Where to begin ~ yeah, the ubiquitous question...
I've been circling around this blog for a while, trying to figure out what it is I want to do with it. With mebbe a couple of exceptions I've started blogs before and I'm sure they will die an ignoble death somewhere along the cyberway, abandoned little orphans of my bursts of enthusiasm. I think I can do better.
There are things I find myself thinking about writing about but I don't. What I think is me though and I'd like to leave something behind ~ especially for my daughter and granddaughter so they have some record of who I might be, things I remember, stuff I've learned along the way. Alas, I am not an accomplished journal keeper. I can write ~ I know I can but I don't. Gods grant me the self-discipline to do it cuz I don't remember being immortal.
Yeah, I'd like to be read by others. I figger I've learned a few interesting things along the way that someone else might appreciate. Or not...
There are things I find myself thinking about writing about but I don't. What I think is me though and I'd like to leave something behind ~ especially for my daughter and granddaughter so they have some record of who I might be, things I remember, stuff I've learned along the way. Alas, I am not an accomplished journal keeper. I can write ~ I know I can but I don't. Gods grant me the self-discipline to do it cuz I don't remember being immortal.
Yeah, I'd like to be read by others. I figger I've learned a few interesting things along the way that someone else might appreciate. Or not...
I went out to water the dog...
That's all ~ I went out to water the dog.
Why that should mean anything to anyone but me is up to the cosmos but it sticks out for a few reasons for me. It's an illustration of how my days can get to be like.
Niko the Wonder Dog (as we call him) is in a snit. He's used to taking off every day with his pal, my roomie the roofer. As far as Niko is concerned he is a vital part of the crew and is ready (after a comfortable morning pee/rabbit sniff) to take off at any hour of the day or night.
Currently roomie is working on a rather 'don'tcha know' retirement estate (no modest income, single pension folks here) that does not allow Niko's presence on their property and roomie is not about to leave him in a hot van all day while he's working. So Niko gets the very rare occasion of having to stay at home with 'her' (me) who never goes anywhere in his eyes. (Sorry, Niko, no non-service dawgs allowed on public buses.)
Which is making for a whole lot of pouting going on. A couple of years ago that would have meant being attached to a long line because otherwise he would get his nose really bent out of shape and decide to go 'walkabout' which would be okay but Niko is as dumb as a post and has yet to figure out his way back home often going all Blanche DuBois and relying on the kindness of strangers. Which means approaching any likely person and, being the social critter he is, lets them pet him knowing that 99% are going to find the tag on his collar that has three lines: 1. Niko 2. Lost and Stupid 3. Roomie's cel number.
He's a bit older now and I think his eyesight isn't quite as good as it used to be so now he settles for flopping around the back yard like a disconsolate sacrificial victim who has been found unvirgin enough to not make the cut in ascending to paradise. About 9 a.m., I went out to eyeball this supine mass of canine dejection and noticed his water bowl could bear with a top up so I scooped up the bowl and headed for the outdoor tap. While I stood there waiting till it filled it occurred to me to check out front to see if my nasturtiums needed a wee sip or two.
So I trotted out front where they were all in their late blooming glory (atrocious wet spring this year) in the crumbling brick planter by the front door. The ones I had stuck as an afterthought in a hanging plant container were doing well and would do nicely if I would hang them up. Noting that they could, indeed, use a little watering I trotted back into the house to get the two plastic pitchers I use for watering small spots rather than haul out the hose. While decanting them on the nasturtiums I noticed the tea rose bush could do with a trim. In fact, this was kind of crucial to hanging the nasturtiums because last year I had let two stems grow very long and used the plant hanger hook to 'hang' them by the front door where they produce a bounty of pink-hued and white tea roses in fragrant profusion during what passed for our summer. Being the only hanging hook I have there, a little judicious lopping seemed in order to hoist up the blooming greenery.
So off I trotted around back to the bench where I keep my gardening tools and work gloves. Walking back to the front, I passed Niko's bowl and reminded myself to fill it as soon as I was done pruning and hanging. Once those details were attended to I decided that while myself, pruners and gloves were in the same spot that I may as well attend to trimming back plant stems and other post-bloom garden flotsam, snipping away until I had a respectable pile which I needed the wheelbarrow to clear so off to the back of the house I trotted to fetch it and proceeded to load up the cuttings to be be hauled off to the composting heap.
