My father's face surprised me one morning,
peering at me from my bathroom mirror.
My joy at seeing him (dead these many years)
was tempered by a sudden knowledge of the message
he brought.
I never sought wisdom from my Dad,
but in my blundering adolescent way
found much that would return in later years
to haunt, and to guide me.
He, a quiet yet vibrant man, taught me
that sorrow and tears were never solely
the private prerogative of women:
men also wept in private anguish.
He, an undemonstrative man, showed his love
at the most unexpected times.
A sudden gift, and shy explanation
of how he thought I might like it.
He, an unlettered man, offered support,
approval for my serendipitous ways.
With hesitant words he voiced his pride
in the directions I had taken.
Seeing myself in my children's eyes,
I can only hope that the genetic gifts
I leave with them can partially repay
the legacy of my father's love.
Just a euphemism we have coined
to mask the slaughter of innocents,
people much like you and me
who got in the way of war.
Just a phrase to make it neat,
and hide the body bags,
while we wave our flags,
sing our anthems, and shed a tear for “heroes”.
We colonised, destroying cultures,
imposing religion, and societal mores
on peoples who had been civilized
long before the Enlightenment.
We pushed our hegemonic aspirations,
driven by corporate greed,
and the leitmotif of economic expansionism,
with military muscle hammering compliance.
We speak democracy, but install tyrants
who ensure human rights abuses,
economic stagnation, theocratic indoctrination,
and we ponder the causes of terrorism.
So: another day, another headline,
screaming of blood, and death, and pain.
When will we realise the collateral damage
is empathy, tolerance, and social progress?
The motorcade,
stopping before camera crews,
and microphones,
was as incongruous
as a guffaw
at a funeral.
The surrounding buildings,
derelict and time-worn
as the few faces
peering, confused,
from mouldy doorways
and flaking windowsills,
were stark:
tones of black, white, and grey-
a dismal dream
of some forgotten battlefield.
The mayor,
cloaked with a bonhomie
born of a profound sense
of self-worth,
smiled, facing the cameras:
yes, the city had concluded
a mutually satisfying agreement
with the developer.
The area would be
reclaimed,
revitalised,
refurbished,
and released from the state of decay
into which it had fallen.
The one radical reporter
who wished to question
relocation of the low rental units,
the rehab centre,
the soup kitchens,
was swept aside
by smiling, applauding
businessmen,
anxious to escape
such unsavoury environs.
The speed of the outer rim
is little noticed in youth:
seconds grow to minutes,
minutes to hours,
spring to summer,
without end.
Age draws us on,
and gradually we notice
the ambient speed
of our relentless passage.
We sense, rather than see,
the spira mirabilis
shrinking in logarithmic glory
to depths
arcane and esoteric.
An ache here,
an ailment there,
searching for a memory
that continues to escape;
the baggage of years,
the wounds, the scars,
tender joys,
tumultuous love,
all weigh heavily
on failing shoulders
and weakening heart.
The speed increases progressively,
and we become obsessed
with slowing the descent:
diet, exercise, study,
philosophy, religion,
nothing decreases
the juggernaut in its plunge
to the obscure,
the unknown.
If we but abandon resistance,
embrace the breathless wonder
of life’s passage,
and yield to the message
that this moment is our gift,
and our gift is impermanence,
only then can we begin
to fully live,
and to seize our fleeting moment
under a dying sun.
There was a beacon,
mindlessly broadcasting to the cosmos,
when the world ended.
The creators of the beacon
had long been consumed
by the planet they destroyed:
but they built a beacon
to broadcast their folly
to the cold,
and uncaring,
universe.
It had been an amazing evolution:
so much promise,
so much brilliance,
stellar opportunity
for a toddling species
in the infancy of realised potential.
The creators carried baggage with them
through their evolution.
They carried hatred, brutish tribalism,
false and evil gods,
distrust, suspicion, and
the strange desire to exploit,
to subjugate others.
War was relatively continuous
throughout their history.
Battles, banners, songs of patriotism,
and vengeful gods:
empathy and altruism stood suspended.
In their rush to enrich the few,
and enslave the many,
this species took all they could
from dwindling resources
with no thought of consequence,
only reward.
The reward came in the form
of catastrophic climate change,
and while factions argued cause,
a karmic pendulum had swung.
