Well, here it is the morning after the biggest concert weekend St. John’s has ever seen, and it feels like it was all a dream. Two full-length shows by two contrasting giants of the music world—in fact, it was two nights of Bob Dylan, followed by three nights of Leonard Cohen. I enjoyed the Dylan show, but I’ve got to say that the Cohen show was the best concert I’ve ever seen.
It occurs to me that some so-called performers could take a lesson from LC. It was a rare treat to see Bob Dylan in concert and I was thrilled just to be in the audience. In fact, I felt privileged that he would come back here not only for the second time, but also on his birthday, which was the night I saw him. When he and his band took the stage, all wearing dark hats and suits, it took me a couple of minutes to figure out which one was him. We had fantastic seats, but Dylan didn’t do anything to distinguish himself. He stood at his keyboard the entire night, with his back turned to half the stadium, including us. He sang a couple of songs that most people knew (bluesy versions of “Shelter From the Storm” and “Blowin’ in the Wind”), a few more lesser knowns that I recognized, but the rest were relatively obscure. That’s all fine and good, but I couldn’t really tell if he was enjoying himself or not. I did sense a restlessness from the crowd, though, and that speaks volumes for Dylan’s performance skills, which are pretty much nil.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s a pretty good musician, with a unique voice, and a gift for lyrics. He can write strong melodies too, but he didn’t showcase many of those when I saw him. The audience was extremely appreciative of his meager efforts and coaxed him into an encore, though I sensed (much like Ron Hynes whom I saw a couple of weeks ago) that he just wasn’t all that interested in audience reaction or staying any longer than he had to. That’s his prerogative and, again, I enjoyed just being there. I mean, it’s freakin’ Bob Dylan deigning to come to St. John’s, Newfoundland. We should be grateful. And we were. Problem is, he acted as if we should be grateful too.
I understand all about Dylan’s reputation as an artist. And just like “Manny being Manny” in baseball, when Dylan hides under a hat and refuses to play guitar, sing popular hits, or acknowledge the audience in any way, that’s just Dylan being Dylan. We love him for it, but almost in spite of his behaviour. His greatness as a songwriter and pop culture icon is beyond dispute. I just don’t feel like I really SAW Bob Dylan. Or maybe what I saw really was Bob Dylan, who’s a bit of a ghost at the best of times. Either way, I’m glad I went, glad he came, but his show didn’t even compare to Leonard Cohen’s.
Leonard was warm, entertaining, intelligent, witty, self-effacing and appreciative of an audience who adored his every word, lyric, or tip of the cap on stage. From the opening song, “Dance Me to the End of Time” to the 11 or 12-song encore (there were several encores), he was fully engaged with the people who’d paid 80 bucks a ticket to sit in his presence. There were a few songs I would have liked to have heard, but he sang so many of his best tunes that it’s impossible to fault him. “I’m Your Man.” “Take This Waltz.” “Tower of Song.” “Democracy”.” “The Future.” “Suzanne.” And my personal favorite “Hallelujah”. There were so many great songs, and he executed them to perfection, sounding far better than his recordings. Leonard’s voice has just gotten better, deeper, and more resonant as he’s aged. He’s 74 and makes a few jokes at his own expense, but on stage he dances and moves more gracefully than most grandfathers, I assure you.
The audience just hung on his every word. The air was electric, a standing ovation occurring at the end of at least half (if not two-thirds) of the songs. The backup band was absolutely amazing, with everything from a harp and harmonica to a saxophone, keyboards, drums, various stringed instruments that I didn’t even recognize—each played expertly. Leonard kept making sure his band and backup singers were well-recognized, and they were. I could go on for half an hour just about how good Sharon Robinson and the Webb sisters were, but suffice to say they added strength and substance to an already magnificent show. In all, he played for three hours and ten minutes, including a short break, and I’m sure the audience would have stayed for two more hours at least. I, for one, just didn’t want to leave.
So what’s the difference? I think there’s an arrogance that accumulates in the soul of certain performers after they’ve had a measure of success. I mean, Cohen has just as much reason to be full of himself and “artistic” as Dylan, but I’ve always gotten the feeling that Dylan disdains his audience, despises “having” to perform in order to be heard or to make a living. He’d probably be much happier just writing songs and singing them for himself, but it’s hard to sell CDs that way. So he puts up with us and takes our hard-earned money away with it. I don’t mind that I am grateful for having seen him in concert, but I mind that he takes me and you for granted.
Leonard Cohen has always struck me as a man of passion—a spiritual, sensual soul who genuinely loves life and everything it has to offer. He can be sarcastic and funny, of course, quite cutting in fact. But it’s different from Dylan’s hard-edged dislike for the world (or so it seems). I came away from the Dylan show just glad to have seen a legend, but wondering if maybe he could have done more to win me over. That’s what a performer is. I came away from the Cohen show with a huge smile on my face, my wife and I chattering happily about how it was the best show we’ve ever seen. This morning, there’s almost a sense of loss. I wish I could see him again tonight, but alas, the show is all sold out long ago.
It’s like St. John’s made a friend last night that we’ll never see again. Bob Dylan is a passing acquaintance whose like is rarely seen in these parts, while Leonard Cohen leaves you with a song in your heart and a glimpse into the soul of a man who’s always had an aura of mystery around him, much as Dylan has. And it’s not just because Leonard sang songs that most of his audience knew; even the ones I didn’t know (there were at least a couple) were sung with the intent of an offering, a piece of the songwriter going out to a carefully listening audience. We were being sung to and not merely being sung at.
Not to be too harsh, but while Dylan might appropriately claim “I’m Not There,” Cohen winningly suggests, “I’m Your Man.” Dylan’s not the first performer I’ve seen with that kind of arrogance, merely the best. At least he’s earned the right, sort of. But Leonard Cohen’s earned it too, but chooses instead to include us in the celebration of his talent and success, as well as of life and good music. It just doesn’t get any better.
I have had a religious experience that I won’t be forgetting any time soon.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Full of Gravy
Is it just me, or have we all gone insane?
The latest piece of chickenpoop we've put up with (and there's so much of it) has to do with Mary Brown's fried chicken. They were going to start advertising their product with the slogan "Hail Mary!"
You KNOW what comes next.
A clergyman in St. John's caught a whiff of what was cookin' and lodged a complaint that maybe the the company had gone too far, suggesting that there was something sacreligious about using those words to sell poultry. After all, Mary the virgin mother-to-be of Jesus, saviour of all mankind (including women, I'd presume, or hope) was greeted with the very same phrase "Hail Mary!" (you know the rest) when the archangel informed her she was with child.
It's not right, the church thinks, to be comparing chicken to the mother of Jesus. And perhaps that priest was right. I dunno. But the whole "Hail Mary!" thing was meant as a bit of a joke (by Mary Brown's, I mean, not by the archangel, who I presume had no sense of humour; otherwise, the church might have one as well). Meant to make people smile in an otherwise dreary world, or a run past the chicken store. Otherwise known as the chicken run.
We live in a time when every time somebody gets upset with something, they yell at somebody or complain really loud until somebody changes it. I don't mind that they complain. But I DO definitely mind that the company always says, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend anyone." Maybe they did intend offense, but I doubt it. Maybe they're just thoughtless. Or maybe (and this is my personal favorite) they're just irreverent. 'Cause nobody's allowed to be irreverent anymore, or else you'll have the Thought Police or the Politically Correct Party (who really does know what's best for everyone) telling on you and you're really gonna get it if you don't change what you said. You don't have to change what you think, I suppose, as long as you don't say what you mean. We got rules against that. We can't handle the truth, and we know it, so don't you dare say it unless you don't mean it.