I wasn't really dressed for gardening since I was only going out to fill the dog bowl so my clothing was more along the line of fabrics that could be clung to which is what about a thousand little dried burrs ~ yes, the inspiration for velcro ~ did. Death grips, each and every one of them. I know because I stood by the compost heap and picked them off my clothing. I don't know what they were but I was not about to randomly flick those seeds about to propagate ~ the buttercups are adversarial enough without adding a new triffid strain to the mix.
While on my way back to put the wheelbarrow away, I noticed the blackberry bushes by the shed had enough ripe ones to warrant grabbing the bucket and filling it. These, btw, are being laid out on trays in the freezer so they don't end up a solid block of purple mush and will be easier to through into the smoothies that I am using to start my days with, them being such great anti-oxidant sources 'n' all. I ran into the kitchen and scooped up the berry picking bucket and a leather work glove to part the *extremely* thorny branches and picked everything that I could tickle easily off the vine.
Now, I gotta digress here a little bit here. All my reading life there has been references in stories of derring-do and what all to heroes of all gender who dodge certain death and mayhem by taking refuge in brambles. No worries - just sliding in slick as a whistle with a minor plucking of clothing and the odd *owie*... When I'm out wrassling with cutting back the canes or picking the berries and leaving copious amounts of flesh and blood behind, I give some thought as to whether I would go plowing into those masses of barbed menace with anything less than a full suit of armor and a flame thrower. Them suckers are deadly! And never mind any artistic license about scooting underneath ~ the ground is a veritable instrument of the Inquisition, strewn with thorns and the dessicated skeletons of brambles gone by that are just as deadly as the live ones. The next author who tries that ruse on my sensibilities will get a tart suggestion from me that they be prepared to demonstrate whatever techniques their valiant subjects are privy to... Just sayin'...
Anyway...
After tucking the barrow into its allotted spot, I noticed that the planters in what I used to fantasize as being a flowery little nook out back needed watering so I filled up the pitchers and gave them all a good slug of H2O. I was pleased to see that the morning glory I planted from seed at the beginning of our non-summer were now sprouting more tentacles than the ubiquitous octopus so I pulled out an aging , beat-up segment of a bamboo screen which had that instant weathered look that might look artfully fetching if festooned and entwined in blooming morning glories, propped it into place and redirected each tendril's attention from trying to seriously bond with anything over two inches tall to the screen which I provided for their playground.
Of course, that led to a bit more trimming and what all but I won't bore you with those details. It was, ya know, just gardening stuff.
Should I mention that all during this, Niko was sprawling luxuriously in the sunlight basking his aging bones in the warmth giving himself a happily slurpy occasional good ball-licking for diversion with not a care in his canine little mind?
About then I thought it would be a good time to sit down for a few minutes and try to think of *something* to write about so I put away the gardening tools and came in to the computer room, sat down, pulled up this site and wrinkled my furrowed brow in thought of *what* to write,
And then I got up and went out to fill his bowl with water.
My days are like that a lot. :-)
August 29, 2011
Why that should mean anything to anyone but me is up to the cosmos but it sticks out for a few reasons for me. It's an illustration of how my days can get to be like.
Niko the Wonder Dog (as we call him) is in a snit. He's used to taking off every day with his pal, my roomie the roofer. As far as Niko is concerned he is a vital part of the crew and is ready (after a comfortable morning pee/rabbit sniff) to take off at any hour of the day or night.
Currently roomie is working on a rather 'don'tcha know' retirement estate (no modest income, single pension folks here) that does not allow Niko's presence on their property and roomie is not about to leave him in a hot van all day while he's working. So Niko gets the very rare occasion of having to stay at home with 'her' (me) who never goes anywhere in his eyes. (Sorry, Niko, no non-service dawgs allowed on public buses.)
Which is making for a whole lot of pouting going on. A couple of years ago that would have meant being attached to a long line because otherwise he would get his nose really bent out of shape and decide to go 'walkabout' which would be okay but Niko is as dumb as a post and has yet to figure out his way back home often going all Blanche DuBois and relying on the kindness of strangers. Which means approaching any likely person and, being the social critter he is, lets them pet him knowing that 99% are going to find the tag on his collar that has three lines: 1. Niko 2. Lost and Stupid 3. Roomie's cel number.
