This is the Sea

I'm guessing everyone has at some point in their life looked around themselves and wondered, "How did I get here?" We know David Byrne has, or at least we can assume so based on the 1980 Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime.

Sidebar: That song is from 1980? Like, 45-years-ago-1980? Having spent 25 years saying, "The date is twenty-something", now, "1980" sounds more like saying, "1880". Yet, the 1980s are also ever present in my mind, especially with the current wave of conservative governments in the States and Europe. Later in the 80s, as a teen, it was very common to think Mulroney, Reagan and Thatcher were the stuff creepy European folktales were made of. They would seem sweetly naive by today’s conservative standards. Well, maybe not Thatcher (shiver). It is funny to think nostalgically of a time when we wondered if we were running out of tomorrows. These days it’s very common to believe democracy is in its death throes. Some are protesting it, some are trying to ignore it, some are fighting it, but unfortunately, quite a few are profiting from it. Is that how the mind works? Yesterdays are for nostalgia and tomorrows are for hope and fears?

This brings me back to my point (I just knew I’d get there eventually): sometimes you have to look around and wonder “How did I get here?” Sometimes in your life, a change happens and you don’t realize it. Other times a change happens and your world shakes and you know it’s important and even if it took you by surprise it feels inevitable. When Robert Frost wrote The Road Not Taken, was he thinking that his choices made his life, or that we fool ourselves by thinking that our choices make our lives as they turn out to be? Do we even have free will? Does it even matter?

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Advice from a shoebox

Embrace the rain.

“To embrace melancholy is essentially to embrace the rain.”

I won’t say I’ve experienced serious depression but like most people who live in the northern hemisphere I’ve felt the sadness of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). This winter in Toronto has been greyer than grey. We haven’t even had fifty shades of grey. Three shades, tops. Three shades of grey is at least 94% less sexy than fifty. A lot of times you don't know what you have until you miss it, including blue skies and sun on your face, but I'd say most people know they're missing out on sunshine. I guess what I've never understood is the desire to address this through artificial means, such as hyper-dosing vitamin D, spray tans or lying on a tanning bed. There's also the danger of too much sun, which seems almost absurd given that most of us in the north are suffering from lack of it. Of course, surfers and retirees in Australia are the world's leaders in melanoma, but here above the 49th, we are leaders in vitamin D deficiency. Though, to be honest, I'm not even thinking about the actual health implications of too much or too little sun. I just miss it.

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Riparian Diversions

Now I lay me down in green pastures, but preferably the ones near rivers. Image by Midjourney.

Humans are terrestrial creatures, but inexplicably are drawn to water. Maybe it's not that inexplicable. We do need water to live. Aren't we mostly made up of the stuff? I often attribute it to my island upbringing for my fascination with water, but it isn't necessarily true. So many days I've started a bike ride with no intentions to go anywhere but still find myself drawn out to the Leslie Spit, a purpose-made headland created from demolition rubbish. Out on the point of broken concrete and brick, you can feel like you're out in Lake Ontario. Standing out looking over the water is one of my only ways to see the horizon in Toronto.

Being near or out on the water is the best way to forget about the city but it's not always about leaving things behind as much as finding new things. Probably the most surprising part of Toronto is the amount of nature you can encounter thanks to the Ravines. You have to go pretty far to completely leave the built world behind. So many Saturdays I would ride 50-60 KM away from my house and still never leave the city, never leaving its sights, sounds or smells behind. One summer we went kayaking on the Humber River. You can ride your bike or just take the subway to a parking lot where a company rents kayaks and canoes. At the launch point you can paddle beneath the bridge that carries the east-west subway leaving you in the curious position of being on a lazy river looking up at a subterranean rail line. Once, while floating past the shoreline, I thought I spotted eggs nestled in the grass but on closer inspection they were really just faded golf balls. I guess I wanted them to be eggs, even if it made no sense. That paddle was full of surprising encounters. Gliding in and out of inlets thick with water lilies and tall marshy grasses, we met swans, ducks, spied fish below, spotted hawks floating above and saw egrets walking in the shallow water or perched in a willow. Those sleepy, slender white birds, lazing about on an equally slim branch seemed like an image from a Japanese wood block print. The image is still in my mind. Later in the year, we returned to the Humber to watch the salmon run and their attempts to jump the weirs in the river.

