Sitting on the Porch song

Socialist Stupidity

“If your answer is always take from the rich and give to the poor your thinking is a box and you can’t think outside the box.”  

The idea of Robin Hood was preceeded by the idea of ‘war’.  For thousands of years tribes , then nations coveted their neighbours possessions so took them. Today the war is done, not under the guise, of ‘God’s Will’, “Might is right’ but rather the idea of “Redistribution”.  

What we see with war is that a few become rich for a short time. There are countless examples of failed revolutions. I loved the Beatles song, “We don’t want a revolution.”  

The principle modern distribution of wealth advocate is someone who is actually making the most money offering to redistribute other peoples wealth.  It is hard for many to believe who aren’t in business but ‘government is big business’. It’s a competing “big business’.  By contrast with other businesses that work on a ‘voluntary basis’ , government has police and army to impose it’s will.  

Once government was ‘of the people for the people’.  It is not to day. There are lobbyists and protectionism and corporate and individual corruption and graft. 

These need to be addressed.  

The poor benefit today by making themselves rich not by ‘redistribution’ but rather by creating new avenues of wealth and by work and unionizing. The ‘free hand out’ of the government is simply not free.  It creates dependency and division.  All the ‘free stuff’ government gives is ‘stolen’ .  Stealing eventually creates retaliation. It’s tied to political favouritism. Retaliation creates war and that creates more poor and mostly hurts the poor most.

Government does serve in areas where the profit margin is lowest and potential gain is furthest in the future. Rather than get ‘free’ stuff which makes one a ‘kept person’ , offering reasonable reward for work in such areas is the age old success story.  

Drug and alcohol are a principle treatable cause of poverty today.  Recovery homes, mandated and voluntary, are the answer.  These need to be supported.  Criminal enterprises need to be shut down.  Government corruption and participation in criminals cover up is critical.  Government’s job is to ensure that reasonable laws are maintained so that playing fields are as level as possible. Why should I work all day when either a criminal or socialist government agent can take my work at the end of the day while they strutted and styled and played all day?  

Creativity and hard work blossom in areas of ‘fairness’.   Government has an obligation to serve as a kind of referee in the economic game.  It is never good as a primary producer.  Government simply can’t compete with free enterprise in the market place because governments are inefficient and corrupt in times of peace, only becoming partially more successful in times of war.  

Canada’s black market appears increasingly more lucrative than it’s actual market place.  The failure of government and management is evident in the recent revelations of multi billion dollar criminals enterprises from drug production and distribution, money launderer and child sex rings. Black markets can only exist with the knowledge and involvement of government.  

I will worry more about the ‘poor’ when I hear of judges,politicians and government beurocrats being jailed or hung in large numbers. I’m still waiting for the boards of tobacco companies to be lined up against the wall and shot. That would definitely help the poor. 

This is thinking outside the box.  

My Freckled White Privilege and Freckled White Racism

I would like to state today that I have ‘white priviledge’.  Social justice warriors feel entitled to spit on me and condemn all that all white people have done.

I personally have never peed on my tent. St. Paul, a Jew, made tents and tents probably were first developed by blacks or yellow people. White people have liked tents and utensils and others basic developments without condemning them or their contributors.

Arabs gave us mathematical zero at a time when Arabs had Arab priviledge and were raping and murdering and enslaving everyone else.  The yellow people gave us gun powder at a time when they had yellow priviledge and were raping and killing and murdering everyone else.  It’s pretty clear that the world has been a series of wars beginning with families, then tribes and finally nations.  Colour hasn’t been so much a part of it in recent years.

The East Indians were part of the White English Empire just as the White Serbians were part of the Ottoman Arab empire and the Russian empire liked their yellow people. 

Before white people came to America north and South America was mostly ‘red’.  The chiefs were killing and raping and murdering and pillaging against each other but then made unholy alliances with white people and later black people to increase their killing and raping and murdering of red people.

There are aboriginal millionaires and billionaires.  They had ‘red priviledge’ and ‘still do’. The richest people in South and Central America are ‘mixed blood’.  Mixed blood privilege.

Priviledge is a funny communist word. A weaponized word.  Communism’s and cultural Marxism is paranoid. It maintains the idea of ‘us and them’.  To Marx, a truly priviledged little offensive obnoxious kept Jewish European shit who bit the hand that fed, there was ‘me and them’ and ‘they oppressed Marx’.  Marx was a fairly classic intellectual who wanted other people to kill people for his benefit. So he proposed ‘eternal war’.  Marx said we must fight until we are all losers and then we will have peace.  Today Marx would be a middle aged man who committed incest and lived in his mother’s basement with a computer and internet. 

Muslim radicals say the same. « We are the religion of peace’. We as Muslims must fight till everyone is muslim and then we will have peace.  