I first saw this item on the news yesterday evening, and just as they were finished reporting it on CBC, I thought the journalist should have finished by saying, "Mary Brown's unveiled their new slogan today: 'Jesus, this chicken is good!'"
I guess that would be offensive too, though I doubt Jesus would care too much, what with world hunger, war, and pestilence to worry about. The thing is, what that pastor was saying was that he personally was offended by the message from Mary Brown's. Problem is, that pastor has a flock. And that flock listens to that pastor and supposedly believes whatever that pastor tells him is right or wrong, left or right, up or down. He's a man of God, unlike a mere chicken friar, who supposedly isn't a man of God, but is perhaps a man of poultry instead. I don't for a second believe Mary Brown's is the new evil empire. We have enough of those (Starbucks, Wal-mart, the New York Yankees, and the Montreal Canadiens).
Sometimes I just wish that those who have nothing to say wouldn't go around saying it. Live and let live. Let sleeping chickens lie. And don't watch football for fear of catching sight of a "Hail Mary" pass. God doesn't like the hail mary pass or people who use them. Maybe that's why they never work.
Amen.
The latest piece of chickenpoop we've put up with (and there's so much of it) has to do with Mary Brown's fried chicken. They were going to start advertising their product with the slogan "Hail Mary!"
You KNOW what comes next.
A clergyman in St. John's caught a whiff of what was cookin' and lodged a complaint that maybe the the company had gone too far, suggesting that there was something sacreligious about using those words to sell poultry. After all, Mary the virgin mother-to-be of Jesus, saviour of all mankind (including women, I'd presume, or hope) was greeted with the very same phrase "Hail Mary!" (you know the rest) when the archangel informed her she was with child.
It's not right, the church thinks, to be comparing chicken to the mother of Jesus. And perhaps that priest was right. I dunno. But the whole "Hail Mary!" thing was meant as a bit of a joke (by Mary Brown's, I mean, not by the archangel, who I presume had no sense of humour; otherwise, the church might have one as well). Meant to make people smile in an otherwise dreary world, or a run past the chicken store. Otherwise known as the chicken run.
We live in a time when every time somebody gets upset with something, they yell at somebody or complain really loud until somebody changes it. I don't mind that they complain. But I DO definitely mind that the company always says, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend anyone." Maybe they did intend offense, but I doubt it. Maybe they're just thoughtless. Or maybe (and this is my personal favorite) they're just irreverent. 'Cause nobody's allowed to be irreverent anymore, or else you'll have the Thought Police or the Politically Correct Party (who really does know what's best for everyone) telling on you and you're really gonna get it if you don't change what you said. You don't have to change what you think, I suppose, as long as you don't say what you mean. We got rules against that. We can't handle the truth, and we know it, so don't you dare say it unless you don't mean it.
I first saw this item on the news yesterday evening, and just as they were finished reporting it on CBC, I thought the journalist should have finished by saying, "Mary Brown's unveiled their new slogan today: 'Jesus, this chicken is good!'"
I guess that would be offensive too, though I doubt Jesus would care too much, what with world hunger, war, and pestilence to worry about. The thing is, what that pastor was saying was that he personally was offended by the message from Mary Brown's. Problem is, that pastor has a flock. And that flock listens to that pastor and supposedly believes whatever that pastor tells him is right or wrong, left or right, up or down. He's a man of God, unlike a mere chicken friar, who supposedly isn't a man of God, but is perhaps a man of poultry instead. I don't for a second believe Mary Brown's is the new evil empire. We have enough of those (Starbucks, Wal-mart, the New York Yankees, and the Montreal Canadiens).
Sometimes I just wish that those who have nothing to say wouldn't go around saying it. Live and let live. Let sleeping chickens lie. And don't watch football for fear of catching sight of a "Hail Mary" pass. God doesn't like the hail mary pass or people who use them. Maybe that's why they never work.
Amen.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Diggin' Some Dylan!
Bummer. I just spent forty-five minutes telling you why Bob Dylan is the coolest thing ever and, yes, I'm going to his concert on May 24. But Blogger decided to delete my blog post before publishing it. That's time and words I can never have back. Sigh.
Bottom line: At a time when the mass media, corporate America, and conniving politicans are telling us to ignore the fine print below the headline, a songwriter like Bob Dylan, who's influenced almost as many musicians as the Beatles (including influencing the Beatles themselves), is an enemy of the state. Which means we're going to get along just fine.
Looking forward to the concert, on Bob's birthday. He don't sing pretty, he don't look pretty, and he can be as caustic and sarcastic as hell. But, man, his words have changed the world for the better. He questions the stone wall and expects it to answer. But, more than that, he expects us all to question the wall and bring it down, one brick at a time.
This isn't exactly what I'd said before, but it'll have to do.
Bottom line: At a time when the mass media, corporate America, and conniving politicans are telling us to ignore the fine print below the headline, a songwriter like Bob Dylan, who's influenced almost as many musicians as the Beatles (including influencing the Beatles themselves), is an enemy of the state. Which means we're going to get along just fine.
Looking forward to the concert, on Bob's birthday. He don't sing pretty, he don't look pretty, and he can be as caustic and sarcastic as hell. But, man, his words have changed the world for the better. He questions the stone wall and expects it to answer. But, more than that, he expects us all to question the wall and bring it down, one brick at a time.
This isn't exactly what I'd said before, but it'll have to do.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Everybody Knows
Everybody knows I have a list of what I consider my Top Five singer-songwriters of all time. I’ve been saying this to people for years and have even mentioned it in my classes a few times. They are as follows:
1. Bob Dylan.
2. Leonard Cohen.
3. John Lennon.
4. Hank Williams.
5. Johnny Cash.
These five men are the best ever, period, as far as I’m concerned. And the last three people on that list are dead and gone. Hey-hey, my-my.
So, yeah, I got me some tickets to see Leonard Cohen at Holy Heart of Mary auditorium. Leonard and I go a long ways back, see. When I was a teenager, Leonard Cohen supposedly was pretty passé already. He was famous for his days as a poet-singer-songwriter in Montreal in the Sixties and world-renowned for his sardonic, wry insights on the human condition—though mostly, I think, they were the Cohen Condition. No one sees the world quite like Leonard. To me, he was never passé. I don’t even care about passé. I don’t believe in it. But the one word that’s always been associated with Leonard Cohen, whether he was twenty or sixty, is “cool”. That’s just what he is.
I had several of his CDs by the time I was in my twenties. Many a-night when I was an undergrad I would sit up in my (or somebody’s) apartment late at night, sitting in the dark with just a candle glowing, drinking or whatever, gabbing about life and philosophy with whoever was with me, and Leonard Cohen provided the soundtrack. Bird On A Wire. Suzanne. The Future. So Long, Marianne. The Chelsea Hotel. The Sisters of Mercy. I could go on and on. Every one of his songs—every word, for that matter—carried more meaning than a thousand words from Kanye or Eminem or Tupac, or any others who followed in his footsteps. And don’t tell me it’s an unfair comparison. What those other strive(d) for was poetry; what came out was rhyme. Cohen is to modern poetry and songwriting what Neil Young is to Grunge rock. All others just pale in comparison.