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Cap it and Forget it 

Washington, D.C., circa 1919. "Hat display, Saks & Co." Panama hats, and how they're made.

Something attributed to Fran Lebowitz has stuck in my head. Lebowitz is an American author and, I don't know, "cultural critic" or something (she hasn't published anything in some time but often is asked to speak publicly on numerous topics). The quote I heard is that men over sixty shouldn't wear baseball caps. Lebowitz is for some reason seen as having insight on fashion. I don't know why. In my estimation, she has worn the same outfit for decades, which is essentially heavy tortoiseshell eyeglasses, a man's blazer (too large for her small aging frame), straight-leg, high-waisted denim jeans, a crisp white dress shirt, and cowboy boots. This is to say, I wouldn't necessarily consider fashion advice from Lebowitz as useful or relevant. Though, I'm not sure I would take fashion advice from anyone anymore. I'm in my mid-fifties and to be honest, dressing to me is personal and simultaneously, trivial. I do think I understand her point, however. Baseball is a young person's game, and men in their sixties are not usually leaving the house for the park for a game of pickup, so they really should dress for their age and not the age they want to be.

In my neighbourhood, I do see many, many men, my age or older, who are definitely not dressing suitably for their age and forget about dressing for the job they want. Often it's that particular look of the white rapper with oversized ball caps, oversized basketball jerseys worn over oversized tees, paired with oversized basketball shorts, or oversized jeans crumpled atop loose-fitting, untied basketball shoes. Not only is this a look fit for the 13 to 25-year-old crowd, but it was a look that was only fit for 13 to 25-year-olds about 30 years ago. I have no idea what these guys are thinking, and often I worry about my classist assumptions that most of these men are absolute idiots who simply don't know any better. Or worse, they are so ignorant as not to be aware of their ignorance. What it appears to me is this is an individual who has not matured past the age of 15 and is stuck thinking a life dressing this way is somehow showing their individualistic, "stick it to the man" independent streak that says, "I don't have to dress like I have a job, because I don't have a job!". Good for you. Let everyone know, that you're out here living in the streets, free from income. It's none of my business. I saw the most egregious of this sort when I witnessed a fellow who appeared to be in his 50s (or older), again wearing the sideways-pulled cap, oversized tee and shorts while riding a teeny-tiny BMX bicycle. Not only was this gentleman not on his way to the ballpark but he was also not on his way to a skate park to try out some new bike tricks. I would say getting on or off the bike was his big trick.
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Messing About 

Leonard Cohen knew the value of solitude.

Blessed with one extra day of vacation, what would you do? I can tell you what I did. January 3, should have been the first day back to work, but my company has added four additional vacation days over a year called a "Day for Me". You can work if you like (not bloody likely), or take a class or do whatever. It's your day. I began it by sleeping in, an act of both defiance and denial. I slipped downstairs to find Julia had already made a pot of coffee. This was followed by two clementines, the most seasonal of citrus, though nowadays you can get them any time, they remain one of my favourite Christmas traditions. This was followed by some oatmeal and a small piece of chocolate (I was still on holiday after all). I had two small errands to run so of course, I steeled my reserve with a brief after-breakfast nap.

I then set out to pick up a print job from a local office supply place, return home with it (too large to carry around for the day), then off to return two small unwanted items to a downtown Ikea. A modern day rewrite of both Homer's and Joyce's Ulysees would have included an Ikea labour. Once there, unexpectedly, it wasn't so busy and it seemed necessary to enjoy a cinnamon roll with a glass of "nordic drink" (purportedly lingonberry flavour).

Once again refreshed, I continued on to the Art Gallery of Ontario to see the exhibit of Leonard Cohen's photos, writing, music and art. It was surprisingly busy. The joy of having a day off that no one else does, usually means you have most public places to yourself. Not so much on this day. Despite the crowded galleries, the restaurant was relaxingly sparse and it was lovely to have a full table to myself and enjoy a meal with only the side dishes as company. Once I left the cloistered quiet of the gallery's bistro, I rejoined the masses in the streets. Even the streetcars had returned full to the brim with the riding public.