He's a bit older now and I think his eyesight isn't quite as good as it used to be so now he settles for flopping around the back yard like a disconsolate sacrificial victim who has been found unvirgin enough to not make the cut in ascending to paradise. About 9 a.m., I went out to eyeball this supine mass of canine dejection and noticed his water bowl could bear with a top up so I scooped up the bowl and headed for the outdoor tap. While I stood there waiting till it filled it occurred to me to check out front to see if my nasturtiums needed a wee sip or two.
So I trotted out front where they were all in their late blooming glory (atrocious wet spring this year) in the crumbling brick planter by the front door. The ones I had stuck as an afterthought in a hanging plant container were doing well and would do nicely if I would hang them up. Noting that they could, indeed, use a little watering I trotted back into the house to get the two plastic pitchers I use for watering small spots rather than haul out the hose. While decanting them on the nasturtiums I noticed the tea rose bush could do with a trim. In fact, this was kind of crucial to hanging the nasturtiums because last year I had let two stems grow very long and used the plant hanger hook to 'hang' them by the front door where they produce a bounty of pink-hued and white tea roses in fragrant profusion during what passed for our summer. Being the only hanging hook I have there, a little judicious lopping seemed in order to hoist up the blooming greenery.
So off I trotted around back to the bench where I keep my gardening tools and work gloves. Walking back to the front, I passed Niko's bowl and reminded myself to fill it as soon as I was done pruning and hanging. Once those details were attended to I decided that while myself, pruners and gloves were in the same spot that I may as well attend to trimming back plant stems and other post-bloom garden flotsam, snipping away until I had a respectable pile which I needed the wheelbarrow to clear so off to the back of the house I trotted to fetch it and proceeded to load up the cuttings to be be hauled off to the composting heap.
I wasn't really dressed for gardening since I was only going out to fill the dog bowl so my clothing was more along the line of fabrics that could be clung to which is what about a thousand little dried burrs ~ yes, the inspiration for velcro ~ did. Death grips, each and every one of them. I know because I stood by the compost heap and picked them off my clothing. I don't know what they were but I was not about to randomly flick those seeds about to propagate ~ the buttercups are adversarial enough without adding a new triffid strain to the mix.
While on my way back to put the wheelbarrow away, I noticed the blackberry bushes by the shed had enough ripe ones to warrant grabbing the bucket and filling it. These, btw, are being laid out on trays in the freezer so they don't end up a solid block of purple mush and will be easier to through into the smoothies that I am using to start my days with, them being such great anti-oxidant sources 'n' all. I ran into the kitchen and scooped up the berry picking bucket and a leather work glove to part the *extremely* thorny branches and picked everything that I could tickle easily off the vine.
Now, I gotta digress here a little bit here. All my reading life there has been references in stories of derring-do and what all to heroes of all gender who dodge certain death and mayhem by taking refuge in brambles. No worries - just sliding in slick as a whistle with a minor plucking of clothing and the odd *owie*... When I'm out wrassling with cutting back the canes or picking the berries and leaving copious amounts of flesh and blood behind, I give some thought as to whether I would go plowing into those masses of barbed menace with anything less than a full suit of armor and a flame thrower. Them suckers are deadly! And never mind any artistic license about scooting underneath ~ the ground is a veritable instrument of the Inquisition, strewn with thorns and the dessicated skeletons of brambles gone by that are just as deadly as the live ones. The next author who tries that ruse on my sensibilities will get a tart suggestion from me that they be prepared to demonstrate whatever techniques their valiant subjects are privy to... Just sayin'...
Anyway...
After tucking the barrow into its allotted spot, I noticed that the planters in what I used to fantasize as being a flowery little nook out back needed watering so I filled up the pitchers and gave them all a good slug of H2O. I was pleased to see that the morning glory I planted from seed at the beginning of our non-summer were now sprouting more tentacles than the ubiquitous octopus so I pulled out an aging , beat-up segment of a bamboo screen which had that instant weathered look that might look artfully fetching if festooned and entwined in blooming morning glories, propped it into place and redirected each tendril's attention from trying to seriously bond with anything over two inches tall to the screen which I provided for their playground.