I love the irony. Kill to get peace.

The American missile was called the ‘Peaccmaker’.  

I was a hippy and peace nik.  I was billy clubbed by the authorities.  I marched at first as a ‘bad’ person then years later the Mayor wanted to walk beside me. I was a member of the Physicians against Nuclear War and our group got the Nobel peace prize. Considering who else has got the Nobel Peace Prize it’s kind of like being on the cover of Time, a bit of dubious priviledge.

I have always thought there were rich and poor. I just haven’t thought all the rich oppressed the poor. Certainly some do. I have also thought there were the ‘elite’ and the rest of us.  I don’t know that the ‘elite’ oppress the rest of us but they are to my mind an ugly segment of the rich and powerful.

I have had the privilège of meeting the truly rich and powerful.  

I have met and known one of the richest most powerful Jewish men in Canada and he really was a mensch.  Really.  Didn’t oppress anyone. Smarter than I could ever hope to be and his family were all whips like him. Banking industry. I met  same of boring  bloke who was white and Scottish.  They love working with numbers and money.  The Scottish guy owned some banks and I knew him and the family. Finest man I’ve ever met. White.  Liked bag pipe music. We shared that in common. I »ve met the richest most famous and powerful aboriginal people too. I don’t know if they were millionaires and don’t think they were billionaires but they were wonderful. Loved them. Enjoyed their company.  Saw them and their family and friends and they were salt of the earth.  Priviledge with strength and brains and kindness for sure.  Didn’t see them oppressing anyone. 

I’ve not known any blacks who were wealthy and powerful but my doctor as a child was a black man and he was incredible.  I also learned so much from a yellow doctor and he and his family saved my soul at a low point in my life when the whites, browns, yellows and reds were not around.  A yellow man chose to invite me into his home and share his family and food and give me hope when I was feeling pretty hopeless. 

He loved Jesus and showed me the painting of Jesus he’d done as a boy.  He didn’t paint a yellow Jesus or a black Jesus but it wasn’t a European thin nosed Jesus either. Kind of a peasant Jesus he said he’d seen in a childish vision.

Lots of priviledged people out there. Every colour.  

Personally I got up this morning. I was in my trailer. I’ve a Harley Davidson at the door. I’ve a blind cockapoo. I’m really priviledged to have a dog.  I’m really priviledged to have clothing. I ‘m wearing a Harley Davidson T-shirt I slept in which I bought a dozen years ago in the US. My underwear’s which I slept in are black and a couple of years old. I wash my clothes each week. That’s a real priviledge.

See I get the feeling that people who talk colour and priviledge have done this thing which government do all the time. It’s called ‘terms of reference’.  It’s ‘selective’.  It’s okay to talk about Jews and Palestinians today but not Chinese and Tibetans.  The Somalians invaded Ethiopia and lost so that’s not something we talk about. If the poor Somalians had won, it would be a different thing.

The winner writes history. Not much talk about Culloden.  Not much talk about my group being bad to my group.  Lots of « selective bias ».  Lots of rhetoric. Not much substance. Lots of propaganda telling us who the ‘groupthink’ is the bad guy or girl.

The bottom line is I want what you have and you want what I have. It just takes a little history to understand this. Great movies like Canada’s Duddy Kravitz show some of the answers.  

Why did St. Francis throw away his wealth for a life of poverty?  Marx was a kafetch and groveller. He said the God of the Jews was Money but instead it was his God. He wanted money and power. When people want money and power they make themselves look better by saying they’re ‘acting on behalf of this ‘idea’, ‘god’, ‘vision’, whatever.  It’s really still remains,  I want what you have but I’m making myself look good by calling you down saying you have it because of ‘colour’ , ‘priviledge’, ‘history’  or something other’.  

Buddha said ‘Desire is the cause of all suffering’.

Kierkegaard said « Life is suffering until death. »

I’m white. It’s not going to change. Well, in fact I’m freckled which makes me a kind of  multicoloured and spoofed  and an outsider.   I’m mixed with a bit of brown, yellow, red, black and white all together. Mostly I’m grey and all of my problems today are racism against the grey people. It’s the young people who don’t worship us and give us all the money, time and talent like used to happen in the good ole tribal days when despite any colour the young did as they were told by their elders and betters. I personally need some teen agers to polish my motorcycle every day. 

Being Celtic Scottish/Irish we also didn’t share the misogyny of the Mediterranean’s and English. We had women leaders when other countries were still enslaving theirs. We’re pretty incredible but I’ve never met a black, red, yellow, or brown person that seems to know who even the Celts were or are.  

That is sad. 

All the Diversity Warriors are the great homogenizers. They don’t respect culture or ethnicity or acknowledge that Germans are the great road builders that the Italians once were.  Canadians make shitty roads but they’re better than the Indians make.   