As new years go, I recommend everyone begin with a day only for yourself. Unless of course, all of your days are to yourself, in which case, perhaps seek some companionship at least one day. There is undoubtedly a difference between solitude and loneliness. One is chosen, the other, presumably, is imposed. Leonard Cohen certainly valued the work he did alone in a room or by an open window or sitting in a café. A quote from Cohen in the exhibit was, to paraphrase, "the archive is the mountain and the published work, the volcano", which I took as meaning the mountainous accumulation of work you do in private, that no one ever sees, still informs whatever you reveal to the public. There is the value of solitude. For me, solitude isn't necessarily leaving behind everything to think quietly in a cave, but simply moments you take for yourself. I realized recently when simply walking on your own, you decide when the break between the cars is enough to dash across the street, which is not something you do when walking with others. A holiday like Christmas is seen as a cherished time to spend with family, so much so that Newfoundlanders invented Tibb's Eve to have a night out with friends before all that fam-time. I like to sprinkle days off in the year just for me. Of course, this may be considered selfish to parents with little kids, but that just shows the unusual luxury of time to yourself. There are plenty of ways I like spending a day: at a gallery, a bookstore, a bike shop, or even doing laundry or just napping. Some ways I measure the success of those days for me are how long I spent the day without wearing my glasses, which for me are worn mostly while working at the computer or how long I went without looking at a watch or clock. When you've spent a day not caring about time you've probably had a good day.

After my Day for Me my only real regret was that it wasn't a "Month for Me". It might seem a bit much to think of having more time off immediately following having time off, but as I have said before, (to quote a certain rat in literature, who I now consider my spirit animal), I can't think of anything more important than simply messing about.

Forthwith & Posthaste 

Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson

I’m not as patient as I used to be. I’m also more patient than I used to be. In private, amongst friends or at work or even when trying to make considered decisions, I am like a zen master. I can sit silently and contemplate the nature of my existence. Yet, if in a lineup waiting to pay for something, I cannot abide the person in front of me who has decided to bury their credit card in a wallet, deep in the bowels of a backpack, purse or messenger bag, and only after every item has been scanned and bagged decides to begin their spelunking adventure for the one card they require to pay for the things they knew they would have to pay for when they entered the store. You just wasted my precious time, but don't think twice, it's alright. Many people commit this act of time terrorism. I find glaring at the back of their head is calming. It’s a coping mechanism.

Why worry about a few moments lost in a lineup given the immensity of hours lost connecting one device to another device via bluetooth, or watching the spin of a loading graphic or trying every password you've ever used to log into a computer you rarely use. None of which compares to the time spent sitting in front of my computer in service of somebody else's business. That is my job. I am literally paid to sit there and take it. I fill the time by taking copious notes, colour coded, with diagrams and arrows and instructions with sticky notes.

I'm not sure it's because I'm being paid for this time that makes it tolerable whereas when I'm out in public it feels like everyone else is wasting my time, but shopping in particular is an excruciating experience for me. Let me be clear, I don't mean window shopping or browsing, for those are times I've chosen to slow down, but when I need to buy something as dull as dish soap it feels like I'm wasting my life on this unredeemable task. I'll never get that time back and I get nothing from it, except dish soap.

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A Certain Loss of Grace 

“Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else.”
– Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

Early spring in Toronto is a wretched sight. The snow has melted and muddied the soggy parks. The puddled pathways are dirty with mashed litter pressed into every crevice. The city's trees, still dormant, are barren, brown and lifeless. Any green on the grass is but a stain. The hems of buildings are splattered dark with damp and mildew. Every grey building is smudged into the grey sky. Toronto looks like a place that was once affluent, but is now down on its luck, exhaling "a certain loss of grace" as Italo Calvino* might say. It's as though the wet of the season has washed all the colours away. The wealthy have left behind their mansions, long since converted to boarding houses, so sub-divided and mean, that their inner smallness bursts down slanted stairs, past improvised doors and out cracked windows. The coldness of the air is the only thing suppressing the earthy rot from blooming. Gusts of wind whip around corners carrying a confetti of garbage and a skitter of empty plastic bottles.

