Stop Tossing Out

 One of the silly things today is being pressured to throw stuff out. Out goes Gramma's china set, toss  Grampa's garden hoes, chuck Mom's recipe box, give away Dad's rocking chair. Keep? Nothing. Paint everything white and pick up a couple of weird looking black lamps and some leather bits to sit on uncomfortably. Careful with the new marble counter tops, they damage even though in Italy they last 300 years and counting. If it doesn't shine it's out. And do take off your shoes so you won't damage the plastic floor that will last for at least one hundred years. I jest of course. Why are we throwing away and adding to the pile of garbage that grows by the minute? The current trend is suspicious. We are told that when we throw everything out, our minds are healthier. Really? How come there is more mental illness than ever before. My thinking is that we are listening to the wrong people. When you throw out your family items, you are throwing out your family. If you have one. What are you going to say to your kids that  used to be when gramma or auntie guided you around their homes and told you about who owned what and when and the occasions about the piece? Where is their history going? To the garbage dumpster and the second hand shop, that's where. My advice is, keep what is family and don't hide it away so that  your place looks like a surgery instead of a home. "Clutter" is a scam. The matchy-matchy designer folk call it clutter but it's your life, the past one that made you. Realtors come in and bring along their "experts" who are brain washed into thinking that your "junk" is going to be shunned. They tell lies about buyers who want to "see" their own things and not your stuff. Uh uh. My friends all have condo units that look pretty much alike. Magazine decor. But one of them kept her wondrous collection of little bunny ware that is gorgeous and she displays it proudly. It is all I see what I enter her house. And I love it. She tells me where she acquired this piece and that. Another pal, has walls full of paintings and prints and art items of great value but also in her mind, each tells a story of acquisition. Yet another person is into art, and her place has a painting on the go in the one room spot with a lovely view. You trip over the cat's bowl because the cat is hiding in the closet. He doesn't like people. Her film work computers fill half another wall and the bed is in the centre of the room. What I see there, I envy. I see her and her life and her dreams and her talent when I walk in and I love her and it. To me, that is decor. When I walk into a home that looks like a hotel, I want to walk out again. That's what hotels do.  Nothing says anything. In my place, it's clean and neat but it tells stories in the greenery dripping from book shelf tops and reclaimed log tables and mats from exotic countries and travel mementos on the book shelves. The books are dressed in their own covers, not jacketed for decor. There are Native Canadian baskets and boxes and masks, a big painting of where I lived in the fifties, leans on the mantel. The dishes, while black and white are what I use every day as is what's on the bar, with its wines that are useable and enjoyed from time to time. The kitchen has my favorite little partners: air fryer, coffee maker, bread mixer, juicer  all black and steel, that rest on a marble counter made of Michelangelo marble that will last as long as the Pieta. It's me. Welcome it says.  

Flags

What's in a flag? Flags are strips of cloth strung up on a pole. They signify something significant, more to some than others. Flags are like visible yells. They tell who we are and what we want everyone to know about that. In a way, it's a strange and rather primitive form of symbolic advertising. We Canadians are not as much into flags, perhaps, as others, but lately, they've become controversial. Some groups insist that their struggle needs to have that kind of attention, and a lot of it. And while they are passionate about the display of their symbolism such as countries involved in serious conflict or statements about a concept flags are still pieces of cloth. But they are more. We pay attention to flags because we are all interested in others and their ideas and beliefs, their patriotism and passions. Flags are hard to ignore. Some flags have more status than others and fly only in certain designated spaces or heights. In a legal sense, flags are granted by governments, large and small, as those that must and must not be flown. Flag raising is a responsibility. Some flags have to be positioned higher or more forward than others which you may have found as a boater crossing the border from one country's waters into another. We see flags on bumpers of cars that signify where the owner comes from or whom they support. Other flags might be sports ones flown with pride in their teams. The flag of a country, however, is to rise above all others. Then again there are flags of those rising out of a social struggle and their flags are part of their claim for recognition as part of the larger society. Whether a bit of cloth matters all that much is moot because of the varied opinions "out there". Flags become legal issues and cause for decisions. And it's understandable because of the importance we see in them. We send a message on a written sign and flags do the same job visually. Some communities must  make sensitive decisions about flags: where they can be placed and which ones may be put with others and by whom. These days, society appears to group rather than ungroup in order to form as an equal part of the larger one. It's not as complicated as it sounds but getting there is the hard part. Flags, some feel, are a matter of showing progress in their achievement in a particular movement. Some flags are shunned and feared like the old pirates' "skull and crossbones" flags, raised to warn their victims and inspire their own folk to do what pirates did. Long ago during hand to hand wars or yore, a flag drove hoards of foot and mounted soldiers onward to battle. Planting a flag somewhere such as a mountain top or  a conquered land or on the moon has deep meaning. Some flags are there to inspire. Others to incite. Still others of great age are raised with respect to an ideal and for historical purposes. While only a rather small piece of cloth hanging from a pole, a flag can have an impact that is stronger than words on paper or signs or shouts or painted graffiti or bonfires on a hill. Flags fly. They speak. 

