Colour Me Clear

We seem to spend an undue time worrying about skin colour and too little time thinking about how to stop fretting about the colour of one's skin or the texture of one's hair or the shape of a face when we should concentrate more on what and who an individual is, based on what he or she does. I don't mean what they do for a living, but more on how they act and react in the company of others. Are they considerate, do they share, are they compassionate to those less fortunate, whatever "fortunate" means.  Okay, I know you are going to say "but the colour of my skin is what I am". Maybe so, but that is divisive in a way. It says I am unlike you and not, therefore, one of you.  I think what you are is what your actions stand for, what the history you tell is and how you make it work for the good of all. If suddenly we were  transposed to clear, what would happen? It would mean that colour would no longer have significance. People would see us for what we do and how we behave. Sure we'd have individual preferences and histories, but we wouldn't have people ask strangers, a black Canadian third generation, for example, "where did you come from?". There is some kind of odd idea that because one's colour is not that of a majority in a place, the person must hail from somewhere else. Our country is comprised of something we like to call the Canadian Mosaic, and interestingly, white people were not the originals here but an aboriginal group was. Actually, I don't like being referred to as "white" in the first place. I consider it wrong. I am flesh-toned just as every other human being is. If our skins were all clear, we wouldn't have racial attributes laid upon us because we would be simply another human being just as everyone else is. Our choices of religion, politics and backgrounds would not be areas of pre-conceived notions owing to our shade of skin colour. We might then, have actually a reason to speak to one another if we were curious about origins.  Communication would take place. A ghetto would not be an obvious matter because identification would be essentially impossible based on a certain colour or body or facial format. If you entered or left such an area of choice, your presence wouldn't be something for you or others to worry about. You could move about anywhere in the world, the same as everyone else and not be a stand out owing to the colour of your skin. It is something to think about.

House Fly

The common house fly is something everyone knows and resents. These creatures have their uses, but they are also rather dangerous. They carry a number of nasty diseases on their hairy little bodies and the insect is so prolific that it is used often to study genetic matters. I am one of those inclined to keeping pests out of my house if at all possible. To this end, every door and window is screened and if such bugs should enter, they are dispatched or discouraged immediately. The summer being over, it seemed time to put away the fly traps and other gear meant mostly to fend off the worst of the fly pests, the fruit fly. The latter come in drifts through screens and in a semi agricultural area such as the one in which I dwell, they are a great nuisance. But it was late fall and the fruit fly had thankfully disappeared. Those of us who live alone, are inclined toward seeking companionship of almost anything, somewhat like prisoners in solitary confinement. We ought to know better but human nature is a peculiar thing. When a house fly, just one, appeared a few days ago, I was a little amused. First of all, there was no food exposed for the small thing to consume. And second of all, the feeding sources were covered or inside cabinets of some kind. The trash was also covered. Well, I thought, it will die of old age possibly this evening, therefore, I shall not worry. That evening, the fly in a kind of companionable way flew back and forth in a sallying manner in front of my television screen. It was silent, no buzzing. It did not come near me or attempt to share my little bun or wee glass of sherry. No. It simply sallied back and forth as though in a friendly fashion enjoying the same program as I. The next morning I consulted Google and learned some extra facts about house flies. It had a short life span and thus my house fly would not be a problem for very long. I had not seen it about all the next day, but on settling into my couch for a quiet reading time, what should sit on the arm of the chair next to mine, but the shiny little self of the fly. I could have reached out and easily destroyed it but instead I simply shooed it away and away it went. It will be gone by next morning surely I told myself, but I was feeling quite familiar with this little chap by now. I learned that flies usually live for only a few days if that long. Unfortunately, they can lay their eggs and continue to be a hazard when they land with all of the disease they carry. But I had nothing to swat the creature with and let it be. I did not see it at all the next day and forgot about it entirely. This morning while having coffee and reading my book at the counter in the kitchen, I looked up and who should be staring at me with his compound eyes, but my tiny friend, the fly. There was a dish towel next to my hand and in a single blow, without a single thought, I dispatched it. Before tossing the towel into the laundry, I saw the little body of my erstwhile friend, lying on the floor legs up and quite still. Why I should feel sad and just a bit lonely, is very odd.