Of course, that led to a bit more trimming and what all but I won't bore you with those details. It was, ya know, just gardening stuff.
Should I mention that all during this, Niko was sprawling luxuriously in the sunlight basking his aging bones in the warmth giving himself a happily slurpy occasional good ball-licking for diversion with not a care in his canine little mind?
About then I thought it would be a good time to sit down for a few minutes and try to think of *something* to write about so I put away the gardening tools and came in to the computer room, sat down, pulled up this site and wrinkled my furrowed brow in thought of *what* to write,
And then I got up and went out to fill his bowl with water.
My days are like that a lot. :-)
August 29, 2011
Having tits...
Today I was having a Facebook conversation with a friend of mine who is piecing together squares made for me by a circle of friends when I was undergoing treatment for breast cancer between 2007 - 2008.
Somewhere along the way the conversation went:
Me: i have just had a brilliant flash for a clothing line and am regretting almightily that the powers that be seem to think that sewing is not gonna be one of my talents
Her: I good with costumes, not so good with actually clothes. Maybe Sew&sew...she is a sewing mavin.
Me: that woman can sew in her sleep, i swear
Her: Yup...I'm nervous about her seeing the final product....want to come to my room, instead of getting it in the group?
Me: no... i would like you to have the tits to be proud of your work
Her: LOL the what? Haven't heard that expression, and after the cancer surgery that would be singular not plural! At the gathering it is!
Me: everybody always talks about 'having balls' as a signification of courage
i don't have any
but i got tits
and just cuz one of your tits is invisible doesn't mean you don't have it
Her: Gotcha...figured it out while typing.
I hadn't meant to write 'tits' really but when I started typing the sentence I found that I just didn't want to write 'balls'.
I am a woman ~ I don't have balls. And, if it ever got down to me acquiring balls, then I wouldn't be a woman any more. I do, however, have tits and why they can't be symbols of courage, strength and chutzpah is beyond me. Nuthin' against all the human folk who feel that their dangly bits are the symbols of the ability to be stalwart and true but that's never been my fantasy so I feel it's time for me to puddle around a bit and do minor regendering of how I choose to express myself. I'm proud of my own self/sexuality/gender and I believe it stands for good and powerful of imagery that I illustrate my life with so I'm going to make a conscious effort to modify my language accordingly.
Betcha I can do it with a straight face too.
September 28, 2011
Somewhere along the way the conversation went:
Me: i have just had a brilliant flash for a clothing line and am regretting almightily that the powers that be seem to think that sewing is not gonna be one of my talents
Her: I good with costumes, not so good with actually clothes. Maybe Sew&sew...she is a sewing mavin.
Me: that woman can sew in her sleep, i swear
Her: Yup...I'm nervous about her seeing the final product....want to come to my room, instead of getting it in the group?
Me: no... i would like you to have the tits to be proud of your work
Her: LOL the what? Haven't heard that expression, and after the cancer surgery that would be singular not plural! At the gathering it is!
Me: everybody always talks about 'having balls' as a signification of courage
i don't have any
but i got tits
and just cuz one of your tits is invisible doesn't mean you don't have it
Her: Gotcha...figured it out while typing.
I hadn't meant to write 'tits' really but when I started typing the sentence I found that I just didn't want to write 'balls'.
I am a woman ~ I don't have balls. And, if it ever got down to me acquiring balls, then I wouldn't be a woman any more. I do, however, have tits and why they can't be symbols of courage, strength and chutzpah is beyond me. Nuthin' against all the human folk who feel that their dangly bits are the symbols of the ability to be stalwart and true but that's never been my fantasy so I feel it's time for me to puddle around a bit and do minor regendering of how I choose to express myself. I'm proud of my own self/sexuality/gender and I believe it stands for good and powerful of imagery that I illustrate my life with so I'm going to make a conscious effort to modify my language accordingly.
Betcha I can do it with a straight face too.
September 28, 2011
Talking of things boobish...
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my daughter was in the final semester of finishing her Bachelor of Science degree and I wanted *nothing* to come between her and the home stretch so, even though I was diagnosed in March, 2007, I didn't tell her anything until she finished her final exams in May.
I had told her husband who was sworn to secrecy and knew why he was bringing her over to my house.
Trouble was is I didn't really know how to tell her.
