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Literacy, culture and tartar sauce

A news story today says a strata in Vancouver’s tony Coal Harbour neighbourhood has vetoed the lease of a commercial space in their building in part because the name of the restaurant that was set to open there contained an ‘offensive’ word. Moby Dick Fish & Chips has operated in Whiterock, about a half hour south of Vancouver, for several years, apparently without anyone thinking they were serving whale rather than fish, or finding the name offensive. Equally apparent is that the strata corporation and its lawyers have neither read nor heard of Herman Melville’s classic novel, from which the fish & chip shop has inexplicably taken its name. (It’s doubtful the owners of the shop have read it either, for that matter. It’s not a cheerful book.)

Now, you don’t have to like Moby Dick, or Melville for that matter, to know something about the story. Or at least, so I thought. In fact, I didn’t think you even needed to be particularly well-read (or well-educated). The tale of Captain Ahab’s obsessive quest for the great white whale had, I thought, become woven into common cultural fabric of North America, if not the entire English-speaking world. And perhaps it has.

There has been a raging debate in Vancouver over the past several years about the extent to which foreign buyers have affected the local real estate market. Coal Harbour has often been held up as an example – in particular the proportion of expensive condos whose owners seem rarely to be at home. I don’t want to get into that debate here. I think the about-face of the real estate association in the aftermath of the likely misguided ‘Foreign Buyers Tax’ introduced hurriedly last summer has more or less settled that matter. The interesting thing to me is that nearly half of the lower mainland’s residents (or at least of its home owners) come from different cultural backgrounds now, such that we can no longer assume common cultural currency.

This is not a one-way street, and I am not bemoaning the presence or influence of immigrants, like some loopy Trumper or Brexiter. (Or some people running to lead the Conservative Party of Canada – but let’s leave that aside for now.) Just as I cannot assume that everyone I speak to (or who reads this blog) will understand references to Moby Dick – or Hamlet, or Huckleberry Finn, or Beatles songs, or Star Wars – neither can others expect me to understand their cultural markers. What do I know about Chinese literature, South American film stars, K-pop, or even Sikhism?

Being honest, North Americans – by which, since we’re being honest, means those of us of European decent – have not even made an attempt to understand the rich and diverse cultures of the peoples we stole the land from in the first place, whose descendants still live here. We’ve made little to no attempt to understand the ‘minority’ cultures in our midst, and who we generally ignore until they begin to ignore us back, rather than trying to fit in, which we find especially galling if some of them are really rich.

My advice to the restaurant owner is: change your name. Anyone who has read the book will find it puzzzling at best anyway, and it apparently offends those who know some of the language but none of the literature of English-speaking North America. Oh, and maybe avoid literary references altogether. The Old Man and the Sea? Great book, depressing as hell. Spoiler alert – he loses the fish.

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If the atmospheric river were whisky

It is always a happy day, the first day of the year on my motorcycle. This year, which has been abnormally cold for Vancouver – we’ve had snow since before Christmas! – the first ride was delayed a couple of weeks. This year, for a change, it wasn’t biblical amounts of rain that kept me from riding.

In fact, it was raining today, also known as First Ride Day. But that’s not so unusual. You can’t let a little rain stop you if you ride a motorcycle in Vancouver. Today, though, was not a little rain. Apparently we have been thrown overboard into what the weather folks are calling an ‘atmospheric river’. If the atmospheric river were whisky, I’d be well and truly drunk. A more sensible man would have left his bike in the garage. Only strangers have ever accused me of being sensible.

‘Waterproof’, when it comes to motorcycle gear, is more an aspiration than a reality, and my waterlogged waterproof jacket and pants are hanging to drip dry, my socks are in the dryer, and my boots and gloves are ever so slowly dehydrating.

On the plus side, it took me much less time to get to and (more importantly) from work, and my mood was noticeably more positive all day long. Something about riding a motorcycle, even a relatively short and dull ride, like commuting to work, is inherently cheering. Psychologists should probably study this, although they’d likely get it wrong.