Numbers Game

Once in a line-up at the bank, I overheard someone say, there are too many numbers to remember. It spurred some thought on that comment. It's quite true. Our lives are controlled by numbers. There are must-haves and the I-choose kinds of numbers. We are given a driver's license number but we may if we pay, choose our own license plate number or letters. There are numbers given or forced on us by governmentals: SIN numbers and so on. We have a number hammered out by insurance companies, credit carders, banks, housing, schools and so on. Computer IDs require passwords or numbers, all of our listed personal devices have a number. We are surrounded by numbers and to think about all of them that we use over a lifetime, is likely to drive us insane. We don't think how our lives are run by numbers. They are much the same as telephone wires: the myriad of ugly wires that block our clear view of the sky everywhere, that we ignore or realize how many of them there are and what an eyesore they are. When an appliance or piece of equipment goes wrong and needs repair or to be returned, off we go to our files to find out the numbers: model number, serial number, date purchased, invoice, price and so on. To trace a parcel we have ordered on-line we are given a number. Yes, numbers are us. Once, as an educator it was suggested at a planning meeting, that we assign each student a number according to his or her socio-economic style. It wasn't an IQ number into which we place, pathetically, an undue amount of importance, but a number that would project the student's personal self. At these meetings, I am generally a rather bland occupant of a plastic chair, but this time, I simply had to make my views perfectly clear that never would I number a young student. It seemed an inhuman thing to do, much like the mass tattooing of persons during the horrors of the world war. People are not numbers. I know that some say it is easier and more efficient to deal with the vast numbers of populations to assign them numbers for this and that. Okay. My argument is then, when a human is born, why not give them a unique number that is theirs only thus everything they do, will always have solely that number and no other. Think how simple it would be to remember your personal and private number. No one could use it because there would be only one, yours, that would follow you all of your lifetime. And I don't mean the SIN that we hide so diligently. Then again, with that thought in mind, why would you need a name? You'd be remembered as Good Old 1234 instead of Good Old Micky. When you passed on, your number would be recycled after an appropriate time. You could look up all of your numeral predecessors and see that particular "family tree" as well as your other one. Perhaps parents when their child is born, could look up the heritage of the number they might select for their baby if they wanted it to reach the heights of a former numbered individual. Your house number, your license numbers, your club number, your student number and so on would all be the exact same handy set of digits. Your phone number, same, and all of your account numbers.  Even if your memory slipped, you could still remember your own dear little number. But now that I think of it, I really do prefer a name with a little line-up of letters in some kind of romantic order, rather than a number. Numbers are rather cold things.

When I Read

Reading to me is better than film or video. Why? What I imagine is far more vivid, meaningful and colourful when I create it in my mind. While others read for information and feel that it enlarges their brains, I do not look for brain development. I can get that kind of stuff on-line. What I want when I tuck into my comfortable reading space with some kind of comfortable thing nearby to consume during moments of reflection is an uninterruptible time space. For me, two or three in the morning works wonderfully. There is no traffic noise, no knocks on the door, no useless phone calls and no tasks waiting to prick my conscience. It is like a time warp into which I escape. When I pick up a new book and turn to the first page, skipping the introduction that I will read later, I expect to be entertained. I don't want to deal with issues or educational aspects that make this a work session or one with which I may use to impress others.  While I have no quibble with collateral didacticism I want it at an intrinsic level. I want to be intrigued, fascinated, amused and warmed. The genre is not important, but I do insist upon a higher level of literary effort in my authors. I don't mind research but don't please throw it in my face when I am trying to get into a plot and I do love plots. To me, storytelling is all about plot. Plot leads me from page one to the end. Please entertain me and if you have issues, state them in a sharable way so that I may walk with you, authors, please. You don't need to drag me kicking and screaming through a miasma of your research work. Description works for me but only if appropriately plugged in. Add in lots of dialogue to let me know my characters lived and spoke. It makes me understand them more intimately. My reading requires that an author is honest and he/she can hit hard, use any kind of language or situation but please make it something that adds to my life, my feelings for another creature and my experience as a planet dweller - or even someone who does not live on this planet. Make me want to turn pages, make me want to stay up all night, make me want never to get to the last page because I will feel that I shall have lost someone or something. Everyone has unique reading needs. I know people who are non-fiction hounds and their needs are to collect facts piled upon facts so that they can exchange them with others of the same bent. It's not my choice and it doesn't make me feel intellectually inferior. I know some who fall into romance or western or fantasy or sci-fi or other formula  novels. That's fine. For them. Sure I read factual material when I must, but when I get up at three a.m. and make coffee and search out my glasses, cuddle into my big leather couch corner,  I want what I want in reading and it is to be entertained!

Someone Else's Food Cart

We've all heard the adage that you don't know how someone else feels until you walk in their shoes. That can be a hard fit when applied to food costs. While we are all anticipating Christmas: the turkey dinner with family, the beverages, the gifts, the holidays, the decorations, we are not thinking about those who are barely surviving every day life. A neighbour of mine facing an increase in her housing fee, must reduce the only place on her meagre budget that will allow it: her food allotment. Let's not joke about dog food. It isn't cheap either, nor is tuna fish. Already a tiny woman, close to sixty and therefore severely limited in her job choices, she is asking herself how she can live with a budget of one hundred dollars a month for food. It's a must do, not a choice if she wants to keep her modest condo with a mortgage. She drives a scooter.  I know some of you on lesser means will say, well, she's a lucky sort to have a home at all. That's true and she knows it, but she does it all by working hard at a job that you and I would not enjoy. Her job, steady grave yard shift, is an assembly line cutting dead chickens.  Get out your notepad and see what you can do with 100 dollars for groceries. I did. What I came up with did not include toothpaste, shampoo, laundry soap, or treats. I juggled with this problem and found that I'd have to rely on food sales, growing herbs, baking breads and using lots of rice and pasta. Freshness, if available, for nutrition was key. The idea of farm markets sounds good, but the prices at these organic operations are usually higher than the super markets and thus a luxury. Foraging isn't a bad idea if you know a place where the dandelions and berries at roadside are not poisoned with sprays. Growing garlic chives in pots is easy and makes for flavorful dishes. Small tomatoes grown on a deck in the sun yield a few at a time and are delicious. Meats from bulk farm outlets where you get bags of wings or bacon ends or stewing meat can ease the task when you divide them and freeze. Sacks of rice especially the brown variety offer good value. The same with flour, sugar or salt bought in bulk. It may mean an original outlay but in the end is worth it. Baking breads can work into pastas, pancakes, pies that along with some gleaned fruit (people with apple trees in their yards can be generous), are wonderful.  Dairy products are a challenge. Fresh milk can be fortified with powdered milk. Olive oil is a boon brushed on bread for toast and used dozens of other ways you might use butter. Olive oil is easier on the body, too.  A one hundred dollar a month food budget allows for nothing unhealthful such as chips, candy unless you make your own occasionally, or chocolate. And alcohol beverages are out. I guess that makes it healthy, therefore, all is not gloom.