C'mon, folks, we are so culturally disposed to think the absolute worst when dealing with the 'C' word that it comes as a nasty shocker ~ very few people respond to it gracefully. I wasn't panicking and I didn't want her to either but, then again, I am a bit of a chickenshit when talking about things so intensely personal and didn't want to waste a lot of energy on wing-flapping. So, what I ended up figgering the best way was to hand her a poem I had written and, since she's a bright soul, she caught on ~ took a few seconds but the light went on and we were able to talk from there.
Communing with my boobs
i remember years ago, when you were a lot smaller,
that i didn't wear a bra and people would say that i should
cuz you would be saggy some day
and i would say that then i would roll 'em and pin 'em into place
but only for formal state occasions.
i was a lot younger then.
and i remember when you helped announce
the wee zygote that came to share our space -
you were sore and tender and grouchy
for days and i cupped you with/in wonder,
knowing, like any wysewoman,
that we would share our fecund glory
while you grew over the months,
a metamorphosis of voluptuousness.
when i held my daughter in my arms
watching her rosebud lips tugging at you,
there was an exaltation like no other
running through me like lightning strikes.-
i knew what it was to nourish with love,
a conduit sharing this new life.
many times i've thanked you for that
while we’ve luxuriated in my own caresses,
the tender touchings between friends
that exist in moments of self-amusement.
and, speaking of caresses,
bless you for responding with the depths of passion
to the touches and tortures of those who loved me.
i did not fail to notice
that you never responded to the will
of those you did not like or trust,
helping me discern the fine balance
between making love and just fucking.
do you remember the one who just loved big breasts.
fondling you with amazement and admiration
when he first weighed you in his hands?
you were beside yourselves that night,
covered in the glory of being recognized
and cherished for the wonders that you are.
we've had some fun times together, you and I,
but it's been a while since we've been perky
and, like me, you've been more content to just hang about
and let things slide.
this year i figgered that a refurbishing was overdue
and, taking stock of the order of reconstruction,
decided that a return to your place of pride
was a good beginning and so we started.
and stopped.
there's a secret hiding in you.
you didn't know or you would have told me
so we ended up yesterday looking at the galaxy
of your black and white imprint on x-ray film
while two tiny, tiny stars preparing to supernova
were pointed out - surprise, eh?
and i thought, well now - what do we have here?
a cosmic reminder to take nothing for granted,
a benign messenger with no axe to grind?
or that ancient enemy that calls on women
to bring themselves forth, challenged to do battle?
i find myself standing on the precipice of war,
sensitive to the negotiations around us -
praying for peace and waiting,
while arming to take on the interloper
if the hue and cry of danger is raised.
it's been forty years,
through maidenhood, motherhood
and now into the age of croning,
that we've been boon companions -
i'm not prepared to feast at the wake table
that bids you farewell.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
I had told her husband who was sworn to secrecy and knew why he was bringing her over to my house.
Trouble was is I didn't really know how to tell her.
C'mon, folks, we are so culturally disposed to think the absolute worst when dealing with the 'C' word that it comes as a nasty shocker ~ very few people respond to it gracefully. I wasn't panicking and I didn't want her to either but, then again, I am a bit of a chickenshit when talking about things so intensely personal and didn't want to waste a lot of energy on wing-flapping. So, what I ended up figgering the best way was to hand her a poem I had written and, since she's a bright soul, she caught on ~ took a few seconds but the light went on and we were able to talk from there.
Communing with my boobs
i remember years ago, when you were a lot smaller,
that i didn't wear a bra and people would say that i should
cuz you would be saggy some day
and i would say that then i would roll 'em and pin 'em into place
but only for formal state occasions.
i was a lot younger then.
and i remember when you helped announce
the wee zygote that came to share our space -
you were sore and tender and grouchy
for days and i cupped you with/in wonder,
knowing, like any wysewoman,
that we would share our fecund glory
while you grew over the months,
a metamorphosis of voluptuousness.
when i held my daughter in my arms
watching her rosebud lips tugging at you,
there was an exaltation like no other
running through me like lightning strikes.-
i knew what it was to nourish with love,
a conduit sharing this new life.
many times i've thanked you for that
while we’ve luxuriated in my own caresses,
the tender touchings between friends
that exist in moments of self-amusement.
and, speaking of caresses,
bless you for responding with the depths of passion
to the touches and tortures of those who loved me.
i did not fail to notice
that you never responded to the will
of those you did not like or trust,
helping me discern the fine balance
between making love and just fucking.
do you remember the one who just loved big breasts.
fondling you with amazement and admiration
when he first weighed you in his hands?
you were beside yourselves that night,
covered in the glory of being recognized
and cherished for the wonders that you are.
we've had some fun times together, you and I,
but it's been a while since we've been perky
and, like me, you've been more content to just hang about
and let things slide.
this year i figgered that a refurbishing was overdue
and, taking stock of the order of reconstruction,
decided that a return to your place of pride
was a good beginning and so we started.
and stopped.
there's a secret hiding in you.
you didn't know or you would have told me
so we ended up yesterday looking at the galaxy
of your black and white imprint on x-ray film
while two tiny, tiny stars preparing to supernova
were pointed out - surprise, eh?
and i thought, well now - what do we have here?
a cosmic reminder to take nothing for granted,
a benign messenger with no axe to grind?
or that ancient enemy that calls on women
to bring themselves forth, challenged to do battle?
i find myself standing on the precipice of war,
sensitive to the negotiations around us -
praying for peace and waiting,
while arming to take on the interloper
if the hue and cry of danger is raised.
it's been forty years,
through maidenhood, motherhood
and now into the age of croning,
that we've been boon companions -
i'm not prepared to feast at the wake table
that bids you farewell.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Let me say this about that....
The very first thing I have to say here is that those who are offended by the 'F' word would probably go make yourself
a nice hot cup of something and engage your attention somewhere more benign.
As a minor background, I worked in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside community for a lotta years in one social service endeavour or another. Having very few delusions left as to addiction and the wrack and ruin it can drag someone through, I have my own opinions on how the personal and social ravages of drugs should be addressed and I will on occasion spit them up here.
Nonetheless...
I have always supported the existence of Insite, a safe injection site in the DTES that has had to struggle continuously for its existence. What I think about it as a moral issue has nothing to do with the fact that it has had a positive impact in a community that has spiraled badly out of control in the degrading embrace of a plethora of every soul crushing drug available. As a humanist, qualified drug and alcohol counselor and person of far too much experience in the vagaries and self-destructive pursuits of human beings, I say any tool in the bucket needs to be used.
I was tickled when Canada's Supreme Court ruled ruled unanimously that citizens’ health matters more than criminal anti-drug laws and that Insite is to stay open. (Read more: http://www.canada.com/news/Insite+supporters+celebrate+court+ruling+keep+open/5482750/story.html#ixzz1ZsKHzewY)
In the next day's Vancouver Sun I chanced on a side article by Lee Berthiuame of Postmedia News entitled, 'U.S. wanted safe injection facility shut down'. 'What the fuck', sez I and read the article which states in part, 'A diplomatic cable shows U.S. officials opposed the Insute supervised injection site in Vancouver and wanted the federal and municipal governments to shut it down.
The reference to Vancouver-based Insite is found in a U.S. Embassy assessment of Canadian drug policy dated Nov. 2, 2009 and released through WikiLeaks.' (http://www.vancouversun.com/wanted+Vancouver+supervised+injection+site+closed/5485137/story.html)
Well....
I have to admit that I might have been a step closer to a stroke at the rate my blood pressure rose which is probably one of the reasons I rarely read newspapers but I digress...
(To my friends who live [mostly] south of my country's border and Joe Average American, this is not directed at you.)
*ahem*
To the moralistic, right wing, crony capitalist cretins who barely scrape together the merest semblance of a democratic government AND who have no right, legislative or otherwise, to meddle in how Canada conducts its internal business ~ FUCK OFF
That's right ~ you heard me. Pick up your misbegotten blind-ass overweening paternalistic bullying un-asked-for attitude and skedaddle your fucking fat cat bullying butts back over to your side of the 49th parallel. Just. Fuck. Right. Off. ! Period! And when you get your spindle-shanked, Scroogish, back-stabbing, muck-raking, duplicitous, mendacious selves back to *your* side have a damned good look at 'your poor,/ your huddled masses yearning to breathe free/the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.' and get about cleaning that up before you start wagging your bloodied, money-grubbing pointy finger at us.
