently sent him some Medieval manuscript images that I found online and asked him to explain them to me. These are the results:
You should think of the images of the illuminated manuscripts of the 8th to the 15th century as the Instagram of the day. In this particular “post” we see a Medieval version of the Kardashian sisters as they conjure magical spells while encircling a tree. These young women are almost certainly witches, and when the community uncovered their black magic, they would have surely been tied to wild horses and torn apart while the townsfolk cheered and threw potatoes. (Note the surgically enhanced breasts. The cosmetic surgeons of the day used to insert clay molds beneath the skin in order to achieve the desired shape. Mortality rates were very high with this procedure. )
This is a highly skilled depiction of some very put-out dogs standing in a field. One of the dogs, the white one with the regal collar around its neck and the small erection, looks slightly ashamed. He likely offended the commoner dogs (note the mottled colours and blunt expressions that characterize the serf animals) by questioning their religious values and then attempting to rape them. Think of this panel as one that prefigures Cute Overload.
Monks did more than just illuminate manuscripts. For recreation they played other monasteries in a Medieval version of Ultimate. Of course, a frisbee had not yet been invented, so the monks used a scapula, also known as a human shoulder blade. These were festive occasions for the monks, characterized by excessive drinking (They brewed beer, too) and the ribald singing of team songs. This image of the bat is the team crest of the Carthusian Bats, a formidable franchise known for their vows of silence and ferocity on the field.
This is the equivalent of a Medieval paparazzi shot or stolen cell phone photo. It captures the King and Queen in an unguarded and intimate moment as they enjoy a hot tub. The Queen, obviously spent after intercourse in the hot water, catches her breath, while the robust King, carrying his Holy Ejaculate Saucer, heads off to enjoy the pleasures of his many concubines. This image should be thought of as one you might find on 4chan.
The beatified and sacred have gathered in this image for an annual event in which awards are given out to the holy. It happened once a year, was very secretive, and is vaguely analogous to the Academy Awards. The holy would each have a vote, which they cast in private, on such categories as, “Best Performance While Living Atop A Pillar,” or “Most Holy Self-Flagelator Of The Year.” It was very much looked forward to by the participants, and they all hoped to win, even if they took a public stance of humility and abasement—just look at the attention they paid to their wardrobe for this event.
]]>Otter Jan 20- Feb 18
Otters are typically very strange, many ultimately suffering from some form of mental illness. Left to their own devices they usually become unscrupulous and disease prone.
Wolf Feb 19- Mar 20
The Wolf is good with weapons.
Falcon Mar 21- Apr 19
The Falcon is a decisive, natural born leader, although they typically hate other people. The Falcon can often be a little bit conceited, but as their judgment is often very good, a little bit of arrogance is understandable. Falcons must be wary of gluten.
Beaver Apr 20-May 20
Mostly business, the Beaver gets the job at hand done with maximum efficiency and aplomb. Practical and unsentimental, the Beaver has a terrible sense of direction and will often get lost, thus making for very poor scouts.
Deer May 21- June 20
The Deer is the quick-witted joker of the zodiac. The Deer is also known for it’s wonderful voice, one that’s capable of mesmerizing people with song or creating perfect imitations of all manner of wildlife. Both Prince and Curtis Mayfield are Deers.
Woodpecker Jun 21-Jul 20
Woodpeckers are extremely irritating and often shunned. Notorious gossips, they’re known for spreading discord throughout the community and are often assigned the most dangerous tasks facing the tribe, like tasting suspicious meat or vegetation. Very stingy and lacking in generosity, there has never been a Woodpecker chief.
Salmon Jul 21- Aug 21
Electric, unpredictable and wholly creative, the Salmon is a true live wire. Many Salmons gravitate toward story telling or work as shamans. Generous, intelligent and empathetic, the Salmon never has a shortage of friends. Lucky number is 6.
Bear Aug 22- Sep 21
Pragmatic and methodical, the Bear is the one to call when a steady hand is needed. However, the Bear will always be lazy, prone to obsessive masturbation and very easy to manipulate. Few Bears live beyond the age of 40.
Raven Sep 22- Oct 22
Ravens, noted for their great physical beauty are demanding, inconsistent, vindictive and abrasive. Favourite food: maize.
Snake Oct 23- Nov 22
The Snake is a natural in all matters of the spirit. This preoccupation with the ethereal plain often leads other to view them as mysterious and sometimes frightening, but the truth is that they are often funny, inspiring and helpful, although prone to abnormal mood swings and chest infections.
Owl Nov 23- Dec 21
As changeable as the wind, the Owl is a tough one to pin down. A vicious temper keeps most people at a distance, but when properly nurtured and supported, the Owl can often become an adept cook, excelling particularly with soups.
Goose Dec 22- Jan 19
Persevering, dogged and ambitious to a fault, the Goose always achieves their goals. Indifferent to the approval of others, the Goose is determined to succeed at all costs. Those born to this animal sign make for excellent assassins.
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