The Diversity Warriers are the Great Homogenizers.  They deny cultural differences. True there was that one Jamaican bobsled team and maybe there will be more but I’ve never met a kid from Alabama that liked hockey like I did. 

Viva la Différence.

Now I’m having coffee. I roast my own and grind my own and pour my own.  I think of priviledge as feather beds and satin sheets and several young boys and girls in the bed when you wake up. I think of servants bringing me Ethiopian coffee and pouring the bath and giving me a massage in the morning.  I think of secretaries and people who are all about me taking my commands.  I think of photographers and media personnel saving me from the onerous work of taking my own selfies. 

I don’t have that. The elite do. Mugabe was one of the worst elite and he was black and he even had a huge plane that was everything a pimpmobile strives to be. He was the event of red and brown drug dealers. White Hitler was an elite. His partner Eva Brawn must have been the greatest of bad ads drug and sex partners to have survived living with such a royal asshole.  We have lots of Elites today. Yellow elites like the murdering psychopath  Xi Ling.  White elites like nasty  Putin.  Really bad elites like Hussan Rouhani who probably has Jew blood in his coffee each morning..  

Generally speaking if you can be a pedophile and get away with it you might be an elite. Also if you can today have a private jet fly you and your friends to a party in Dubai you may be an elite.  

Laura is a grandmother. Gilbert the cockapoo was on top of her licking her face this morning. Normally he’s licking my face. So I had the priviledge of Laura being in bed and my escaping to the toilet without the usual face licking and body squirming.

I don’t have a royal ass wiper.  I was thankful for toilet paper.  I’ve known days when I’ve not had toilet paper.  Shitty days.  The elite probably have some kind of safety net that preserves them from the sudden awareness that there is no toilet paper. I wiped my own ass this morning despite my white priviledge.

I know I have a motorcycle and it’s a Harley and there are those people who only have a Honda. I once only had a Honda.  When I focus on what I don’t have and look at those around me I see I’m not priviledged and if they’re black like my black friend with all his friends, everyone likes the guy, I thinks it’s race.  People don’t like me because I’m white. I can’t change that so fuck them. It’s not because I’m an asshole.e My aboriginal friends had free university where as I worked 3 jobs day days evenings and weekends  and gave blood to get my education.  I don’t feel very elite about that.  I liked Einstein saying genius was 99% persperation and 1% inspiration. But he was a Jewish elite, a stupid guy who got his awards because he was Jewish. Everyone knows that? 

I’ve got this trailer and this motorcycle and a whole bunch of memories. I could have had a mansion but I wanted to travel so had a sailboat instead. I could have had security but I loved adventure. I can ‘explain’ my life as one of oppression and suffering or I can have gratitude for what I did have. I had a lot. Mostly I’m thankful for a mother and father who loved me and that’s been the greatest priviledge I’ve had.  I’ve known some elite who didn’t get that. They look rich but they are the poorest people I’ve known. Others not so.

Now I’m going to get on with my day looking to be offended and for someone else to blame. 

3 am, thank you Lord

Thank you for 3 am. It’s a time I’ve woken often over the years. Tonight it was wind and the shaking awning. It brought back memories of lose rigging moved by wind.  I’ve slept at anchor. I’ve slept in tents. Something outside wakes me and there it is 3 am. Once a bear. Another time a sheriff. But mostly wind.  No longer the nightmares. 

Thank you Lord for all the times I could have slept and not been woken to save myself from some calamity. The fellow who stole my axe and I chased naked through the camp only to laugh at the absurdity of that. My friends making fun of me next day.  Me chasing a guy who had my axe, what if he’d stopped. I was defenceless and naked.  The stones under feet got to sharp to continue.  A lantern and a long handled axe lost to a thief.  Low life.  The dregs of humanity.  All around us a minority of criminals.  Thank you Lord they are so few. 

Thank you Lord this evil and corrupt government is not shooting people in the night like communists and socialists do.  Thank you that police and military are pretty much good people. Thank you that I’m here in Canada where our forefathers as Christians fought to create communities and laws and civilization that is the best to be developed to date.  Thank you that so few people suffer in this part of the world today.  Thank you for the prosperity of so many.  Thank you for the health care and good food and nutrition and housing that withstands the onslaughts of rain and snow.  

The housing crisis is a politically created problem that can be solved overnight if there was such secondary gains. The drug and alcohol crisis is a political crisis that could be solved overnight if there was leadership that wasn’t corrupted. Thank you Lord for the folk that work in the here and now and avoid the lucrative fairy tale of solving future problems thousands of years ahead , claiming they need trillions to prevent climate changes. We tell individuals they’ve got one foot in the future and one foot in the past and they’re pissing on the day. Our legal and political system is solving the problems of hundreds years ago and hundreds of years in the future all so they can nefariously gain financially by these distractions while the make billions of dollars in the here and now drug dealing, money laundering and selling aboriginal girls and white girls into the sex slavery.  Also there’s the trade in body parts and the massive theft of technological secrets by governments.  Thank you Lord that it’s not more like it was in the 15th century when the peasants did so much worse than we do today.  Thank you I wasn’t in Russia or the Ukraine or China or Korea or Cambodia when the Communists murdering millions in the night. Thank I’m not now in Tibet where they’re a still murdering.