Look after your own for a fucking change instead of jack-booting hither and yon everywhere else on the globe seeking every possible excuse to avoid dealing with your own citizenry. Look after your poor, your ill, your aged, your hurt, your ordinary people who strive to live good lives and raise decent families under the burden of a consumerist society driven by a fistful of plutocrats. What the hell ever happened to, 'We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity....'?
Fuck kowtowing to the 'boys with the most toys'.
I've seen your 'war on drugs' and I got news for ya as to which side is winning. Get it? I have damn few delusions as to what drives that machine or the fingers that dabble in it. Clean up your own mess. And, when you have *everything* spiffy shiny clean perfect and not one American is suffering the ravages of want and neglect, then ~ and maybe then ~ you can politely ask us if we want your opinion. In the meantime, get over yourselves already!
Insite is not the cure-all. Who knows ~ it may be the merest blip of humaneness on the radar of the Great Scheme Of Things but right now it is better than fuck-all and you have not one whit of right to tell us to shut it down.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
a nice hot cup of something and engage your attention somewhere more benign.
As a minor background, I worked in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside community for a lotta years in one social service endeavour or another. Having very few delusions left as to addiction and the wrack and ruin it can drag someone through, I have my own opinions on how the personal and social ravages of drugs should be addressed and I will on occasion spit them up here.
Nonetheless...
I have always supported the existence of Insite, a safe injection site in the DTES that has had to struggle continuously for its existence. What I think about it as a moral issue has nothing to do with the fact that it has had a positive impact in a community that has spiraled badly out of control in the degrading embrace of a plethora of every soul crushing drug available. As a humanist, qualified drug and alcohol counselor and person of far too much experience in the vagaries and self-destructive pursuits of human beings, I say any tool in the bucket needs to be used.
I was tickled when Canada's Supreme Court ruled ruled unanimously that citizens’ health matters more than criminal anti-drug laws and that Insite is to stay open. (Read more: http://www.canada.com/news/Insite+supporters+celebrate+court+ruling+keep+open/5482750/story.html#ixzz1ZsKHzewY)
In the next day's Vancouver Sun I chanced on a side article by Lee Berthiuame of Postmedia News entitled, 'U.S. wanted safe injection facility shut down'. 'What the fuck', sez I and read the article which states in part, 'A diplomatic cable shows U.S. officials opposed the Insute supervised injection site in Vancouver and wanted the federal and municipal governments to shut it down.
The reference to Vancouver-based Insite is found in a U.S. Embassy assessment of Canadian drug policy dated Nov. 2, 2009 and released through WikiLeaks.' (http://www.vancouversun.com/wanted+Vancouver+supervised+injection+site+closed/5485137/story.html)
Well....
I have to admit that I might have been a step closer to a stroke at the rate my blood pressure rose which is probably one of the reasons I rarely read newspapers but I digress...
(To my friends who live [mostly] south of my country's border and Joe Average American, this is not directed at you.)
*ahem*
To the moralistic, right wing, crony capitalist cretins who barely scrape together the merest semblance of a democratic government AND who have no right, legislative or otherwise, to meddle in how Canada conducts its internal business ~ FUCK OFF
That's right ~ you heard me. Pick up your misbegotten blind-ass overweening paternalistic bullying un-asked-for attitude and skedaddle your fucking fat cat bullying butts back over to your side of the 49th parallel. Just. Fuck. Right. Off. ! Period! And when you get your spindle-shanked, Scroogish, back-stabbing, muck-raking, duplicitous, mendacious selves back to *your* side have a damned good look at 'your poor,/ your huddled masses yearning to breathe free/the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.' and get about cleaning that up before you start wagging your bloodied, money-grubbing pointy finger at us.
Look after your own for a fucking change instead of jack-booting hither and yon everywhere else on the globe seeking every possible excuse to avoid dealing with your own citizenry. Look after your poor, your ill, your aged, your hurt, your ordinary people who strive to live good lives and raise decent families under the burden of a consumerist society driven by a fistful of plutocrats. What the hell ever happened to, 'We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity....'?
Fuck kowtowing to the 'boys with the most toys'.