They programmed the beacon
to tell the stars our story,
but the stars didn’t care.
And neither did we.
She was proud of her skill
with her three-toed cane.
Her walk
from the Residence
to Thrift Store
took just twenty minutes:
then fifteen minutes
to the donut shop
where she’d meet
some of the Girls.
Concentrating
on her next step,
she was shocked,
surprised,
as her faithful shoulder bag
was wrenched
from her grip.
Baggy trousers
slowed his sprint:
dragging cuffs
impeded his balance
as fate,
gravity,
and forward motion
conspired,
then placed him in the path
of the accelerating Transit bus.
She recovered her handbag,
and left the scene
without
a backward
glance.
The magnitude
of his fear
dwarfed
his thirteen years.
While crushing
his spirit,
the streets also
extinguished hope.
Perhaps home,
with continuing abuse,
would remove
the terror of the alleys.
He easily ignored
the stares,
the crude comments,
the threatening gestures,
engendered
by his street-corner ministry:
his testament of Faith.
He overcame his fear
with his Belief
that, even in these squalid
ghetto streets,
the Word
should enlighten.
While he sang
“What a Friend we have
in Jesus,”
a hulk in gangsta garb
spat on him,
and he worried that
his Testimony
only made
his God
sad.
The crisp, orange daylight fades
into crystalline evening.
The stars, just out of reach,
twinkle in ballroom splendour:
Morse messages long forgotten.
The chill northern breeze whispers
rude suggestions to graceful maples.
Their blushes, still visible
in October’s early light,
soon thaw the frosted lawn.
Chimneys draw straight lines
over cool suburban streets:
auras redolent of porridge
and the warmth of brown toast:
fortifying strength for another autumn day.
I must admit that I was surprised, and yes, even a little dismayed, when I first realised that cultural appropriation was a thing. I always thought of humans as a species, evolving towards something greater and better than we are today. In my shallow little so-called “whitecentric” mind, we shared with, and shared from, other cultures.
Hence, in summer, I still like to wear my sarong on the verandah.
I started out with reggae, but expanded my appropriation to include a whole gamut of “world” music.
I eat sushi, goulash, pizza, enchiladas, steak/egg/chips, Thai, Chinese (including regional foods), and on and on.
The Hindu concept of Brahman has become a part of who I am, but I admire some of Gautama’s teachings, as well as those from K’ung-fu-tzu.
I wear clothes of (mostly) Italian design.
If I had hair, I would have worn dreads at some time of my life.
I love the inukshuk, but haven’t constructed one because I know I could not do it justice.
I have been trying to shed the skin of religious conditioning that my childhood, country, and culture, has lathered on me over the years.
My childhood was close to being destitute, but wasn’t quite, but I didn’t look at the kids from Nob Hill and want what they had (unless, in the late 50s, it was the white bucks that all the cool rich kids had).
I used to play cowboys and indians as a child and would play either role without feeling that I was subtracting anything from a cowboy’s life, or from the valour of a First Nations Warrior.
And I am now in a position where I feel that I have to apologise to all of the cultures of the world for admiring, and emulating, much of their ways of life, thinking, eating. It was never my intention to piss off an entire culture! It was never my intention to denigrate through my adoption of whatever from their culture.
I simply thought, naively it now seems, that we were all one species and, if I had something good, tasty, or cool, that anyone wanted to duplicate for their own purposes, hey! that is what a species does.
No slight. No bigotry. No taking advantage of various cultures.
My ancestors were Irish, preceded by Norman. We immigrated to British Nova Scotia in the mid to late 1700s, and (I suspect) had to pretend to be Protestant to get jobs. As economic refugees, my family moved to Timmins in the 1940s to better our lives.
Things change: people adapt.
If you see me eating ethnic food, wearing ethnic clothes, singing ethnic music, I am not mocking you, or trying to take anything away from the culture that produced you. I am simply saying, “Hey, fellow traveller! I really enjoy your food/clothes/music/thought/whatever, and I think it worthy of emulation.”
So if all of the above makes me a bad person, a cultural stalker, please tell me what alternative I have, other than living alone, in a closet.
Sometimes I get puzzled by shit: this is one of those times.
Welcome, and Namaste
Greetings fellow travellers,
For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.
As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.
May your Dharma be clear
Peace
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."
Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream