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The Rhythm is Going to Get You 

What's that lil' bird? I can almost hear you.

We'd had a few days of high heat which meant my windows were closed and the a/c was on, then the temperatures broke and it was quickly cooler outside than inside. This meant I could open the windows and that's when an odd thing happened. It got quiet. The roar of traffic sounded low and distant. I could hear a streetcar's air brakes breathing. The fan of a nearby building's a/c whirred. Birds were chirping and twittering busily. A slight shush of gentle rainfall was a background to it all. Then the blare of a car horn, the rise of a straining truck engine moaned, the whine of a car's brakes that needed changing and the clatter of someone moving a garbage bin all combined to end the relative quiet. Moments later the cacophony of the street quelled again. Then it returned. I soon realized the waves of sound alternating with peace was simply the traffic lights changing at Dundas (aka "The Street With No Name") and Parliament.

The pandemic meant for a brief time that the city did seem quieter but in my neighbourhood where Parliament Street is an important access to the Gardiner Expressway and the Lakeshore and with Dundas (aka "The Street With No Name") as a major route into the downtown core, traffic sounds returned to pretty much normal far earlier than other parts of the city. I've always known this is a busy and noisy area. Around midnight on Monday nights, there is commercial garbage pick-up that happens twice: once eastbound on Dundas and a second time southbound on Parliament. Both times, the noise is incredibly annoying and can last 10-15 minutes each time. I have gotten used to it in the sense that I turn the volume of my TV or music up to block it. The funny thing is that when there is a break in the general noise, it is always because for whatever reason, the traffic has subsided.

Several years ago, the TTC replaced the streetcar tracks at Dundas (aka "The Street With No Name") and Parliament. The noise was relentless and due to its high priority went as late as 11:30 PM. An unexpected bonus however was when the construction shut down on Friday of the long weekend, the intersection was impassable thus blissfully quiet for three days. It's easy to see that most (and I do mean most, as in 90% or more) of the pollution I'm exposed to (air, noise, light) is a direct result of automobile traffic. The heavy particulate seen on my window sills? From cars and street traffic. The noise is obviously from cars, garbage trucks, delivery vehicles and motorbikes fitted with penis enlarging exhausts (dear motorcyclists, adding a noise maker to your crotch rocket really just broadcasts your feelings of inferiority and in no way enhances anything). Lastly, street lights and traffic lights mostly exist for cars. If these lights were really for pedestrians, they'd be much dimmer and lower.

All of this occurred to me recently when I was passed by an electric vehicle that rolled by making no more sound than its tires rolling over the asphalt. I wondered what would it be like if every vehicle on the street were that quiet and clean. I could breath easier and open my windows more often. I'd hear birds more often. I'd hear gentle rain more often. Electrification wouldn't eliminate all the air and noise pollution but it would eliminate a lot of it. Thinking of this makes me wish that the "electrification" of our world would be a huge benefit by not only diminishing carbon and petrochemicals pollution but also noise pollution. I'm sort of hoping that electric cars will also discourage people from cranking their car stereos because it uses too much juice but let's just tackle one problem at a time, then maybe we'll still have a society to electrify.

Hello Mars 

This is Mars. Who are you? Image via The Guardian

When you live in a large city, you get used to not seeing much in the night sky. Only the brightest of objects can be seen. Amazingly, some of the brightest objects are nearby planets. Relatively nearby, that is. For most of this year, I’ve watched the conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter, a cosmic pairing that pranced through the sky like old dance partners, in a coupling that only comes together once every twenty years, like an old married couple. More recently, Mars has begun to swing above the southern horizon to be so plainly visible as to make you think it was a stationary drone peering down on you.

There’s been a lot of talk about loneliness and longing during the pandemic but I haven’t felt alone at all. Maybe for the first time in years I’ve come to realize how I am surrounded by friends, new and old, that I can count on. There have been bursts of communication that have sometimes felt “bustling”. While I’m familiar with video calls for work, I have been surprised by how so many of my Luddite friends have finally discovered the usefulness of a video call.

Along with the human moments of this pandemic there have been the cosmic ones too. Not to sound like the X Files or something but we are not alone. Looking out into the sky to see our solar system buddies has felt very awesome in that I am full of some large measure of awe.

Now that I’m noticing Mars for really the first time, I’ve wondered, “Hello Mars. Where have you been all my life?” Of course, Mars, just like Jupiter and Saturn have always been there but the truth was, I wasn’t. I’m not sure I understand the phrase of “being present” but if it means something like being aware of a presence than I can say I’ve become a lot more present in the last eight months. Noticing the sojourns of the planets, the path of the moon, the angle of the sun, the sound of songbirds, or the wails of an aging drunkard (yeah, that hasn’t changed in this neighbourhood), I realize I haven’t slowed down (could my life move any slower) but the halting of the world has allowed me to see what passed me before. Maybe this moment, a year with environmental, societal and public health disasters, which has felt like a decade, is similar to how time expands during an accident like a fall from a ladder or just before a car collision. You really have time to take in all the details before you hit the ground.

Or perhaps I’ve reached an age when all that came before happened too fast and all that is yet to come is much clearer in front of me and having that view of the other side of the mountain has shown me the urgency of all I have left that I want to do.

So yes. Hello Mars. How are you?

Some Starry Night 

Sometimes the Universe doesn't care for your plans.

As Toronto finally joins the rest of Ontario in “Stage Three”, which sounds more like a cancer diagnosis than a pandemic economic recovery plan, we’re trying to return to normal except we really aren’t. We’ve had almost 40,000 cases of COVID-19 with almost 2800 deaths, so there’s really nothing normal here, new normal or otherwise. Whether it’s all the restaurants that can’t fully re-open or the closure of movie theatres or the fact that travelling somewhere, anywhere, now feels unnecessarily risky, the pandemic has sucked a good deal of fun from the summer. More than the pandemic however is my own skin which won’t quite heal from the urticaria that has plagued me for the last eighteen months. Fun in the sun is a no-go. Stepping out in the searing bright sunshine almost immediately leads to painful hives. I’d love to go for a paddle but sitting in kayak sweating would be my undoing. A cool swim might be the perfect summer treat until I have to shower and soap up which may turn my skin into a living version of kimchi.

Instead, I’m trying to focus on the stuff I can enjoy this summer instead of all the stuff I’ll miss due to either the Pandemic or Urticaria. I might not get the long rides, kayaking or swims but there will be hammock hangs, grilled meats, home made ice cream, and movies on a shiny, new TV beneath the chill of the A/C.

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I Lost More Than I Gained 

“I could tell you the temperature and wind speed by feel. I knew the humidity index by my sweat. I knew the date by the moon.”

I use to have a bad habit of coming home from work, lying down and having a solid nap. I’d wake up, weigh myself, then feel guilty and go for a run. By the time I got home and showered I’d be eating supper sometimes as late as 10 PM. Then I’d go to bed and sleep like a baby. Sleeping well was the first thing I lost when I stopped exercising but it wasn’t the only thing. It’s been ages since I’ve run regularly and in the meantime I gained weight and got doughy. Like 20 lbs doughy. I’ve since realized I've lost more than I gained.

When you run all the time you get to know your neighbourhood. I knew every pothole, every stage of every construction project. I recognized other runners who were regulars. I knew if I was ahead or behind schedule by who was sitting on their porch. I knew when the SPCA volunteers would walk the dogs in their care. I even knew those dogs. I knew cats that prowled and scurried from shrubs or beneath cars. I knew what flowers bloomed when. What trees budded and for how long. Because I often ran at dusk, I had a sense of how the moon was waxing or waning. I knew the mix of smells, mostly sour and urban, but some sweet and floral. I knew which neighbourhoods smoked more pot than others from the pungent acrid smoke that followed the men on their evening walk. I knew the sounds of kids and the names that would be yelled across the park. I knew which birds to avoid in the Common - trust me, do not turn your back on a redwing blackbird. I knew when the raspberries beneath a public art piece were ripe or that there were berries there at all. I knew which water fountains worked and where new ones were installed (the new ones have a spout for pets near the ground and a taller faucet for refilling water bottles). I knew when ball games were played or when local teams practised. I knew which sidewalks had heaved in the spring and which had crumbled in the fall. I knew which street lamps were faulty and which alleyways were lit. I knew when streetlights would change and could count the seconds accurately in my head (“1 Jeremy Irons, 2 Jeremy Irons, 3 Jeremy Irons, go). I knew when garbage trucks took which street’s waste. I knew which houses had well kept gardens and which apartments ordered a lot of fast food. I knew where the cabbies gathered to break and talk their native language.

