Towers

I

I wonder as I look, at towers in the air
If all the people stand in one place, or sit in the same chair
Do all the lights come on at once
Do all the toasters pop
Do all the kitchen tables, sit in the same spot
Do all the people think the same
Do they have  original thought
It’s hard to be creative when you’re sitting in a box
So symmetry has it’s place
The rhythm is quite pure
Dwellings need a human touch
Some curves add love for sure.

The Tin Box

The pure loneliness of an abandoned mobile home. No more mobile no more home. Thin walls barely holding out the world, will soon allow the air to pass. Floors sink with moisture. Cheap panelling buckles and warps. Roof leaks hasten mould that eats everything. Of all the abodes that man has devised I think nothing adds to his futility than the abandoned tin box. Likely to hold out for decades with nothing to be saved.

One Man Band

 

The music in my world lifts my spirit high
Music is to heaven like apple is to pie
People come together songs in their heart
They play their inner feelings each soul has a part
A beat is just a beat the timing’s on it’s own
The lyrics just inside us each part of us a clone

Love

 

 I wander in the forest
All random beauty sings
The tender, soft, and strong, side by side
We are all one thing and the love that nature brings
Is really just the love we have inside.

Drive-In

 

We don’t use drive in movies
We have them in the car
Children watch the colours
And don’t know where they are
A scary drive in movie
And a snuggle with your date
The times are changing fast now
It’s probably too late.

Power Lines

Geometric steel
Standing in the park
Power to the people
To Chase away the dark
The stars are disappeared
The moon has lost it’s show
The streets are grey and mustard
And homes with tv’s purple glow

Light Night

The night grows dark
The light grows bright
A line becomes a stream
The inter-play of opposites
Can make reality a dream
A dream can lead us on a path
The future seems quite dark
But understand that all of life
Began with just a spark

Art Walk

Some art makes you think
Some art makes you feel
Feelings and thought make action
Action makes you real
All children see the world as art
They lack definition and confinement
Their prehistoric shapes become
Beauty in refinement.
Be careful in refinement though
It makes the edges smooth
Children need an open space
a most delightful bloom

Corner of My Eye

 

 Everything is instant
Thoughts fly through space
If only I could change my mind
But it’s probably too late
While sitting on a beach bench
And with stillness in the sky
I see a flash of colour in the corner of my eye
Our minds are just so busy
It’s hard to turn it off
I find the spaces in-between
Have my purest thoughts.

Plastic

Toys (R backwards) are not us
Toys distract imagination
Bend and twist and uniform thought
Plastic heaped into a molder
Injected into consciousness
Plastic flowers plastic trees
Plastic beaches on plastic seas
All the plastic touched and left
Discarded into uselessness.
Go to a beach
Let nature give you ideas
Keep plastic out of the reach of children

Discontented

The discontented can hear the cry
The rich the poor the average guy
They say one man in ten has a satisfied mind.
Discontented rich have power and faith in walls
…poor man writes on them
The walls get cracks but the words stay strong
The people speak
Walls don’t last long
A discontented man seeks a way to heaven
A contented man is already there
Choose the doorways carefully
They arrive in very different places.

Sailboats

When I ask myself what is your story I look to the soul and I see a lifelong boat. My nature is formed by the loved ones and experiences as we sail through life. This old boat has slowed with the years and at sunset we rest contented.

Crossing Lines

Some lines get crossed and nothing happens. Some crossed lines play havoc. Make your lines work for you.

The Beach

Countless adventurers and holiday fun seekers have amassed millions of pictures of beautiful beaches. With the invention of railways whole towns began to be built up from small fishing villages into large tourist cities attracting crowds to a beach. Trip Advisor..."Famed for it's crystalline water and pristine white sand Baia do Sancho in Brazil has been named the most stunning beach in the world.Beating off competition from Puerto Rico, the Seychelles, Hawaii, and Mexico. The astoundingly pretty bay which is surrounded by towering cliffs covered with lush vegetation scooped the top spot."Maybe so. But people are drawn to this boundary between water and land and it stimulates our most inner emotions. To contemplate a beach is to find our individual inner beauty and as such the beach you last felt, the one that entered your deepest consciousness is your Best Beach.

My Father's War

It was during my university years that I first became aware of the peace movement. The Vietnam war was raging and I joined the campus marches and protest rallies which at the time seemed like the right thing to do. I loved the protest songs and the anti war performers and of course the like minded social contacts. At the time, peace was closely linked to the civil rights movement and the fight for desegregation. The irony of fighting for peace never occurred to me. I was a peacenik in the true spirit. I became the Wikipedia definition of "Someone who opposes armed conflict in general, or a particular conflict; or who publicly opposes the proliferation  of weapons."

My father volunteered for the Canadian Army Reserve Unit in November 1942 at the tender age of 27. Leaving his wife and one-year-old baby girl behind, he joined the Perth Regiment for initial training.  His active service began two months later in January 1943 when he joined the Royal Canadian Ordinance Corps in Barriefield, Ontario, just north of Kingston. He became an ammunition examiner: trained to inspect, repair, test,  store, and modify all ammunition. His voluntary nature was exploited when he was stationed at #3 Depot in Ottawa where he volunteered for "physical test". It is estimated that approximately 3700 members of the Canadian military volunteered to participate as human subjects in secret chemical warfare agent experiments. Tests were conducted  in Suffield, Alberta (from 1941 to the mid-1970s, but mainly in the Second World War era) and at Chemical Warfare Laboratories Ottawa (1941-45). The secret "physical test" lasted a month after which  he returned to his unit in Barriefield which was preparing to be shipped overseas.

This photo was taken in England sometime between May 7th 1944 and October 1944 when he arrived in France. Thereafter he was promoted to Corporal in charge of ammunition storage facilities and transferred to Holland.

Dad's personal stories  were difficult to withdraw and sparse in telling; in keeping with the attitude of the times. His brother-in-law and fellow enlistee, William Bond in the advanced age of his late 90's was more forthcoming. He told me about ammunition dumps, and delivering ordinances by truck to the front lines. About night bombing raids and the harsh reality of the casualties that surrounded him. The kind of war stories that were void of valor and heroism and rich in fear and suffering. Those who experienced the worst of the war shared no illusions. Death had been the backdrop of their lives. The depths to which fear can mark the soul was illustrated to me in an observation of Dad's driving habits. He always drove big cars and I noticed that he would continually accelerate then coast, accelerate and coast, in a most annoying pattern. My explanation came later, when my Uncle Bill  explained that the unusual pattern was adopted to vary the speed of a supply truck so a sniper would be unable to predict a clear shot through the trees or buildings. That pattern was so very deeply imprinted in his mind.

My father's discharge certificate is dated March 5th 1946. In it he is to "return to civil life on demobilization with a 1939-45 France and Germany Star, and a Canadian Volunteer Service Metal and Clasp". He was 30 years old and a troubled veteran.

I write this in an effort to understand my father.  My parents divorced when I was 11 years old. Dad returned to a land socially and politically dominated by those who had not served. I believe he found it difficult to communicate to such people, let alone cooperate with them. Between him and his society was a dark screen of horror and violation instilled by the knowledge of the reality of war. Across that screen it was difficult to communicate.  An experience shared by all his friends, who could only stand on the sidelines like exiles in a strange country. With death looming at all times , each soldier was granted license to deal with it as he saw fit. If there was decency to be found in war it was this private sphere of dignity, respected by all. A coping mechanism  that each soldier cultivated within himself, as he anticipated his own end and that of his friends and brothers. My father dealt with it like many  ...alcoholism.

We couldn't understand the night terrors, the nervous jitters, the poor health, the decent into alcoholic haze. As my research revealed a more complete picture I understood that my father didn't have the luxury of a peace movement. He was unable to sit around coffee houses and debate the issues of conflict. His attitude, nature, and culture insisted that he join the forces of good, and repel at all costs the forces of evil. A simplification for sure, but the way of the world in 1941. His volunteering for chemical testing reveals more about him than his inability to be a  father to his family. The war killed spirits as much as it destroyed men and women, and we all stand on the outside of that reality when we look into the eyes of a veteran.

Old Cars

     The year was 1963.  Dad was taking me for driving lessons in his 1952 Chev 2 door sedan with “three on the tree” gear shift, and no power steering.  He was down on his luck and the car reflected his decline. We started in shopping mall parking lots where I could make wide turns.  I recall getting excited one day when I saw a cardboard box dead ahead and I couldn’t wait to  line it up and crush it with my new found power.  Dad saw my thoughts straight away, and calmly said that I couldn’t really ever tell what might be inside the box, and that maybe I should go around it….a cautionary tale that has stuck with me through the years.  I got my drivers license on the second attempt just as I  turned 16.

   That year is of great significance  because my Mother, who had a license but didn’t drive, decided to buy a car. Her first and only.  She chose a 1962 Chev Impala with double blue leather interior and a white rag top. It was a dream car, of jaw dropping beauty.

“John, would you mind running me down to the Dominion store for groceries?

"Sure Mom, when you wanna go?”

“John, you can use the car to take the laundry over.”

 “Sure Mom, be back soon.”

“John, drop me off at work and take the car to school. Afterwards, could you  drive the girls to lessons and pick them up at five.”

 “You betcha.”

   I was 16 and driving around in a convertible, that definitely turned heads.  A convertible in those days was exciting and dangerous, open and carefree.  To own one guaranteed, a devil may care attitude in the driver.  A rakish risker taking chances, testing fate.  The car took me from responsible to perilous with all the lessons in between.

   Canadian winters eat automobiles.  What was once a dashing joy in summer became a salt crusted, leak-sprouting frozen shell of its former self in  the final winters on the road.  The beautiful '62 Chev rested in the garage for awhile then it was quietly hauled away.  From the Chev I stepped  almost immediately into a white 1959 Dodge De Soto that was called “Blanche” (people named cars readily back then).  It was a friends Mother’s car who had recently passed away.  It was badly rusted  but it ran pretty well at first, and it was free.  I narrowly dodged a roadside vehicle inspection station one day and decided to drop the car off at the Wreckers. 

   I had a brief encounter with a 1967 Olds 98 convertible. It was flaming red with a black interior, but with no weight on the rear wheels, one day  she slid along a telephone pole.  Dad had it fixed, but we decided to sell it and buy something less expensive and much less flashy.  In some kind of a finance/trade deal, that I don't fully recall, I wound up with a 1958 Ford Custom, 2 door white and blue….and the "Shaker"  became my new ride.  The "three on the tree" and direct steering took me back to my roots, and the car's modesty was refreshing.  

   I don’t think people love machines, but I often hear it.  I loved that old car…you hear it all the time.  People certainly love their car experiences.  We all look so fondly at our milestones.  Taking the car on its first date, its first holiday, its first day at school, all so important.  Have you ever heard yourself thanking the car for getting you home on a stormy night, or pulling through in a snowstorm.  We thank cars for looking so good after their yearly simonizing polish, or for looking not so bad after surviving a head on bump.  All my life I have  owned   older used cars  and I can honestly say that I’ve never been stuck on the side of the road.  Almost no vehicle has ever let me down.Today I drive a 2003 Tracker with a new/used engine.  I thank the little bugger every time I think about deep snow. 

   So I guess there is love in cars.  I can feel it more deeply in the older designs. The Volkswagen Beetle oozes with  personality, practicality and modesty. We bought our "Bug" in 1983 and since then I have been captivated by the simple design, compact engineering, and remarkable endurance.The Volkswagen Beetle is regarded as one of the best produced vehicles of the century. The car has its origins in the 1930s where it was designed mainly by Dr. Ferdinand Porsche during that decade. Porsche had had dreams of creating an economical car for the masses in Germany since he was a young man.  Our Bug had well restored surface features but the mechanics required a great deal of work. I spent many nights laying on the garage floor looking up and I was amazed to find out  that the entire engine could be removed with only 4 bolts. Once restored it ran like a charm.

That Volkswagen, and so many since have been a source of artistic expression. From hand coloured black and white photographs , to collages in Photoshop  the bug has captured my imagination and I guess, my love.

books

    I really didn't learn to read until I started high school.  That's quite a statement to make for a career librarian.  In my first year of grade nine at Etobicoke High School, the guidance councillor, during a very brief interview  asked me if my interests were more along the lines of manual labour, specifically working with shovels.

   All my problems with early education stem from a belief that as long as I was present, silent, sat still, didn't distract others, and didn't raise my hand, I could slip through the grades unnoticed...no problem.  This practice worked well until Grade 9 where it was expected (unbeknownst to me) that it was actually necessary to read. I didn't know how.  My experience with books was limited to listening to Hardy Boys stories read to me by my cousins during summer holidays in Muskoka.  I have no memories of being read to at younger stages in my life.  I don't recall any childhood books beyond one that my mother read to me; The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins by Dr Suess.  In all likelihood the story wasn't read very often  since it was necessary to check Wikipedia to recall the plot.

   It was in my second year of grade nine that books began to slowly enter my consciousness.  I began to understand not only, that to succeed in school required reading, but also, that books held answers to  burning teenage questions like, what are girls, and how do I fix my motorcycle. For some unknown reason the school Librarian took me under her wing and offered me a quiet back room reading space that I could use at any time during the day. The status of having a special room, and the solitude it offered, contributed greatly to my developing reading skills,  life-long love of books,  and the futuristic career choice.

   There is nothing that you cannot learn from a book and there is not a book from which you cannot gain something. The vast compendium of fact, meditations, commentaries, opinions, and fantastical re-imaginings, created in books, have nourished the roots of civilisation and human achievement for some four thousand years.  Early manuscripts collected in Summer Mesopotamia became scrolls in Alexandria; and Constantinople in the 5th century, had 120,000 volumes.  Today the Library Of Congress is the worlds largest library with an unbelievable 145 million items on 745 miles of shelves. The totality of the human experience is well recorded.

   Most people learn about life by experiences in the real world of love, death, friends. Others, first experience the same lessons in books. To learn about life we cannot rely solely on experiences.  I ask. What firsts do you experience in books rather than life?  The answer can be as varied as your library. Words can make experiences real because imagination and experience are grounded in language.  You remember experiences in words and you can imagine new experiences with words.  

   For me, books bridge the gap between what I see about life, to how I understand those perceptions.  Children grow up asking the question why.  The stories they read give a shape to these questions and their answers are a language for that experience. We read stories to understand what we want to know.  Life becomes all about the questions. Words in context, allow us to  understand experiences,  while many life experiences often remain confusing in their interpretation. I can easily follow an author's reasoning for how a protagonist reacts to situations in a plot but often I have a devil of a time analysing the reactions of loved ones. 

   I pondered these thoughts as the picture above arrived in my emails.  My daughter (a teacher herself) captured this vital experience she arranged for her children.  It may be that the book is upside down, and it may be that a 3 month old finds some confusion in printed words, but attitudes are shaped by even the most misunderstood experiences and I wish for them a world full of books.

Form and Function

  The other day my daughter called and spoke about her non functioning dishwasher. I immediately suggested she call a repairman to look into the situation. He gave her the heads up that the "house call" would cost her one hundred dollars. He came he saw and he left. The 4 year old dishwasher had a faulty control panel and it would cost five hundred dollars to replace. He then suggested that she just buy another machine.

  Last year our 2003 GM Tracker (really a Suziki with an American name) had a rattle in the engine. The mechanics at several auto repair shops told me that the offending noisy timing belt was no longer available and much too costly to change at any rate. The solution they suggested was to buy a new car.

  Last fall on one of our last motor boat cruises I noticed a slipping jerking motion when the engine ran at full speed. Full speed being relative in that it is only a six horsepower engine. Before I winterized the motor I ask a mechanic about the problem. He said. "they have now changed the propeller design so instead of a sheer-pin to stop a tangled propeller they now use a rubber bushing that wears out and requires a whole new prop every few years".

  I remember back in my teaching years. I rode my bicycle to school for much of the year. I began to notice "fallen" bikes. They seemed to be abandoned everywhere. Leaning against garages, and trees, fences and bushes,  bikes were starting to litter the neighborhood. So I asked my class one day to collect the discarded bikes, bring them to school, and we would see what could be done. Such a variety we collected. From small dirt to full sized racers in colours and genders. I was shocked to see that,  all but a few of them had nothing more disabling than a flat tire or  rusted chain. I was further shocked to realize that no one in a sixth grade class could tell me how to pump up a tire, let alone how to change one. It seemed that it was much easier to just buy a new one. My work was cut out for me.

  I started in an effort to sway popular opinion that "dirty work is stupid",( as one student bluntly described our efforts).  Actually she was not far off. Parents want their children to work at a desk in these days of the information economy. The cognitive richness of manual work has been suppressed by quick returns and seductive wages. White collar good , blue collar bad. Students are encouraged that universities will lead to rich financial security. Shop, and Home Economics classes are a thing of the past as we seem to let our direct experience of the world slip away.

  All this changed when the resurrected machines began to roll off the line. We repaired cleaned oiled and polished until we had turned old into new. Pride in a job well done is such a valuable commodity. Attention deepened, discipline unnecessary, skill competence grew, and I witnessed valued and enthusiastic conversations as groups determined certain courses of action. We were all transformed.

  With all these thoughts I was delighted to see the old garage at the crossroads of our village re-open as a business refurbishing old 1960's Airstreem Caravans. The built in endurance of these trailers make their style attractive to our disposable culture. These trailers represent a design of function over form, a design that feels strong durable and secure. Strengthen the things that remain.

The Artist Life.

The Artist Life.

   I think it is good to find places, however small, that have not been "developed" by people. I'm discovering natural patches here and there, and exploring their unkempt beauty. Wilderness is still all around us and her lovely chaotic sculptures draw me in. Katura is a small Muskoka island that has remained untouched. It was never logged or  tilled, no shacks or development of any kind. Her mosses are thick and the trees are tall. There was an old native fellow in the 1950s who we use to see   camped there to fish during the summers. Ed Snake was there for years and he left no trace. The natural beauty of the island captured my afternoon.

   The varieties of mosses on Katura, Bea and I have known well, but during this visit I was attracted to the rocky outcrops and specifically its clinging lichen. I was interested to find out that Lichen is actually two organisms living in a symbiotic relationship... all twenty thousand species of them.  The lichen make rocks come alive with color and texture and seem to blend sharp edges. The way light strikes natural material is art. Plants are made of light so it is no surprise the wonder I found on this close inspection.

   I was led to remember our trip to the Great Barrier Reef which is just off the eastern coast of Australia. Twelve hundred miles of coral which is also a symbiosis somewhat like lichen. Coral is a colony and when we were given masks to swim with the fish  I underwent another transformation. However hard man struggles to design shape color and line in pleasing combinations  he will never duplicate the beautiful medley of coral fish. We try to grab one here and there and put them in fish tanks but the results are pitiful. The most beautiful fish you can imagine...(existing in the wild) there are hundreds everywhere, all different and in complete artistic harmony with each other. .

  It is a transformational experience to see flora and fauna as artistic composition. I think of the brush strokes and palette required to capture even a square inch.  Move a few feet and a whole new story is told. Art can elevate people to their highest good. You begin to reach deeper into yourself  as you see art. I don’t think it requires an analysis of the work. Too much thought slows the process. We find it difficult  to express the art we recognize inside us,  but that challenge is part of the enjoyable process as we react to life around us. We seem to feel the delight in our senses. If we can shut down our brains a little it opens a gateway for art. It seems to be very healthy stuff.

  On a side note the words "The Artist Life " was the name of a Toronto band. Jake, my friend's son was their amazing drummer. For years I wanted to say the name  as the artist's life, using an apostrophe for easier more familiar understanding. Life is an artist, and the more this is accepted as truth, the more art becomes part of my life. I look at sunset pictures with renewed vision, and I am much slower at processing pictures of flowers.

Boats Boats Boats

Boats have a long history. Where there were large bodies of water, there were boats.  All kinds of floating matter was initially lashed together, but the first boats were mostly wooden dugouts.  At any rate for the next tens of thousands of years, wood was the primary material for a huge variety of water faring vessels.