I've seen your 'war on drugs' and I got news for ya as to which side is winning. Get it? I have damn few delusions as to what drives that machine or the fingers that dabble in it. Clean up your own mess. And, when you have *everything* spiffy shiny clean perfect and not one American is suffering the ravages of want and neglect, then ~ and maybe then ~ you can politely ask us if we want your opinion. In the meantime, get over yourselves already!
Insite is not the cure-all. Who knows ~ it may be the merest blip of humaneness on the radar of the Great Scheme Of Things but right now it is better than fuck-all and you have not one whit of right to tell us to shut it down.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A view to die for...
This alley was the view from my office window for I dunno how many years when I was a social service worker in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside. I watched traffic and people pass through it during the day, churning up mud and garbage in the rain and often having an inappropriate view of people answering the call of nature in all its forms between the buildings. Down by the power pole at the far end of the building was a gravelled sparsely used parking lot and folks would huddle up on creosote-soaked logs at the side of the building sharing their whatever ~ scavenged cigarettes, cheap wine, ginseng brandy, Lysol-and-orange-juice, a baggie of glue....
One cold, very wet morning...
Not exactly a view to die for -
an alley and the red/grey concrete
of low-rent housing across the way,
divided occasionally by traffic -
trucks transporting tradesmen,
old Chinese ladies, bent in reflection,
the young shortcutting in rapid-fire lives,
and homeless men peeing against the wall.
But then there was the one day
I watched a shadow slip around the corner
from the gravelled parking lot next door
where the addicted often huddled,
sheltering their miseries against the winds
and the disapproval of socio-economic eyes.
He crouched over the puddle
left by last night's freezing rain
and, snaking his hand forward,
dipped a syringe into that polluted pool
pulled out the plastic plunger
measuring by his experienced eye.
And I knew with cold clarity
that he was preparing to take that needle,
load it with whatever soul-sucking substance
his crucified body howled for
to continue his slow, certain suicide
by releasing that view from my window
into his scarred and shrunken veins.
(c) Mairghread
November 15/01
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The 'Occupy' Movement of 2011
“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it--always.” ~ Mahatma Gandhi
I have many different thoughts about the Occupy Wall Street (OWS) and the satellites it has spawned which I had rather hoped to express here but I find that I am overwhelmed at trying to summarize my views.
It's interesting ~ for me anyway. When I was younger and socially rebellious, our media exposure was the print media and nightly televised news. Now, I am watching the events unfold in streaming video. (One that I've been watching is http://www.ustream.tv/theother99.) The internet from Youtube to live streaming is inundating us daily with what appears to be an increase in a world wide social outcries for social change which leads me to even more streams of thought of human development economically and politically throughout history.
There was an interesting article today in the online Sunday Observer/UK posted today at http://www.commondreams.org/view/2011/11/20-5 entitled 'Odd as It May Seem, 2011 is Proving to be a Year of Rebirth' written by Henry Porter. His last paragraph reads, 'That is the vital point: millions are calling not just for fairness and justice, but a reform of the institutions that will guard against the crimes and corruption of the few against the many. This is an amazingly important step for humanity and it is one of the reasons that despite the sense of impending crisis, I take heart from the Age of Downfalls.'
Sometimes the cynical pessimist in me really clamours to run amok while my inner optimist hopes...
I have many different thoughts about the Occupy Wall Street (OWS) and the satellites it has spawned which I had rather hoped to express here but I find that I am overwhelmed at trying to summarize my views.
It's interesting ~ for me anyway. When I was younger and socially rebellious, our media exposure was the print media and nightly televised news. Now, I am watching the events unfold in streaming video. (One that I've been watching is http://www.ustream.tv/theother99.) The internet from Youtube to live streaming is inundating us daily with what appears to be an increase in a world wide social outcries for social change which leads me to even more streams of thought of human development economically and politically throughout history.
There was an interesting article today in the online Sunday Observer/UK posted today at http://www.commondreams.org/view/2011/11/20-5 entitled 'Odd as It May Seem, 2011 is Proving to be a Year of Rebirth' written by Henry Porter. His last paragraph reads, 'That is the vital point: millions are calling not just for fairness and justice, but a reform of the institutions that will guard against the crimes and corruption of the few against the many. This is an amazingly important step for humanity and it is one of the reasons that despite the sense of impending crisis, I take heart from the Age of Downfalls.'
Sometimes the cynical pessimist in me really clamours to run amok while my inner optimist hopes...