I could tell you the temperature and wind speed by feel. I knew the humidity index by my sweat. I knew the date by the moon. I could tell you the next day’s weather by the clouds. I could sense who won the big game by the traffic on the Gardiner. I knew people’s private moments when they thought no one was near. I startled more than a few couples canoodling (poodle faking as a friend’s father would say).

I knew my pace by counting in my head. I knew how far I’d gone by my steps. I knew how to add 500m more, 1 km more, 2.5 km more by lampposts and stop signs. I knew my heart rate from touch. I knew my body fat from a pinch. I knew my weight to the gram by my lightness. I knew every street name, stop sign, no parking zone and house number. I knew where raccoons gathered, where rats were plentiful, where rabbits hid, where foxes, deer or raptors might be seen. I knew the time of night by the stillness. I knew the darkness because I ran within it. I knew where crackheads smoked, vomited and pissed. I knew where the prostitutes stood, bored and anxious. I knew where the cops slept. I knew when the seasons changed by taste. I knew when the skateboarders would land their jump or stumble from their boards. I knew when grass was cut, where drugs were sold, where dogs crapped and where drunks passed out. I knew the city better than the back of my hand because, honestly, the back of my hand isn’t that interesting.

But that’s all lost to me now.

Coffee Caste 

"In this rare image of a 17th-century coffee-house, wigged men sit on benches with newspapers and cups of coffee, while a maid serves behind the bar." the British Library.

On a sunny, refreshingly crisp Saturday morning when I had just successfully completed a simple bit of grown-up financial business, I decided to treat myself to a milky coffee and maybe a sweet pastry. I stopped at a pleasant Starbucks on the corner which had a great window seat for people watching. Thanks to Thorstein Veblen I began to wonder if I was implicated in a plague of societal inequity. Thanks Thorstein.

There’s a strange class politics to coffee that everyone recognizes but no one talks about. I guess that’s because no one has to. We all know and understand this market driven social experiment. I like to think I’m a wonderful magnanimous egalitarian who always only thinks the best of his fellow man. If you’re laughing right know, then you obviously know me well. Of course I’m not that person. I don’t feel too bad about it. Not even Ghandi was that kind of person.
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unbound 

I hate my backpack. I hate all backpacks. I even hate the name. Back. Pack. I hate this entire category of luggage. There was a moment when I thought what a great idea a “No-strap Backback” was, until I realized it was a terrible idea that was also an April Fools prank. Even the most ergonomically designed pack is putting stress on your shoulders and spine (even “strapless” ones). I hate the sweatiness of a pack covering a large portion of my back. What’s the point of wearing breathable fabric outerwear if most of it is covered with a heavy nylon unbreathable pack stuffed with junk?

Of course, it’s not really about the bag itself. Living in a city where you leave your house for hours at a time and don’t have a car to secure personal affects means you have to carry everything you might need with you. I’m fascinated by the “Persona” project where an artist asks to photograph a person and the belongings they deem essential enough to carry with them everyday (a surprising number of people carry two phones and knives - big knives?!) If I emptied out my backpack you’d find an asthma inhaler, a handful of ibuprofen, maybe a protein bar, a couple of notebooks, multiple pens, a phone cable and a backup battery to recharge my phone on the go. Probably the oddest things I carry are part of a repair kit for my bike, namely a wrench and a pump (a compact pump but a pump nonetheless).
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