When I heard that LC was inducted into the rock hall of fame a month or so ago, I said, “Well, it’s about bloody time.” A day later, when it was announced he was going on tour for the first time in sixteen years, I said, “Well, that’s another great show that will never set foot in St. John’s in a million years.” A week after that, it was miraculously announced that Leonard Cohen would, indeed, be coming to St. John’s.
You have to understand—for those who know what he’s about, this is like Jesus coming to Hollywood. It just shouldn’t happen because it’s just too weird and surreal. I’m not into hero worship of any kind, but I know a once-in-a-lifetime event when I see one. And this is one of them. People from Australia to Antarctica are pleading for him to come to their city, but he chose St. John’s, possibly because of the Feast of Cohen show at the LSPU Hall every December, which pays homage to the master’s songs and his vibe.
I’ve decided that I don’t want to just go and think how cool it is to be sitting there, listening to one of the greatest songwriting icons of our time so close up on that stage. It would be so easy to just get caught up in the bigness of the moment that you forget to be in the moment. I want to experience the Leonard Cohen experience. I want to go and listen to what he’s saying when he sings because that’s why he wrote those songs and why he still sings them—because he’s still got something to say that means something to him. And he says it like no one else.
And if that weren’t enough, just a few days later, I found out that Bob Dylan is coming to play on the same weekend.
I mean, freakin’ Bob Dylan! The biggest solo artist, and I do mean artist and poet and songwriter, of our lifetime, is coming to St. John’s.
I’m in heaven. Or at least knockin’ on heaven’s door.
Now if we could only get them both on the same stage, that would be something.
1. Bob Dylan.
2. Leonard Cohen.
3. John Lennon.
4. Hank Williams.
5. Johnny Cash.
These five men are the best ever, period, as far as I’m concerned. And the last three people on that list are dead and gone. Hey-hey, my-my.
So, yeah, I got me some tickets to see Leonard Cohen at Holy Heart of Mary auditorium. Leonard and I go a long ways back, see. When I was a teenager, Leonard Cohen supposedly was pretty passé already. He was famous for his days as a poet-singer-songwriter in Montreal in the Sixties and world-renowned for his sardonic, wry insights on the human condition—though mostly, I think, they were the Cohen Condition. No one sees the world quite like Leonard. To me, he was never passé. I don’t even care about passé. I don’t believe in it. But the one word that’s always been associated with Leonard Cohen, whether he was twenty or sixty, is “cool”. That’s just what he is.
I had several of his CDs by the time I was in my twenties. Many a-night when I was an undergrad I would sit up in my (or somebody’s) apartment late at night, sitting in the dark with just a candle glowing, drinking or whatever, gabbing about life and philosophy with whoever was with me, and Leonard Cohen provided the soundtrack. Bird On A Wire. Suzanne. The Future. So Long, Marianne. The Chelsea Hotel. The Sisters of Mercy. I could go on and on. Every one of his songs—every word, for that matter—carried more meaning than a thousand words from Kanye or Eminem or Tupac, or any others who followed in his footsteps. And don’t tell me it’s an unfair comparison. What those other strive(d) for was poetry; what came out was rhyme. Cohen is to modern poetry and songwriting what Neil Young is to Grunge rock. All others just pale in comparison.
When I heard that LC was inducted into the rock hall of fame a month or so ago, I said, “Well, it’s about bloody time.” A day later, when it was announced he was going on tour for the first time in sixteen years, I said, “Well, that’s another great show that will never set foot in St. John’s in a million years.” A week after that, it was miraculously announced that Leonard Cohen would, indeed, be coming to St. John’s.
You have to understand—for those who know what he’s about, this is like Jesus coming to Hollywood. It just shouldn’t happen because it’s just too weird and surreal. I’m not into hero worship of any kind, but I know a once-in-a-lifetime event when I see one. And this is one of them. People from Australia to Antarctica are pleading for him to come to their city, but he chose St. John’s, possibly because of the Feast of Cohen show at the LSPU Hall every December, which pays homage to the master’s songs and his vibe.
I’ve decided that I don’t want to just go and think how cool it is to be sitting there, listening to one of the greatest songwriting icons of our time so close up on that stage. It would be so easy to just get caught up in the bigness of the moment that you forget to be in the moment. I want to experience the Leonard Cohen experience. I want to go and listen to what he’s saying when he sings because that’s why he wrote those songs and why he still sings them—because he’s still got something to say that means something to him. And he says it like no one else.
And if that weren’t enough, just a few days later, I found out that Bob Dylan is coming to play on the same weekend.
I mean, freakin’ Bob Dylan! The biggest solo artist, and I do mean artist and poet and songwriter, of our lifetime, is coming to St. John’s.
I’m in heaven. Or at least knockin’ on heaven’s door.
Now if we could only get them both on the same stage, that would be something.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Something to write about
Okay, I admit it. I haven't been blogging because I've essentially been out of commission for a while. About two weeks ago, I had to have minor surgery on my throat, which has kept me from eating very much--which means my energy level was pretty much zero for a while. I also couldn't talk for a spell, which I'm sure was pleasant enough for some people. It's the FIRST time I've ever had any kind of medical procedure done, and I have to admit I don't understand why people volunteer for cosmetic surgeries, given what you have to go through. For the first time ever, I got to see the medical system from the perspective of a patient, and while the system itself is a bit cumbersome, the people who took care of me there were the absolute best. No complaints from me. I was in and out in a few hours, and by noon that day, I was home again, sleeping it off. I never want to have to go through anything like it again, mind you, but it was yet another experience I can write about with some authority now. That's what I usually think when something horrible, but not necessarily life-threatening happens: "Something to write about."
It was tempting to write a "Bucket List" while I was there, just for kicks. But I decided that was too morbid, for now at least. I did have one whole night of lying awake afterwards and my mind got to wandering and started coming up with a list of my 100 best experiences ever. It's like an American Film Institute special, except there are no moments with either Harrison Ford, Steven Spielberg, or Citizen Kane. There were some moments, however, with Spinal Tap (I was their drummer in another life. Not kidding), Lee Aaron (met her once), and Barney Bentall (jammed with him at the Ship Inn one night; I'm sure he still brags about it too. He's a rock singer from the early Nineties...I think). There was a Michael Ondaatje moment, which actually didn't make the list, but I just remembered it now, and a bunch of famous and infamous people I met while either teaching or working as a teenage cub reporter at The Daily News. There were some favorite places like SpringGarden Road in Halifax and Cathedral Grove in Vancouver. There were some great moments, of which there were thousands--like standing in a chain lightning storm on a balcony in downtown Chilliwack, or watching a hurricane churn up the waters of Lake Ontario in early fall. But most of my moments involved people, including a few former students, and, to be honest, my top thirty or so (at least) all would involve my beautiful wife. I don't mean that to be romantic or anything; it's just true.
So, yeah, my mind's been occupied, just not with the usual stuff. I'm slowly getting back to writing, but it hasn't been easy just waiting for the energy to come back and for the creative juices to return to their pre-surgery days. And even though it wasn't a serious operation, it does make you appreciate the little things in life--like talking to people, eating your favorite foods, and (believe it or not) being able to work. I even missed exercise. Pretty pathetic, I know. I often play my guitar and sing a bit when I need my mind to stop over-thinking, but I wasn't able to do much of that lately. I'm not much of a guitar player (though I did somehow earn a living with it for nearly four years); I'm really more of a strummer and a singer/songwriter in that regard. Not being able to express myself in that way was almost as hard as not writing for a while. You just don't feel whole, somehow.
I don't mean this as compaining. In fact, I mean it as a contemplation on how much I love this life, how much I love doing the things I do every day. I've come out of the whole thing with a new appreciation for my life, a new zest for writing and an enthusiasm for teaching, walking in the snow, standing in the rain, or lying in the sun. I haven't done nearly enough of that last one, by the way. 'Cause life still isn't just about work. Work is good. It can make you feel connected to yourself and give you as sense of purpose in the world. But it's what you do with the times in between work that count the most.
There's a raging snowstorm today. Campus is closed. And, ironically, my follow-up doctor appointment has been cancelled. I'm going to work this morning--got a novel to finish soon (and yes, I'm still waiting to hear back on a manuscript I sent out in November), some stories to write and a play to work on. But this afternoon, I'll be curled up either reading The Sound and The Fury (again) or watching a movie. Although a nap sounds good too. Or maybe a walk in a snowstorm.
So many options.
It was tempting to write a "Bucket List" while I was there, just for kicks. But I decided that was too morbid, for now at least. I did have one whole night of lying awake afterwards and my mind got to wandering and started coming up with a list of my 100 best experiences ever. It's like an American Film Institute special, except there are no moments with either Harrison Ford, Steven Spielberg, or Citizen Kane. There were some moments, however, with Spinal Tap (I was their drummer in another life. Not kidding), Lee Aaron (met her once), and Barney Bentall (jammed with him at the Ship Inn one night; I'm sure he still brags about it too. He's a rock singer from the early Nineties...I think). There was a Michael Ondaatje moment, which actually didn't make the list, but I just remembered it now, and a bunch of famous and infamous people I met while either teaching or working as a teenage cub reporter at The Daily News. There were some favorite places like SpringGarden Road in Halifax and Cathedral Grove in Vancouver. There were some great moments, of which there were thousands--like standing in a chain lightning storm on a balcony in downtown Chilliwack, or watching a hurricane churn up the waters of Lake Ontario in early fall. But most of my moments involved people, including a few former students, and, to be honest, my top thirty or so (at least) all would involve my beautiful wife. I don't mean that to be romantic or anything; it's just true.
So, yeah, my mind's been occupied, just not with the usual stuff. I'm slowly getting back to writing, but it hasn't been easy just waiting for the energy to come back and for the creative juices to return to their pre-surgery days. And even though it wasn't a serious operation, it does make you appreciate the little things in life--like talking to people, eating your favorite foods, and (believe it or not) being able to work. I even missed exercise. Pretty pathetic, I know. I often play my guitar and sing a bit when I need my mind to stop over-thinking, but I wasn't able to do much of that lately. I'm not much of a guitar player (though I did somehow earn a living with it for nearly four years); I'm really more of a strummer and a singer/songwriter in that regard. Not being able to express myself in that way was almost as hard as not writing for a while. You just don't feel whole, somehow.
I don't mean this as compaining. In fact, I mean it as a contemplation on how much I love this life, how much I love doing the things I do every day. I've come out of the whole thing with a new appreciation for my life, a new zest for writing and an enthusiasm for teaching, walking in the snow, standing in the rain, or lying in the sun. I haven't done nearly enough of that last one, by the way. 'Cause life still isn't just about work. Work is good. It can make you feel connected to yourself and give you as sense of purpose in the world. But it's what you do with the times in between work that count the most.
There's a raging snowstorm today. Campus is closed. And, ironically, my follow-up doctor appointment has been cancelled. I'm going to work this morning--got a novel to finish soon (and yes, I'm still waiting to hear back on a manuscript I sent out in November), some stories to write and a play to work on. But this afternoon, I'll be curled up either reading The Sound and The Fury (again) or watching a movie. Although a nap sounds good too. Or maybe a walk in a snowstorm.
So many options.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Love, Love, Love
Valentine's Day. Not a big fan of it.
Sure, I mean, there can never be too much love in the world. So I would never say that a "holiday" designed to celebrate love is a bad thing.
But it's the design itself that the problem. The way we "celebrate" something that pretty much takes care of itself is the problem.
If you love someone, then you don't need a specific day designated by Hallmark or any other commercial entity to tell you, "Come on, show her how you feel." She already knows.
And I do mean "she". The whole day is meant to lay a guilt trip on men, predominantly, so that they will spend their way out of hell or purgatory or whatever their relationship has become.
I'm lucky enough to be married to a beautiful woman who has always felt the same way about this holiday as I do. Our celebration isn't confined to one day, and if there's no card or flowers or chocolate that day, then there might be on any other given day of the year. And it's not a one-sided thing--we watch each other's back every day of the year and have done so for a couple of decades now. We're the happiest couple I know, and we somehow manage to do it without Valentine's Day deciding whether or not we're worthy of each other.
Oh, I've had my years when I've bought chocolate. This year, I even bought flowers. But that's only because I figured it would be surprise, since we never do that. And it was.
Valentine's Day is for the young, or really I should say, those couples who haven't been together more than a few years. It's also for those whose relationship needs an annual reminder to pay some attention to the one you're with. Other than that, I wish Valentine's Day as a so-called celebration--at least the way we celebrate it currently--would just die off. "Keep it in your own way and I'll keep it in mine," as Scrooge says about Christmas.
I like the celebratory, loving, caring, gentle part of Valentine's. I just could do without the "buy, buy, buy, guilt, guilt, guilt" part of it. It's not necessary.
And, as Forrest Gump would say, that's all I have to say about that. Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day. :-)
Sure, I mean, there can never be too much love in the world. So I would never say that a "holiday" designed to celebrate love is a bad thing.
But it's the design itself that the problem. The way we "celebrate" something that pretty much takes care of itself is the problem.
If you love someone, then you don't need a specific day designated by Hallmark or any other commercial entity to tell you, "Come on, show her how you feel." She already knows.
And I do mean "she". The whole day is meant to lay a guilt trip on men, predominantly, so that they will spend their way out of hell or purgatory or whatever their relationship has become.
I'm lucky enough to be married to a beautiful woman who has always felt the same way about this holiday as I do. Our celebration isn't confined to one day, and if there's no card or flowers or chocolate that day, then there might be on any other given day of the year. And it's not a one-sided thing--we watch each other's back every day of the year and have done so for a couple of decades now. We're the happiest couple I know, and we somehow manage to do it without Valentine's Day deciding whether or not we're worthy of each other.
Oh, I've had my years when I've bought chocolate. This year, I even bought flowers. But that's only because I figured it would be surprise, since we never do that. And it was.
Valentine's Day is for the young, or really I should say, those couples who haven't been together more than a few years. It's also for those whose relationship needs an annual reminder to pay some attention to the one you're with. Other than that, I wish Valentine's Day as a so-called celebration--at least the way we celebrate it currently--would just die off. "Keep it in your own way and I'll keep it in mine," as Scrooge says about Christmas.
I like the celebratory, loving, caring, gentle part of Valentine's. I just could do without the "buy, buy, buy, guilt, guilt, guilt" part of it. It's not necessary.
And, as Forrest Gump would say, that's all I have to say about that. Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day. :-)
Monday, February 4, 2008
Super Size Me
Tomorrow's "Super Tuesday" in the States, which has me wondering why America the Beautiful is so obsessed with size. Nothing can be just what it is--it's got to be "SUPER" Tuesday, or Super Bowl Sunday, or Super-size french fries, or Superman, Super Girl, Super Dog, or just plain "Super-duper."