Tribute: Plodders

The word "plod" means a "slow, heavy walk". I should have known since I live on a floor under foot plodders. The only time the "slow" word is out of place is when the grandkid runs around.  Plodders are a rare breed of individual who are to be congratulated for being our solid citizens. I apologise to David who went to my high school and was, cruelly, the butt of teen jokes. We giggled about David. Who could possibly date him. Ha ha. David was typical of a plodder. They are reared by aging parents who have firm ideas on morality and all other top idealisms. Poor old David, was a sweet boy who tolerated his loving parents' ideas of what teens ought to wear and how their lives ought to be lived so that they can grow up to be perfect persons. Our David wore serge dress pants and shirts that buttoned to the top and oxfords in the fifties when all the other kids wore denim, some with flares, then, tee shirts and bomber jackets. David's hair was another feature of the plodder sorts. It was cut by a barber to a style that his father swore by, thus he and David accomplishing their regular father-son outing. The the local barber whom everyone in our town knew, gave all the men who entered his place of business replete with the usual Mr. magazines. It's pole was located at the bus depot where the daily radio announcer did his morning show. He made sure he included Paddy The Barber for his advice on any and all world matters. In our small town high school that was called an academic one, Latin was the favored language, a standby on the menu of the curriculum. There were English classes of course, taught by the oldest but, we thought, the best teachers. They served Literature, not textbook only and  could put on one-man or woman shows as they practiced reading masters of the English language better than Shakespearean actors could. Yes, it was a snob school, but we loved it because it saw students as equals in their pursuit of education, and not as minions serving a curriculum.  We were permitted to use the front entrance of the school and that was verboten in most Secondary Schools of the times. We ate lunch wherever we pleased, inside or out, because the school was actually part of a public park. We enjoyed freedom. Until I graduated from Duke School (I won't say which duke), I didn't realize that we, unlike other schools,  had no play grounds of any sort. We used the armory marching site and the YMCA gym and pool. I remember asking if my pals and I could take lifesaver swimming lessons instead of basketball. It was granted. Nor did I realize until   much later in life that our small school of three hundred, Grades 10 to 12, was rather rare in a snobbish way. How it slipped under the iron bars of the Ministry of Education's dictate, was interesting. It was the fifties and that may have been the reason. No one questioned what Duke did. Maybe because the "rich"  kids went there. Well, I wasn't rich but I was academic.  Back to the plodders, bless 'em. I met a few later on, and they were the bases that seemed to hold us all together in the work place. They were the cement conservatives. They carried on their lives and work, their way,  and nothing ever could or would change it. They wore their lives as solid examples of where the world ought to be. Period. To change that  tenet, was not remotely considered. David, however, broke away, apparently, because at the twentieth reunion of  Duke high school that they tore down to make way for a tennis court, he entered the hall donned in a floor length black cape, a long red scarf tossed over one shoulder, high heeled  boots, his hair draped to one side and who had become a poet of some note. We all sighed. The world was safe. David plodded no more. 

Very Artificial Intel

 Artificial Intelligence is artificial. Intelligent? If intelligence is having an astounding memory that might be able to put things together to come up with something new, don't kid yourself, it is not  intelligent in the way that we humans are. What everyone is talking about, AI, can't physically do a social event, meeting and greeting others warmly knowing who and what they feel. It can't listen to a child and hug  it with love the same way a parent can. It can't live a human life with all of the complications of family and social life and work.  It might tell you what to do in words but it doesn't know about feelings in being with others around you, and you having to understand their challenges and needs by watching their reactions. Intelligence is how we live successfully with others and doing so without having to run off to an AI machine for advice. We see, we feel, we react. It's called living. It's about making mistakes and learning from them to cope on a personal level. This AI machine that everyone fears is just another machine, no matter how "smart" it is. As I recall in high school, some of the students, and not necessarily the "smart" ones,  who ran the political side of  the school, didn't do it by asking a machine, but in sensing the needs of  peers and going from there. The smart kids when they left school, weren't always the most successful.  It takes more than high marks to succeed in life. Does an AI know the complications of competitiveness and how how that feels?  Of course not. It might tell you what to do about a situation if you ask it or it may, based on what you tell it, to present a plan, but it will never feel what you are feeling and be able fully to base it's advice on those feelings. It doesn't feel. Humans feel. It is what we are. We taste, we smell, we touch, we love, we hate, we work for money, we help others, we have friends and relatives and lovers and those who hate us or want to do us harm in some way and words don't always solve the human to human situation. Reminds me of the advice booth with the gypsy in it that you hired for a dime. Was it the first AI machine?   AI is a machine and will never have human senses no matter how many words it can come up with. Does it know how a mother feels the first time she looks into her newborn's eyes? It doesn't feel that, and it never will. It is sad pile of equipment that uses words and computes numerals and  remembers huge amounts, and all that. It might even do surgery, but it can't feel what a patient feels. Don't be afraid of AI replacing you and all the wonderful things you are, what you feel, what you glean intelligently from your involvement in society, of family and friends that make you the great person you are.  AI will never  have a body as miraculous as yours. Don't be afraid of AI. It is a tool and a good one that can help us in certain ways, but it will never be human. 