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Poetry & meaning

In his poem, ‘Ars Poetica’, Archibald MacLeish famously stated that a poem should not mean, but be. Of course, he also said it should be wordless as the flight of birds, so it’s likely best not to take him too literally.

Several months ago, a good friend of mine challenged me to explain why I like poetry, something he says he detests. I declined his challenge at the time as he and I had both had far too much to drink for any good to come of it. But I think the question is a good one. I think all poets – and all those who love poetry – should be prepared to defend it from time to time. Here, then, is the beginning of my attempt (or my attempt at the beginning) of a defense of poetry.

Without entirely disagreeing with MacLeish, I don’t think separating the fact of a poem from ‘meaning’ is a useful or even possible thing. For me, while poetry isn’t merely, or even primarily, a vehicle for the straightforward communication of ideas, it is inherently meaningful, in a more profound way than prose, or any other use of language I can think of.

For me, a poem is a way of understanding being, a lens for viewing the world – not entirely unlike a microscope or a telescope. Several years ago I rode my motorcycle through the desert, and the whole time lines from The Waste Land and ‘The Hollow Men’ rattled around inside my helmet (along with lines from Paul Simon’s ‘Hearts and Bones’ when we rode through the mountains in southern Colorado and northern New Mexico). I cannot see a crow without thinking of Ted Hughes’s cycle of poems, or a blackbird without Wallace Stevens coming to mind.

It goes deeper than that. There are things that cannot be so much thought as felt, and this is really where poetry excels. As E.E. Cummings put it, we are ‘nobodybutourselves’ when we feel, but everybody else when we think or know or believe. The job of the poet is to be ‘nobodybutyourself in words’, which is no mean feat. After all, the words do not belong to us. They are public. They are everybody else’s more than they are ours.

Words, for poets, are not mere ‘signifiers’, and their use of them is not a kind of ‘discourse’, as the philosophers of language would have it. They are raw materials, out of which not ‘signification’ but ‘meaning’ is made, a meaning that is not about being, but rather is a type of being itself, per MacLeish.

Words, of course, are a difficult material to work with. As I said, they are public, and have public uses, significations, that are distinct from their use in poetry. I am not suggesting here that they have different definitions or connotations than in their public use, or that they become emptied of those; but that their everyday meanings, and their sounds, their rhythms, in a poem combine to create something beyond mere signification, in much the same way that our synaptic firings combine to be not just brain activity, but consciousness, which seems to resist reduction to its material cause. (More on that, perhaps, another time.)

T.S. Eliot touched on the difficulty of the raw material of poetry in his Four Quartets, describing the ‘intolerable wrestle with words and meanings’ as ‘raids on the inarticulate’ with ‘shabby equipment’ and ‘undisciplined squads of emotion’. The end result, for Eliot, is only learning ‘to get the better of words/ For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which/ One is no longer disposed to say it’. It is this sort of ‘failure’, to use Eliot’s word, that Auden likely had in mind when, paraphrasing Paul Valery, he said that poems are never finished, but only abandoned.

I could go on, but I’ll leave it there for now. I’d be interested to know your thoughts, though – whoever is reading this.

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Faithless 

I am not a religious man.

Okay, that’s an understatement. I’m a card-carrying atheist. Not just an agnostic, either. I’m fairly certain there’s no god, and I don’t understand how anyone believes otherwise.

Of course, I know people do, many of them at least as intelligent as me. Many of the people I love and respect are religious. I don’t judge them, or anyone, for believing something different from me. I’m sure their reasons seem as good & sound to them as mine do to me, and I’m happy for them to continue to think so.

So why am I writing this?

I suppose because I’d like the same courtesy shown to my unbelief that I show to the beliefs of others. But I don’t expect necessarily to get it. In some places, they put atheists to death. In others, they try to convince them of their error, and shut them out of society if they can’t. Can anyone imagine an atheist candidate for public office in the US being elected? I don’t just mean as president, but even as sheriff or dog catcher.

Not that I – or any right thinking person – would want those jobs.