It's A Blur

Once an art teacher told us that if we wanted to appreciate a painting, we ought to look at it from an appropriate distance and then blur our eyes in order to see it more clearly. Sounds mysterious at first.  He or she, I forget which, not that it matters, said that if we did this, we'd see the true essence of colour, shadow, line and form. And it is true. Just try it sometime. Looking at a Botticelli, a Rembrandt, a Gaugin or a Van Gogh with blurred eyes and we see the purpose of light and shadow, the colours working against one another and the relationship of  forms to each other. We can then better appreciate the things that possibly the artist is trying to accomplish. We remember that while he or she knows how to draw or paint a perfect rose, it may not be how the rose affects our senses, our concepts, our memories. Thus he or she does it to include these matters. Some artists, the bane of realism folk, do the job for us and blur charmingly like Degas, who may have been partly blind anyway but painted because he loved what he saw. What matters is how we feel about what we see and not the techniques or sets of rules for looking at it.  That's what we have to trust. It's the same in life. Often we become so enamored of a moment or image or action that we forget there is such a thing as the absolute temporary nature of things. Everything comes and goes: people, objects, even rock. All have a "lifetime" that will end in its present form and while matter cannot be entirely destroyed, it does change. What happens as we age and everything that everyone does, seems terribly important at the time, but in hindsight, it is all rather ridiculously temporal. We fret over things that somehow turn out the way they should or if they don't, they were bound to end up done somehow, even if not in our favour. When something dreadful and sudden occurs, we are shocked; in hindsight, it may have changed us but we found a way to survive and come out stronger or, alas,  in some cases,  weaker, but we all learned something from it. Perhaps doing a "blur" when we become too focussed on matters that may not matter, it might help to make everything much clearer.

Puppeteers

Every family or social group has its puppeteer. You know the one I mean. It's the one who does all the arranging and comes up with the ideas to "keep the family or group together". They aren't all bad folk, especially if the family, for example, wants to hand over the wheel to the puppeteer person. They might be tired or lazy or simply unwilling. The best part of the puppeteer, is that he or she does a lot of work to head up things. There are food lists and locations and transportations and dates and times and so on. There are all kinds of little details that the manipulator loves to use. The work eventually becomes the reward. One of the good things about such a manipulative creature is that he or she, recognises the strengths of each of its puppets. This one is good at finding places to meet. That one is perfect for the food and drink aspects. Another seems to have a gift for planning schedules at the event and still others' talents can be used to make sure that the comings and goings and accommodations are fitting. So I suppose the puppeteer is a useful individual. What I do not like, is that often the puppeteer has gained along with the gratitude of the family or group, too much power and begins to see their self-assigned role as controlling the choices that each of the family members ought to choose for themselves. It is a subtle matter. Some that I have heard of, enter too much into the life choices of their charges and approve or disapprove of not only what the member does, but also of what friends or lovers or associations that person will have. They have built their powers over others gradually, sometimes over a lifetime, making it hard for others to disagree or to launch out on their own powers because it could oust them from the comfort of the group. Others have become so immersed in the power extended over them by the puppeteer person, that they simply don't want to "rock the boat" and even make an attempt to suggest some other unique plan. The puppeteer holds the strings and most often these are invisible; to everyone but those outside the ring those who can see the subtle yanks and tugs. We outsiders can see clearly the stage set by the controller and how devious that power is, the one that has established the puppeteer as chief dictator.  Some puppeteers are those who run sects that turn someone innocent into a kind of sheep in a flock. Others in a family have for so long deferred to their manipulating puppeteer that they have given up and have lost their ability to think for themselves.  Everyone when indoctrinated, looks up to the controller for guidance in more than mere family dinners or events. That's when the arrangement is no longer something good. Fine china, for example, is appreciated for the beauty of its delicacy, the knowledge that it can be broken easily and therefore, must be coddled. The steel of the other sort, the kind run by a strong puppeteer, is binding and hopelessly, unrelentingly impossible to break. Dent, scratch, yes, but unbreakable. Sometimes, it's good to test our strings to see who pulls them, to know if we are making choices we really want or need or are we simply allowing ourselves to indulge in handing over what is ours.