The "Government's" Fault

 What? I listened to a woman on a podcast today blaming "the government" for river flooding that took her home. She said, "The government did it." Another individual who lost his home due to a forest fire blamed "the government".  It goes on and on and we hear it everyday on air. Who is "the government". Folks who belly ache constantly about "the government", I have news for you. The "government" is you. Yes. Y-O-U. You pay taxes to take care of your needs and most of the time forget that nothing is free. The "government" gets it's money to pay: for hospitals, schools, transportation, maintenance and hundreds of  other things. The money doesn't come from some money tree in their backyard.  The "money tree" is money you put there in the form of taxes and elected the people to dole it out. When you expect the government to pay you huge amounts of money because Mother Nature offended you in some dreadful way, remember that. Tending floods and forest fires and earthquakes and storms and every other kind of natural event, costs insane amounts of money even before those who lost, began complaining and sure, they are hurting. Helicopters and airplanes, personnel and tools and equipment and relief isn't cheap. While you are  complaining about the tax burden, use your head. It has to come from you.  If you lose your house that is built on a river bank and the water comes up every single year as it has forever, remember that "the government" can't just scribble up a cheque you can take to the bank immediately and build you a nice new house. The government can't cure cancer and it can't fix what happens on the street when no one else is around in the middle of the night and it is formed of people like you and me who are ordinary citizens who run for office and put up with a lot of guff to get to a position where they want to help. They aren't all the slick politicians who shuffle around in the designer suits in  a raucous parliament in nice seats with clerks and offices and have nice salaries and get large pensions. Most of the local politicians are subject to abuse by ignorant people how know nothing about democracy and want only their own way. Yes, I rant. It makes me shudder when policepersons are deliberately called and go from their own families, to to help and then are wounded or killed. They are family people who are in the thankless business they chose because they wanted to do something for their society. The ones you hear that abuse their position, are mostly media fare to sell news. The good cops are the majority and just ordinary people like you and me.  Think of a world without police coming to your aid. Is that what you want? Chaos. Part of the darkening world these days could be called, Spoiled Bratism. They want "the government" to fix their problems, no matter how large or small or impossible. How many of these people helped themselves? How many got into a problem that could have been avoided in the first place. I have no sympathy for those who know the chances, beforehand of what could happen. Why didn't they stop it?  Why do they wait until it is a problem grabbed up by the media to sell news?  And why do they want tons of "the government's" money, our tax money, to fix it? Cynical? No. Realistic. 

Feet

 There is nothing much uglier than human feet. Animals have rather uniform paws and hoofs that look about the same as their peers. What you see is what you get. Human feet? No. They are all a surprise and I suspect quite unique one from the other. Even from each other if there is a pair of them. If there aren't such people, a foot specialist would be the study in learning about a person by their feet. A Foot Reader. I am someone who does not want to look at your feet. No part of them. Baby's  and the feet of most children are wonderful and sweet and mostly characterless, but when adulthood intervenes feet take on quite a change. I shudder even thinking about it, but they develop a unique appearance. Being a mass of bone and flesh and systems such as nerves and veins, their multitude of joints, carrying huge weights for their sizes, they adjust.  And it's never pretty. Ladies pay more attention to their feet than most men but then again, they need to, if they wear outrageous footwear to accommodate vanity. A foot model, for example, would never subject its feet to the punishment of what most of us do. They likely don specially made shoes that support and pamper and relax all those tiny  joints so that lumps and bumps and twists and turns do not occur. Who wants to look at a foot like that? Some folk spend huge amounts of money over a lifetime of foot care, doing pedicures and hiring podiatrists, buying special little bits of cotton to alleviate the abuses they have put their feet through in their lifetimes. My Mother In Law for example, thought that the narrower your feet were, the more overall beautiful you were. She didn't take into account, length. Her feet were up there in numbers. She crammed her feet into shoes far too short and narrow and her feet showed it, not to mention her hours of wasted time and effort to ease the things, with little bottles of goo and powders and bits of elastic stick-ons.  I discovered this only after she left us to fly amongst the clouds. Unfortunately, my own peasant feet couldn't inherit her shoe collection, but it did give me a reason to understand her sometimes unpleasant personality. Once at a party as we women sat in our circle apart from the male circle busy discussing some game, one lady pointed out the feet of a female person not far away. "They're a size twelve!" she whispered. We all, sized six to eight and a half, gasped. The woman had appeared fashionable and being tall, admirable. But we decided that her feet fit her. Feet know. A size twelve is formidable even for men, apparently. Another woman I know organizes her shoes like a library. She has closets of shoes, all labelled and dated and the boxes of them have photographs on what's inside. What mystifies me is how long it takes her to decide which pair to wear?  My husband had three sets of shoes. One for the gardening and work, slippers made of sheep skin and one more very nice pair for everything else in his life. The latter were shod like a horse, regularly,  when he found an actual shoemaker who knew how to do it. Stars line up their shoes under lights as though they are jewelry. They cost as much. Yes, shoes? Fine. Feet? No, they are not what I want to look at. Ever. And don't expect me to remove my shoes when I visit. What is worse than being in a room full of sock or bare feet? Ugh.