Nuttin' wrong with that, I suppose. It makes life seem more exciting somehow. Sounds better than "Primary Tuesday," which is pretty bland, I admit. Who's gonna show up to vote for that? I mean, besides the people who care who the next leader of the free world is. By the "free world," I mean all those lands where people are able to vote without fear of repercussions, where people can speak their minds even if the State, the media, and the creepy old busybody next door don't agree with what you're saying.
I've been a bit obsessed by American politics lately. Granted, I've never paid much attention to it in the past, but this time seems different because there's so much at stake. Sure, I always knew who the president was, and I got particularly interested in it during the Clinton years. Those were actually pretty good years--a veritable "Camelot" compared to the Bush years (both Senior and Junior editions). Sure, Bill Clinton was no John F. Kennedy, but by all accounts, neither was John F. Kennedy. Like everything else, the American people (by which I mean the media) tends to make Supermen out of mere mortals. People (by which I mean the media, as well as the average Joe, not to be confused with Super Joe, Sloppy Joe, or G.I. Joe) often forget that JFK had some heavy-duty baggage to carry, especially in his alleged affairs with other women, notably Marilyn Monroe, and the little affair with Nikita Kruschev in which the American president brought the world to the very brink of nuclear self-annihilation. Camelot, indeed. Clinton's eight years weren't exactly peaceful, thanks to the overblown (pardon the pun) affair in the oval office with Monica Lewinsky. Other than that distraction, for which he was nearly impeached by the megalomaniacal, Puritanical Republicans who couldn't stand to see a Clinton in the White House, things weren't so bad--at least in comparison to today. The Blue Meanies took their hatred for him out on the entire country, refusing to let America enjoy its moment in the sun when the economy was going great guns (after those dreadful eight years of Reaganomics), and terrorism most often happened "over there". People still hated America, but it just didn't seem to personal, real and up-close in those days. Or maybe we (meaning North Americans) were just oblivious. Sometimes, igorance truly is bliss.
With George W. Bush in the White House, I'm sure there hasn't been much sex in the oval office. Pretty sure, anyway. He came to power on a morality ticket--promising to clean up American politics and make America respectable again on the world stage. Beware of any politician who comes to power on such a campaign. The morality ticket is one that gets played way too often and usually comes with a booby prize (aka Stephen Harper, who promised to gut Canadian politics of its corrupt Liberals). Almost single-handedly (unless you count the puppeteer Dick Cheney and Iago-like Karl Rove), Bush Jr. managed to make the United States the most reviled place on the world and its people the most hated in the so-called free world. It was a world that was a lot freer before wire-tapping, e-mail scans, and eternal damnation in Guantanomo Bay became well-known realities. Not so well-known were the unofficial policies of torturing prisoners suspected of plotting terrorist attacks (reminds me of Orwell's nightmare world in 1984) and sanctioning humiliation of p.o.w.'s in Afghanistan and Iraq. His father promised a "kinder, gentler" America, and both father and son delivered a more brutal, more insane America.
I miss the old days. I grew up on stories of cowboys riding the range and roping cattle, of opening up the West, of Daniel Boone and Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier. Of the Wonderful World of Disney, where dreams came true. Of Highway 66 and going to San Francisco to wear sunflowers in your hair. I read the great novels of storytellers like Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain, and even the benign horrors of Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King. All the best music came from the U.S.A--jazz, blues, pop, and rocks. Sure, we knew about the serial killers like Son of Sam, Gary Gilmour, and the Boston Strangler. But those wacky American storytellers could make anyone sound like a Sunshine Superman, and these guys seemed like isolated nutcases, larger than life, and almost like folk heroes because of the way people wrote and talked about them in the media. Nobody emulated them, but they did seem like anomalies on a landscape full of normal, good folks.
America was built on certain ideals of the pursuit of happiness, freedom, truth, and justice. It's been a long time since anyone could say that that's what really came out of the war for Independence or the Civil War, Korean War, Vietnam War, or the World War II fire-bombing of Dresden or the holy shit moments and aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But, strange as it sounds, at least you usually felt like you were on the side of right, of justice, and truth. Even when JFK double-dared Kruschev to just go ahead and pull the trigger on nuclear warfare, people largely felt that at least the guy in the white hat, metaphorically speaking, was on our side. Even though Bill Clinton embarassed himself and his wife and family, as well as his party and country in the eyes of the world, you felt like he was still a good man and a good president--someone capable of making things right somehow, if only by the eloquence of his language, the brilliance of his brain, and the good intentions of his heart (even when he was lying; but the thing is, if you're gonna cheat, what's the sense in 'fessing up to it without at least trying to squirm out it?).
Long story short, America used to be something to believe in. I had this argument with my brother-in-law a few days ago. He's a fair bit younger than me and, far as I can tell, he only remembers the Bush years. He doesn't remember "America the Good" (and I don't mean the one that Ginsberg told to "go fuck yourself with your atom bomb"--that's a different America, which co-exists with the other America). He knows only that America is messed up and continues to go around the world, sticking its nose into other people's business and creating chaos and dismemberment everywhere it looks.
Come to think of it, I'm not sure I remember that "America the Good" either. I only remember believing in it as a POSSIBILITY because, somewhere along the line, the people who founded the country used to believe in it too. America is a concept--and that's why people get so upset with evil-doing presidents, with terrorist attacks on American soil, with threats on the Statue of Liberty, with the falling of the twin towers in New York, and with people like Donald Imus and the Jenus Six. It's not that we're all (by which I mean people in the Western World) any better or holier than thou. It's just that, sometimes we're reminded of how good we used to want it to be and that somehow we fucked it up.
And yet...and YET...we think we can make it better. It's never too late to turn the ship around and make it right.
And every election year, there's an opportunity to become the America that the people of that country, and of the rest of the world, think it's possible to be. I don't know who's going to win. I like Obama and Hillary Clinton alike. I think he's youthful and idealist, and he's saying all the right things and truly believes in them. I think she's intelligent, well-intentioned, but a bit more realistic because she's "been there and done that," to use her own words. I think they'll do just fine with either of those candidates as president, and preferably a Democratic ticket that includes both.
But let's hope the American electorate get it right this time. They almost elected Al Gore, but he wasn't bright and shiny enough for them, not enough of a celebrity just yet. Plus, they really did give him the most votes, but the courts decided to over-rule the American public and crown King George II. It only matters to me because the world's in an awful mess because the United States is in an awful mess. I also figure that once one right-wing ultra-Christian, control freak is gone from power, it's only a matter of time before that same wicked witch loses its grip on our own little fifedom to the north.
Mostly, though, I just want to return some sanity to the world again. Just a little. Whoever wins the American election is going to have his or her hands full, and it'll take years to clean up the farm after such an enormous, long-lasting twister has hit it full on. In some ways, it's like that big whole in the ground in New York City that still hasn't been re-built. It's a monumental clean-up job, but you've got to at least have the right person with their hand on the broom.
Still, I don't think they need a Superman (or Superwoman) for the job. They just need someone who thinks it's possible to stand for truth and justice, while making "the American way" something other than the punchline of a joke.
Up, up, and away!
Nuttin' wrong with that, I suppose. It makes life seem more exciting somehow. Sounds better than "Primary Tuesday," which is pretty bland, I admit. Who's gonna show up to vote for that? I mean, besides the people who care who the next leader of the free world is. By the "free world," I mean all those lands where people are able to vote without fear of repercussions, where people can speak their minds even if the State, the media, and the creepy old busybody next door don't agree with what you're saying.
I've been a bit obsessed by American politics lately. Granted, I've never paid much attention to it in the past, but this time seems different because there's so much at stake. Sure, I always knew who the president was, and I got particularly interested in it during the Clinton years. Those were actually pretty good years--a veritable "Camelot" compared to the Bush years (both Senior and Junior editions). Sure, Bill Clinton was no John F. Kennedy, but by all accounts, neither was John F. Kennedy. Like everything else, the American people (by which I mean the media) tends to make Supermen out of mere mortals. People (by which I mean the media, as well as the average Joe, not to be confused with Super Joe, Sloppy Joe, or G.I. Joe) often forget that JFK had some heavy-duty baggage to carry, especially in his alleged affairs with other women, notably Marilyn Monroe, and the little affair with Nikita Kruschev in which the American president brought the world to the very brink of nuclear self-annihilation. Camelot, indeed. Clinton's eight years weren't exactly peaceful, thanks to the overblown (pardon the pun) affair in the oval office with Monica Lewinsky. Other than that distraction, for which he was nearly impeached by the megalomaniacal, Puritanical Republicans who couldn't stand to see a Clinton in the White House, things weren't so bad--at least in comparison to today. The Blue Meanies took their hatred for him out on the entire country, refusing to let America enjoy its moment in the sun when the economy was going great guns (after those dreadful eight years of Reaganomics), and terrorism most often happened "over there". People still hated America, but it just didn't seem to personal, real and up-close in those days. Or maybe we (meaning North Americans) were just oblivious. Sometimes, igorance truly is bliss.
With George W. Bush in the White House, I'm sure there hasn't been much sex in the oval office. Pretty sure, anyway. He came to power on a morality ticket--promising to clean up American politics and make America respectable again on the world stage. Beware of any politician who comes to power on such a campaign. The morality ticket is one that gets played way too often and usually comes with a booby prize (aka Stephen Harper, who promised to gut Canadian politics of its corrupt Liberals). Almost single-handedly (unless you count the puppeteer Dick Cheney and Iago-like Karl Rove), Bush Jr. managed to make the United States the most reviled place on the world and its people the most hated in the so-called free world. It was a world that was a lot freer before wire-tapping, e-mail scans, and eternal damnation in Guantanomo Bay became well-known realities. Not so well-known were the unofficial policies of torturing prisoners suspected of plotting terrorist attacks (reminds me of Orwell's nightmare world in 1984) and sanctioning humiliation of p.o.w.'s in Afghanistan and Iraq. His father promised a "kinder, gentler" America, and both father and son delivered a more brutal, more insane America.
I miss the old days. I grew up on stories of cowboys riding the range and roping cattle, of opening up the West, of Daniel Boone and Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier. Of the Wonderful World of Disney, where dreams came true. Of Highway 66 and going to San Francisco to wear sunflowers in your hair. I read the great novels of storytellers like Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain, and even the benign horrors of Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King. All the best music came from the U.S.A--jazz, blues, pop, and rocks. Sure, we knew about the serial killers like Son of Sam, Gary Gilmour, and the Boston Strangler. But those wacky American storytellers could make anyone sound like a Sunshine Superman, and these guys seemed like isolated nutcases, larger than life, and almost like folk heroes because of the way people wrote and talked about them in the media. Nobody emulated them, but they did seem like anomalies on a landscape full of normal, good folks.
America was built on certain ideals of the pursuit of happiness, freedom, truth, and justice. It's been a long time since anyone could say that that's what really came out of the war for Independence or the Civil War, Korean War, Vietnam War, or the World War II fire-bombing of Dresden or the holy shit moments and aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But, strange as it sounds, at least you usually felt like you were on the side of right, of justice, and truth. Even when JFK double-dared Kruschev to just go ahead and pull the trigger on nuclear warfare, people largely felt that at least the guy in the white hat, metaphorically speaking, was on our side. Even though Bill Clinton embarassed himself and his wife and family, as well as his party and country in the eyes of the world, you felt like he was still a good man and a good president--someone capable of making things right somehow, if only by the eloquence of his language, the brilliance of his brain, and the good intentions of his heart (even when he was lying; but the thing is, if you're gonna cheat, what's the sense in 'fessing up to it without at least trying to squirm out it?).
Long story short, America used to be something to believe in. I had this argument with my brother-in-law a few days ago. He's a fair bit younger than me and, far as I can tell, he only remembers the Bush years. He doesn't remember "America the Good" (and I don't mean the one that Ginsberg told to "go fuck yourself with your atom bomb"--that's a different America, which co-exists with the other America). He knows only that America is messed up and continues to go around the world, sticking its nose into other people's business and creating chaos and dismemberment everywhere it looks.
Come to think of it, I'm not sure I remember that "America the Good" either. I only remember believing in it as a POSSIBILITY because, somewhere along the line, the people who founded the country used to believe in it too. America is a concept--and that's why people get so upset with evil-doing presidents, with terrorist attacks on American soil, with threats on the Statue of Liberty, with the falling of the twin towers in New York, and with people like Donald Imus and the Jenus Six. It's not that we're all (by which I mean people in the Western World) any better or holier than thou. It's just that, sometimes we're reminded of how good we used to want it to be and that somehow we fucked it up.
And yet...and YET...we think we can make it better. It's never too late to turn the ship around and make it right.
And every election year, there's an opportunity to become the America that the people of that country, and of the rest of the world, think it's possible to be. I don't know who's going to win. I like Obama and Hillary Clinton alike. I think he's youthful and idealist, and he's saying all the right things and truly believes in them. I think she's intelligent, well-intentioned, but a bit more realistic because she's "been there and done that," to use her own words. I think they'll do just fine with either of those candidates as president, and preferably a Democratic ticket that includes both.
But let's hope the American electorate get it right this time. They almost elected Al Gore, but he wasn't bright and shiny enough for them, not enough of a celebrity just yet. Plus, they really did give him the most votes, but the courts decided to over-rule the American public and crown King George II. It only matters to me because the world's in an awful mess because the United States is in an awful mess. I also figure that once one right-wing ultra-Christian, control freak is gone from power, it's only a matter of time before that same wicked witch loses its grip on our own little fifedom to the north.
Mostly, though, I just want to return some sanity to the world again. Just a little. Whoever wins the American election is going to have his or her hands full, and it'll take years to clean up the farm after such an enormous, long-lasting twister has hit it full on. In some ways, it's like that big whole in the ground in New York City that still hasn't been re-built. It's a monumental clean-up job, but you've got to at least have the right person with their hand on the broom.
Still, I don't think they need a Superman (or Superwoman) for the job. They just need someone who thinks it's possible to stand for truth and justice, while making "the American way" something other than the punchline of a joke.
Up, up, and away!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
In the Cold Mid-Winter
Can't believe it's been a month since I wrote last. The month of January just kind of got away from me. I'd like to say I've spent all that time being productive, but the first half of the month was a bust. I got a headache on New Year's for no apparent reason and it didn't leave my head alone until the twentieth of January. I went to a doctor, but he says to live with it. I figure that's better than the alternative.
Meanwhile--I don't know if you've ever had a headache that lasts for twenty-one days or not, but--I wasn't able to do much of anything. No writing, no reading, no exercise (good thing I didn't make any resolutions, well, not really), and very little but lying around waiting for my life to start.
But it's gone now, and life is slowly getting back to normal. I started work on another novel, which means I'm now working on three novels at once. I have one called "Finton Moon" that won the Percy Janes award a few years ago and it got rejected by two publishers (that's really not very many) and three agents (still not very many). But all of them were extremely ethusiastic about the premise of the novel and the quality of the writing. They'd read the first forty pages and go "wow! send me the rest immediately!" It happened like that each time. But then a funny thing happened. They read the whole novel and, though they kind of liked it, they didn't "love" it. Anyway, I knew what I needed to do with it, but never really had the time to do it before. And before I go back to teaching next fall, this is the number one project I'd like to have done. So I'm working on that now, while the other two take my attention once in a while as well. "Finton Moon" is one of those novels that have the potential to really make a splash in the literary world, whereas my other works are just "smaller"--not so much potential for anything big, though I hope they're decent reads.
Besides writing novels, I have to start work on my play for "Break, Break, Break" soon. It ought to be done before spring, I would think. Funny, but when I first agreed to do it it seemed like I had all the time in the world. But suddenly it's 2008, and the play will probably be happening on stage exactly a year from now. That's really not that much time, considering all the work that has to be done with production and acting, etc. between now and then.
I'm also working on a couple of new short stories, hoping to get them done soon. Beyond that, I'm back playing badminton a couple of times a week. Most people think of badminton as a sort of backyard, leisurely game like croquet, with people standing around with drinks and parasols, casually batting the birdie over the net in a genteel fashion. But for me, badminton is an all-out, no holds barred bloodsport. I don't care about winning so much as just trying my absolute best on every shot. Kind of like life, I suppose. Nothing's really THAT important, when you think about it, but it is what you make of it. I choose to make every shot count. Then I go running around Field House track for a couple of miles before calling it quits. I find it helps me think better if I feel better physically, plus I just love to move as fast as possible and work up a sweat.
Then when I come home, my writing tends to go even better.
Speaking of which, I must get back to work. Time's a wastin'.
Meanwhile--I don't know if you've ever had a headache that lasts for twenty-one days or not, but--I wasn't able to do much of anything. No writing, no reading, no exercise (good thing I didn't make any resolutions, well, not really), and very little but lying around waiting for my life to start.
But it's gone now, and life is slowly getting back to normal. I started work on another novel, which means I'm now working on three novels at once. I have one called "Finton Moon" that won the Percy Janes award a few years ago and it got rejected by two publishers (that's really not very many) and three agents (still not very many). But all of them were extremely ethusiastic about the premise of the novel and the quality of the writing. They'd read the first forty pages and go "wow! send me the rest immediately!" It happened like that each time. But then a funny thing happened. They read the whole novel and, though they kind of liked it, they didn't "love" it. Anyway, I knew what I needed to do with it, but never really had the time to do it before. And before I go back to teaching next fall, this is the number one project I'd like to have done. So I'm working on that now, while the other two take my attention once in a while as well. "Finton Moon" is one of those novels that have the potential to really make a splash in the literary world, whereas my other works are just "smaller"--not so much potential for anything big, though I hope they're decent reads.
Besides writing novels, I have to start work on my play for "Break, Break, Break" soon. It ought to be done before spring, I would think. Funny, but when I first agreed to do it it seemed like I had all the time in the world. But suddenly it's 2008, and the play will probably be happening on stage exactly a year from now. That's really not that much time, considering all the work that has to be done with production and acting, etc. between now and then.
I'm also working on a couple of new short stories, hoping to get them done soon. Beyond that, I'm back playing badminton a couple of times a week. Most people think of badminton as a sort of backyard, leisurely game like croquet, with people standing around with drinks and parasols, casually batting the birdie over the net in a genteel fashion. But for me, badminton is an all-out, no holds barred bloodsport. I don't care about winning so much as just trying my absolute best on every shot. Kind of like life, I suppose. Nothing's really THAT important, when you think about it, but it is what you make of it. I choose to make every shot count. Then I go running around Field House track for a couple of miles before calling it quits. I find it helps me think better if I feel better physically, plus I just love to move as fast as possible and work up a sweat.
Then when I come home, my writing tends to go even better.
Speaking of which, I must get back to work. Time's a wastin'.
Monday, December 24, 2007
All Is Calm, All Is Bright.
It's Christmas Eve, 2007, and I just wanted to wish everyone who reads this blog a merry Christmas. My wife and I always spend it here in the city. We see a movie in the afternoon (today it was National Treasure: Book of Secrets, which was an okay little movie for the season). We had people over after that to talk, laugh, drink, and be merry, and there'll be more company tonight and more of the same, I'm sure. Its probably my favorite night of the year. As Bill Murray says in "Scrooged" (love that movie), it's the one night of the year we all act a little nicer and treat each other a little better. Maybe that's a generalization, but as generalizations go, I like that one.
From my home office window, I can see the lights shimmering in windows of other people's homes, a few lonely cars stream by, and the melting snow glistens like frosting on a cake. The whole world seems to be slowing down and it will stay that way for a few hours. For a few hours, the world will be perfect. Hopefully, somewhere, the violence will stop, the burglaries will pause, and the singing will rise to a heartfelt anthem in some far-off countryside church. I wish it were so more often.
Merry Christmas to you all, whatever your situation, whatever your beliefs. I hope this night finds you with someone you love, having everything you need to be happy. If your situation is otherwise, then I hope you can find some peace and comfort not just now, but for most days to come because Christmas doesn't change your life; it illuminates it for what it is.
For now, though, the weary world rejoices. Merry Christmas.
From my home office window, I can see the lights shimmering in windows of other people's homes, a few lonely cars stream by, and the melting snow glistens like frosting on a cake. The whole world seems to be slowing down and it will stay that way for a few hours. For a few hours, the world will be perfect. Hopefully, somewhere, the violence will stop, the burglaries will pause, and the singing will rise to a heartfelt anthem in some far-off countryside church. I wish it were so more often.
Merry Christmas to you all, whatever your situation, whatever your beliefs. I hope this night finds you with someone you love, having everything you need to be happy. If your situation is otherwise, then I hope you can find some peace and comfort not just now, but for most days to come because Christmas doesn't change your life; it illuminates it for what it is.
For now, though, the weary world rejoices. Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
And So This is Christmas, And What Have You Done?
For the first time in many years, I've been able to witness the coming of the winter season, December, and Christmas as if in slow motion, enjoying every moment as it comes, lingers briefly, then passes. It's so strange not to be grading papers and working on a Ph.D. thesis or a paper of some kind. But I think life was meant to be this way--not the other way. I often think of that line in A Christmas Carol when the Ghost of Jacob Marley says to Scrooge, "Mankind is your business."
In fact, I have more time to think than usual this year, as well. I've been walking in snowstorms, I've stood in front of a window and marveled at the large flakes of snow that were falling, and I've heard the wind bellowing beneath the eaves, threatening to blow away the rooftop. I've taken my time Christmas shopping and am nearly done. I always leave something to do for the last week before the big day, and I certainly will be out there on Christmas Eve, just taking it all in, sipping on a hot tea while I watch the crowds bustle around. I guess it makes me feel more connected to people through their harriedness in some way. I feel like I'm just sitting there thinking "I'm glad I'm not you" at the same time that I'm thinking, "You poor soul, don't take it all so serious. You'll get it done and you'll be all right."
Of course, by not teaching this year I do feel a little more disconnected from humanity than usual. I've rarely seen any of my teaching colleagues except occasionally when I'm at MUN playing badminton or running the track just to keep atrophy at bay. They must think I'm strange and wondering what I'm doing when I'm not teaching. A few know that I'm writing and that I'm just a bit burnt out after the years of constant working. The majority don't really think about it, I'm sure. Mankind, after all, is not necessarily their business.
I've missed the students most of all, I must say. During exam week, I could sense the usual tension that they feel as exams draw close and the end draws near. For me, it's always that feeling of being proud of the ones who have not only made it to the end, but made something of it--having tried and, hopefully, been rewarded. I always look for that sense of closure, that the semester is done, that my course is done, that these students will go on to live their lives, and most of them I will never see again. A lot of them, I will see over and over again, of course, as some lives seem destined to intersect. This year, however, there was no "next wave" of students, no exam anxiety, no end of semester, and no whispered "Have a good Christmas" as they passed me their exams. All of that is part of why I love teaching, and I'm really looking forward to getting back it next fall. It's that connection that matters to me. The feeling of perhaps having made a difference, however small, if only for a few weeks, but hopefully for much longer.
My two favorite Christmas movies are "Scrooge" and "It's A Wonderful Life". Both are a celebration of life, an acknowledgement of life's difficulties, a lament for the past, and yet a declaration that the future need not be judged by the past. The future can be bright no matter how dim the past has been. The goodness in people can overcome the dark, the evil, and the apathetic (which might be the greatest evil of all). If it is true that most men live lives of quiet desperation (Thoreau), then both these films suggest that it is never too late too shake of the cloak of self-oppression and begin to live anew as if every day counted, as if every human being mattered. That's a lesson that I think gets lost in the daily grind of working and studying, sometimes even playing. Every soul matters. Every moment is precious. Profound, disturbing, magnificent thoughts.
For if your life matters, who is to say that there are others whose lives don't? If you have a right to be warm, fed, clothed, befriended, and loved, who is to say that there are other people who do not deserve these things? And yet there are those who don't have them, who suffer even as I write this, without adequate clothing or shelter, without any friends or family. Even in between the highs and the lows, there are people who have places to live, who work their jobs and/or go to school, and maybe even have families who love them or not (as the case may be). And yet they feel great sadness, especially at this time of year when "want is most keenly felt".
Dickens was right, of course. Want is most keenly felt this time of year. But so is luxury. So are happiness and contentment. Christmas is like anything else--it doesn't change what you are or how you feel about life, but it does emphasize what you already have and already are. If you were lonely before Christmas, then the carol singing and lack of friends or presents will only underline that loneliness and increase it. If you were content, appreciative of your life and choices you've made, then you will be extra content, extra appreciative during the sesaon.
I'm beginning to babble, as I am sometime wont to do, but as usual there is so much I want to say about this time of year. It makes me a bit melancholy because I'm just that kind of person anyway. But I'm happy as well because I'm generally a happy person who sees the good in other people even when the world we live in kind of scares me a bit. But, as always, that's a topic for another day.
I think here in Newfoundland we are standing on the precipice of a great height (a "sad height," perhaps, as Dylan Thomas might have called it). It's a time to think on where we've come from and how we got here. Things are changing rapidly because of the impending changes in economic fortune. Some of it good, some of it bad. It's the time of year for putting those things in perspective and deciding which direction our own personal lives will follow in the coming year. I know where I'm headed and where I'd like to be this time next year. It might very well be, for many of us, though, that we're already there and just need to put some time and thought into recognizing that fact.
Life is good and getting better.
And to all a good night.
In fact, I have more time to think than usual this year, as well. I've been walking in snowstorms, I've stood in front of a window and marveled at the large flakes of snow that were falling, and I've heard the wind bellowing beneath the eaves, threatening to blow away the rooftop. I've taken my time Christmas shopping and am nearly done. I always leave something to do for the last week before the big day, and I certainly will be out there on Christmas Eve, just taking it all in, sipping on a hot tea while I watch the crowds bustle around. I guess it makes me feel more connected to people through their harriedness in some way. I feel like I'm just sitting there thinking "I'm glad I'm not you" at the same time that I'm thinking, "You poor soul, don't take it all so serious. You'll get it done and you'll be all right."
Of course, by not teaching this year I do feel a little more disconnected from humanity than usual. I've rarely seen any of my teaching colleagues except occasionally when I'm at MUN playing badminton or running the track just to keep atrophy at bay. They must think I'm strange and wondering what I'm doing when I'm not teaching. A few know that I'm writing and that I'm just a bit burnt out after the years of constant working. The majority don't really think about it, I'm sure. Mankind, after all, is not necessarily their business.
I've missed the students most of all, I must say. During exam week, I could sense the usual tension that they feel as exams draw close and the end draws near. For me, it's always that feeling of being proud of the ones who have not only made it to the end, but made something of it--having tried and, hopefully, been rewarded. I always look for that sense of closure, that the semester is done, that my course is done, that these students will go on to live their lives, and most of them I will never see again. A lot of them, I will see over and over again, of course, as some lives seem destined to intersect. This year, however, there was no "next wave" of students, no exam anxiety, no end of semester, and no whispered "Have a good Christmas" as they passed me their exams. All of that is part of why I love teaching, and I'm really looking forward to getting back it next fall. It's that connection that matters to me. The feeling of perhaps having made a difference, however small, if only for a few weeks, but hopefully for much longer.
My two favorite Christmas movies are "Scrooge" and "It's A Wonderful Life". Both are a celebration of life, an acknowledgement of life's difficulties, a lament for the past, and yet a declaration that the future need not be judged by the past. The future can be bright no matter how dim the past has been. The goodness in people can overcome the dark, the evil, and the apathetic (which might be the greatest evil of all). If it is true that most men live lives of quiet desperation (Thoreau), then both these films suggest that it is never too late too shake of the cloak of self-oppression and begin to live anew as if every day counted, as if every human being mattered. That's a lesson that I think gets lost in the daily grind of working and studying, sometimes even playing. Every soul matters. Every moment is precious. Profound, disturbing, magnificent thoughts.
For if your life matters, who is to say that there are others whose lives don't? If you have a right to be warm, fed, clothed, befriended, and loved, who is to say that there are other people who do not deserve these things? And yet there are those who don't have them, who suffer even as I write this, without adequate clothing or shelter, without any friends or family. Even in between the highs and the lows, there are people who have places to live, who work their jobs and/or go to school, and maybe even have families who love them or not (as the case may be). And yet they feel great sadness, especially at this time of year when "want is most keenly felt".
Dickens was right, of course. Want is most keenly felt this time of year. But so is luxury. So are happiness and contentment. Christmas is like anything else--it doesn't change what you are or how you feel about life, but it does emphasize what you already have and already are. If you were lonely before Christmas, then the carol singing and lack of friends or presents will only underline that loneliness and increase it. If you were content, appreciative of your life and choices you've made, then you will be extra content, extra appreciative during the sesaon.
I'm beginning to babble, as I am sometime wont to do, but as usual there is so much I want to say about this time of year. It makes me a bit melancholy because I'm just that kind of person anyway. But I'm happy as well because I'm generally a happy person who sees the good in other people even when the world we live in kind of scares me a bit. But, as always, that's a topic for another day.
I think here in Newfoundland we are standing on the precipice of a great height (a "sad height," perhaps, as Dylan Thomas might have called it). It's a time to think on where we've come from and how we got here. Things are changing rapidly because of the impending changes in economic fortune. Some of it good, some of it bad. It's the time of year for putting those things in perspective and deciding which direction our own personal lives will follow in the coming year. I know where I'm headed and where I'd like to be this time next year. It might very well be, for many of us, though, that we're already there and just need to put some time and thought into recognizing that fact.
Life is good and getting better.
And to all a good night.
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