I didn’t become an atheist by accident, and I certainly wasn’t raised to be one. My father was very religious. My mother and younger brother still are.

Years of reflection led me to this conclusion. The same process has led others to Buddhism, Catholicism, Islam and other religions.

I won’t try to convince you I’m right, although I obviously believe I am. I don’t think atheists should be evangelical about their faithlessness. I also don’t think they should organize, codify their unbelief, or anything like that. Who wants an unreligion? Not me.

I do see the value of congregations, mind you. I just don’t like them. Mostly I prefer one on one encounters, or small groups. I don’t feel terribly lonely when I’m alone, either.

I will say that still maintain a moral code, and beliefs about how things are and ought to be. They are open to question, as are everyone else’s codes.

I don’t really have a point here, so I’ll just end.

(Feel free to say thank god!)

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Playing the Trump card

Many years ago, an American rabbi published what would become a self-help bestseller called When Bad Things Happen to Good People. The book was intended to help people get past unfortunate events in their lives, and not become defined by those events. Right now, I think what is needed is a book called When Good People Do Bad Things. The purpose of this book would be to explain how ordinarily good people brought themselves to vote for Donald Trump.

The inauguration of that lumpen orange narcissist is only a little over a week away. All over the world (with the possible exception of Russia), people are asking how this could happen. How could any sane, halfway moral person justify to himorherself the notion of ‘President Trump.’

Now, I will grant you, Hillary was hardly the best choice of candidate for the democrats, or any other party for that matter. I would much rather have seen Bernie or Biden, myself. Or any number of women. Gender is not the reason I didn’t particularly like Hillary. Neither were emails or Benghazi, or any of the muck the republicans tried to throw at her. I didn’t like Bill that much, either, although it had nothing to do with Monica, and everything to do with economic policy. And it was, again, economics, and the sense that both the DNC and Hillary herself thought ‘it was her turn’, that made me prefer other options to the former Secretary of State.

Having said that, I would have preferred the election of nearly anyone – even the return of George W. Bush, never mind little Jeb – to the smirking misogynist about to occupy the Oval Office. (And I definitely would have preferred Hillary to either Bush.) The only person in the running who may have been as unfit for office as Trump was Ted Cruz, thankfully now a political has-been.

So how did they do it? Ordinary middle Americans. Salt of the earth types. Church and BBQ types. People who I wouldn’t have expected to cros the street to spit on a New York billionaire. How did they bring themselves to vote for such a creep? Such an obviously crazy, frequently bankrupt, don’t leave him alone with your daughter or your savings account creep.

A lot of people say it was racism, and I don’t doubt there was some of that. Too many confederate flags at Trump rallies, too many swastikas painted on walls since the election, to think otherwise. But I don’t think racism could possibly have motivated that many voters.

Some others say it was about economics. Not that anyone, including Trump voters, believe he has an economic plan at all, never mind a good one. But that the economy that has been foisted on Americans, and that has taken their jobs, their homes and, worse, their dignity over the past 37 years, if not longer, had finally made them stand up and say, ‘no more.’ There may be something to that.

The so-called ‘left’ in America bailed out banks while they foreclosed on families. They bragged about economic recovery, even as the divide between rich and poor grew, and careers you could support a family with were replace with jobs with low pay and no security. Or with no jobs at all.

Anyway, I look forward to an explanation that isn’t too easy, or too comfortable for those who lost. I hope America – and France, the Netherlands, Germany, and Britain, too – gets its act together before it’s too late.

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That was easy!

Does anyone else remember, waaaaaaaay back (well, a couple of years ago) when our premier trotted out her “five conditions” for pipelines carrying bitumen from the Alberta oil sands to our coast? What were they, now? Oh, right:

  1. National Energy Board approval (tough one, that)
  2. World leading (whatever that means) land-based spill detection and response
  3. World leading (as above) marine spill detection and response
  4. A hefty piece of the action for B.C.
  5. Aboriginal buy-off. I mean, in. Buy-in. Sorry about that.

Supposedly, the Kinder Morgan, TransMountain pipeline expansion, which will triple the amount of basically raw bitumen being shipped through Burrard Inlet and Vancouver Harbour, has now met those conditions. More or less. In a manner of speaking.

It was a no-brainer then, and requires none still, to see that approval was inevitable. NEB approval was a foregone conclusion. “World leading” is pretty meaningless, since it isn’t defined at all. So there are two conditions that are pretty much entirely subjective. How much of a cut did B.C. need? Apparently not a very big one. Under $50M a year. Less than some soccer players make. And as for First Nations… Let’s get serious. When was the last time one of our premiers cared about them, except as ornamentation, or in this case a bargaining chip?

So, B.C. coastal communities – and our environment – have been sold down the river, so to speak, by two Liberal leaders (one federal, one provincial) in the past six weeks. Does anyone need more proof that “liberal” does not mean “progressive” in this country?

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Lend me your ears…

Nietzsche once wrote that “without music, life would be a mistake.” Some people likely think that was an example of hyperbole (which Nietzsche was prone to). I am not one of those people.

Since I was a baby, there has been music. My father loved jazz, gospel, calypso, country and western, and bagpipe music. An eclectic mix, to say the least. On long drives to visit family on Vancouver Island, I recall hearing Louis Armstrong, Harry Belafonte, and Johnny Cash coming from the 8-track deck mounted under the dash. Every Christmas, he played Mahalia Jackson’s renditions of “O, Holy Night” and “Go Tell It On the Mountain.”

One of the things I’ve inherited from my father is a varied taste in music, and a near obsessive need to have my hours filled with it. Jazz, Classical, Folk, Rock, Blues, Ska, Funk. The genre almost doesn’t matter. (Although, I mostly don’t like radio songs or club music, or anything that seems to lack originality.)

Even within a genre like “Rock”, there is a wide variety styles I like. Classic Rock, old Heavy Metal, Progressive Rock, New Wave, Punk, et cetera. I expect most of my playlists would leave others confused.

There are favourites, of course. Music I listen to more frequently, more repeatedly, and this tends to change over time. I used to listen to Beethoven obsessively, but now, when I listen to classical music, it is more likely be Bach or Arvo Part. In jazz, I have become more attuned to Coletrane and Sonny Rollins of late, though I still listen to a lot of Miles. In rock, there’s no one I listen to more than Rush these days, especially the remixed Vapour Trails. Although, Peter Gabriel is a close second, and my appreciation of the Rolling Stones has been increasing.

I can’t imagine not being able to listen to music for any length of time. When I was a child, I would sing to myself if I didn’t have a radio or record player handy. I still do this when I’m riding my motorcycle. (It’s a good thing others don’t have to hear what goes on inside my helmet!)

For this reason, I think hearing is the sense I’d have the hardest time living without. Although, I can hear whole symphonies in my head, in the way others can picture a beach. So maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world to be without hearing, since I’d still have music. If that were to go, though, I think Nietzsche is right: life would be a mistake.

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Gymnopedies

Today I want to look at the pros and cons of working out.

(Note: I am not debating whether or not to go to the gym. I did that already, about 10 hours ago. I’ll be doing it again tomorrow. And the day after. And so on. See yesterday’s post for a clue as to why.)

(Note 2 – or, too: when I say ‘go to the gym’, I do not mean, as a good friend of mine does, ‘nap with the cat.’ See the post about my cat for a clue as to why.)

Pros of working out:

  • I often surprise myself with what I’m able to do – occasionally in a good way.
  • I feel better physically on days that I work out.
  • I feel better psychologically on days that I work out.
  • If I do it enough, it makes my clothes fit better – at least until they get loose, which is even better.
  • The more I do, the more I can do next time. I’ll be back to running 10km before summer if I keep this up.
  • It’s a great way to zone out with my music. I love music. There are roughly 7,000 music files on my phone. But most of the time it’s rude to have headphones on. Not the case in the gym.
  • It’s good for me in at least a dozen ways.

Cons of working out:

  • It takes a lot of time, which I could be using for other things.
  • It’s tiring, physically. I don’t have a lot left later in the day.
  • I don’t like being in the gym with others. I never know where to look.
  • I am frequently frustrated with my level of fitness, which should spur me on, but usually makes me think of doing something else instead.
  • The more I do, the more I seem to need to do. Our bodies are incredibly efficient when it comes to storing energy in fat cells.
  • I dislike sweating. And I always sweat when I work out. A lot.
  • It’s one of the few things as anti-social as social media – a room full of people purposely ignoring each other.

I’m not going to bother trying to figure out which outweighs the other. I’ll be at the gym tomorrow in the hope of outweighing fewer things myself.

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In vino veritas

For those who don’t know, that’s an old Roman proverb that translates as “in wine, there is truth.”

I’ve been a beer drinker for most of my adult life, and I still love good ales. Hoppy ales, stout ales, pale or red ales. I have the body of a true beer drinker: who wants a six pack when you can have a keg?

I’m also fond of whisky, and of whiskey, too. Gin, tequila, absinthe. Really, anything that isn’t bourbon or vodka.

And no, I’m not an alcoholic. I don’t drink everyday. It’s years since I drank to the point of passing out, or woke up hung over. I prefer quality to quantity. Unfortunately, quality can be just as expensive. The price of single malt or a good tequila is not for the faint of wallet.

Tonight, though, we are drinking wine. It’s the only thing Adele drinks (and only red for her, at that). On a price per volume basis, wine is a better deal than scotch, but pricier than beer. Especially here in B.C., where our provincial government seems intent on taxing us into temperance.

I’m not sure why governments feel it is their duty to protect us from ourselves in this way. The same impulse keeps pubs out of neighbourhoods here, and that likely has increased the rate of impaired driving in B.C. more than anything over the years. After all, if I can walk to and stumble from my destination, the car will likely stay in the garage.

Governments generally find it easier to regulate individuals than companies, even though a very good case can be made that the opposite should be the rule rather than the exception. Too often regulators, at least in Canada, seem to feel it is their duty to protect industries from the public. The CRTC and the National Energy Board are the best examples of this. One assumes they have taken their direction on this from the governments who appoint them. It makes you wonder whose interests these governments are really representing. Or it would, if you didn’t already know.

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Looking forward, and back

“January” takes its name from the Roman god Janus, the god of beginnings and endings, gates and doorways, transitions, passages and time. Images of Janus often show him with two faces: one looking forward, the other looking back.

janus
Depiction of Janus

As I mentioned in an earlier post, 2016 was mostly a crap year, one to leave in the dustbin of history and not bring out, even on special occasions. It’ll be like the spare chair that you avoid using, even when there are guests, because it has an irreparably wonky leg. “Don’t sit there! It’s not safe for sitting. We just pile things there.” There were a few good moments – my younger brother getting married, for example, and the birth of his daughter. But for the most part, it’s a year I’m happy to forget.

Looking forward, of course, requires a certain amount of looking back. (Turns out those Romans were onto something!) If you don’t know where you came from, how can you know which way is forward? The last thing anyone should want is back-track through last year.

At the same time, looking forward is a bit of misnomer. It’s not as though we can really see what’s coming. If we could, surely we would have found some way to steer Titanic America clear of that hideously orange iceberg they elected – Russian interference notwithstanding. No, when it comes to the future, it’s more like wishing or hoping than looking forward.

So, what am I hoping for, beyond the obvious (good health, more money, male pattern baldness becoming fashionable)? That’s a good question. For the most part it’s little things: ride my bike more, get back to running, spend more time with friends and family, write more, read more, waste less time on things that don’t really matter to me.

That’s not a super ambitious list, but it doesn’t depend on anything I can’t really control. I think maybe that’s the key to being happy: don’t get too fussed about things you can’t control. More easily said than done, of course. Some things beyond our control can really hurt. So that’s another thing I’m hoping for this year: not to be sideswiped by fate, knocked on my ass by things I can’t do anything about. I hope the same thing for you, too.