My earliest memories are of cedar strip canoes, and run-a-bouts, and clear pine , skiffs and punts. I remember following my Dad along a shady wooded path to the dry land boat shed. In it were stacked nine punts which provided water access for our rental cottages.  I had a bucket of green paint and a 4 inch brush.  Prep work was optional  and I can remember scraping off loose bits of old paint with the brush handle.  A smearing of solid lead and oil based green enamel, filled small holes and cracks and made the watercraft worthy of another cottage season.

What I feel was my first boat was a cedar  lap strake or clinker built, double ended skiff.  With twin oar locks, and a friend, the skiff was the fastest human powered craft on the lake. (Although at the annual Bala Regatta, in those days, this fact was easily challenged.) At one point I chopped a hole in the seat and erected a cedar pole to act as a mast to hold a bed sheet sail.  With no centre board keel, sailing was a down wind affair and a long row home.  One morning I came down to the beach to find that the skiff had drifted away in the night.  My love of boats was cemented by a love lost.

Our family boat was a wood and glue, moulded plywood run-a-bout we called Shrimp Boat. It had a centre deck and a Mercury outboard motor.  At eighteen horses, it truly was the fastest boat on the lake in the mid 1950's.  In the early 60's it won races three years in a row at the Foot's Bay Regatta.  A local boat mechanic, lightened the prop, set the carburator to run on airplane gas, and drove the "Shrimp Boat" to  victory.  By the mid 60's, the wear and tear caught up with her and the last effort to keep her afloat was canvas, unsuccessfully glued over the dry-rot.

Fibreglass began to drift into the boating market as a repair solution for wood boats. Adding a very hard patch on a flexible wooden hull does seem like a good idea.  Eventually, however,  the separation is completed and the leak continues worse than ever.  Wood is sealed with natural fibres like cord or canvas.

 The first fiberglass boats began to show up on Lake Muskoka in the late fifties.  The molds could be made to any shape so automobile culture slipped into the designs.  Some of the first models had wood decks and accents, but soon, 'the all fiberglass maintenance free', boating style began in earnest.  The fiberglass canoe I had was certainly dry, and could battle with rocks, but I began to feel its irregular paddling rhythms.  The water on plastic sounds, seemed hollow.  It scratched onto a beach rather than eased.

 I find it hard not to love an old wooden boat.  Not only do they sound in harmony with water but they move with the rhythms of nature.  My friend Bob gave me his Mothers 1937 Peterborough Prospecter Cedar strip canoe that floated like an feather.  My Uncle Bill gave me his 1957 Peterborough Comet cedar strip,  run-a-bout. It was  powered by a 55hp Chrysler outboard, which in deed made it fly like a comet. A 1964 Lightning sailboat that could bend and moan in a fresh breeze and cross the lake on a fairies fart, sealed my love affair with wood crafts.

Every Spring I ponder these thoughts as I scrape, sand and paint my way to the future slow wonderful Summer cruises. Last year we launched a new, old woody, and for the first time ever, there were no leaks.  A wood boat with no leaks is boating heaven.  A small electric motor for quiet thrust, and nothing but time.

I saw these old 'fibers' sitting on the beach in Portugal. The bumps and scratches attested to their rugged life on the ocean.  Their sides were thick and solid, and although they were small they were very strong. I could feel the trust the sailors would need while miles from shore. I began to realize that my love extended beyond material preferences  to a deeper relationship of boat to man. The way a boat can alter the reality of solid footing. How a boat can offer secure trespass on a mixture of two gasses. How a boat can offer a tight balance between smooth sunset cruising and white knuckle survival, the humble meets the thankful. The relationship is in the experiences and as soon as you leave the dock they begin to work their way into your heart. Whether in a dugout or a houseboat, whether of wood or plywood, fiberglass or aluminum, kevlar or epoxy, foams, resins, or carbon fibers, whether day or night, on ocean, river or lake, the stories seep into your nature. They steady your gait, become part of your smile, add a glint to your eye and become part of the love you have for life.

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