Thank you that at 3 am it’s not a police car or military or gang members but just the wind that wakes me.

Thank you fo the food in the fridge, the healthy dog, the wifi, this ipad, cameras for fun and play and memories.  Thank you for my rugs. I like throw rugs.Thank you for pleasant colours and good feelings. Thank you for fashion. Thank you for perfumes and cologne, pleasant smells. Thank you for eggs. Thank you for ravens. Thank you for moon beams. Thank you for fairytales. Thank you for NASA. Thank you for space probes and space ships. Thank you for the tunnels and cranes. Thank you for all the men that work underground and above ground and on the water.  Thank you for the pilots. Thank you for planes. Thank you for the trees and river.s Thank you for all your blessings Lord. 

 

“I’m going to kill you and your dog”

I’m sitting here physically exhausted. Just drained. I was sitting with Gilbert in the car pulled to the curb crying.  I feel so alone, afraid, old, vulnerable and unprotected.

This afternoon I was walking Gilbert , my old blind cockapoo with damaged back, in the DTES.  The sun was out. I’d just had lunch.  Children were playing in the park. I was returning to the clinic where patients would be waiting. Sometimes people wait months to see someone like me. The health care system is broken, mismanagement and poor leadership.  Like all the fewer and fewer front line clinicians I feel like the proverbial little Dutch boy with his thumb in the hole in the damn.  Any day the flood is going to happen.  Maybe it has and people are just being distracted by climate change projections about a dubious future anywhere from decades to hundreds of years away.. Right now the threat is here. The threat is now. The threat is real.  People are dying daily in the DTES. 

Today there were three ambulances on my way to work on Hastings. The half hour commute has become an hour to two hours each way. This day a fire truck blockaded half the main thoroughfare, at another traffic jam it was just one ambulance, lights flashing, and at the next several police cars and an ambulance. There ‘d been shooting the night before here. Three incidents, some one killed and others targeted.  I confess I was a bit anxious about going to work.  

I’m pretty tough. I’ve been shot at, knived, faced down countless guns, fought my way out of several street flights younger. I’ve been falsely accused by psychopaths too, a couple of times. Last year I refused to see an addict who threatened to kill me and my dog. He threatened to kill the lawyer’s dog, his boss’s dog and eventually after a year of texts still threatening to kill me , despite the police being involved it only stopped when he threatened to kill Justin Trudeau. The College of Physicians and Surgeons implied I provoked him by refusing to see him.  It was the old politically  correct arrogance.  An administrator with comparatively  no clinical experience think grandiosely if they’d ‘handled’ the situation, the guy wouldn’t be upset. The politically correct position is  ISIS murderers, pedophiles, rapists just need a little counselling and they’re be good neighbours. I’ve worked with psychopaths and sociopaths and lost that illusion with experience.  I’ve surged 40 years of the toughest assignments. 

The pit bull ran at us the full length of the block , no leash, no master, just a full out charge.  It came straight at me.  Ears back.  Like a land shark. I positioned myself with Gilbert directly behind me.  He knew there was danger. The dog lunged in the air at me and I took his charge right on my thigh I’d positioned to take the charge. He bounced off. He circled real quick trying to go between my legs at Gilbert.  A pit bull or bull terrier can kill a small dog with one bite and shake. I knew a biker with a pit bull who bragged about his dog killing little dogs with one bite and one shake.

I have a woman in my practice. She was passing some street people going into the store. They man and woman were sitting with the pit bull. The pit bull lunged at her grabbing her arm.  She’s in her late 60’s. The crushing bite has permanently disabled her. She has a ‘claw hand’, constant pain and can’t pronate or supinate the forearm.  It’s quite disturbing visually.  The street people and their dog disappeared. No consequences. There was no victim’s compensation. I saw her for the night terrors and despair. She’s been so depressed and tired. It’s a year now and she’s living on a pension, permanently disabled, can hardly pay rent and can’t afford much beyond bare essentials. Vancouver is an expensive city. Canada doesn’t treat its old well. 

The dog was circling trying to get past me . I was blocking him with my legs. What I presumed was his master came charging down the street screaming at me. I’m partially deaf. I didn’t hear what he was saying.I was shouting ‘Get your dog on a leash. It’s against the law to not have your dog on a leash.”

Suddenly I’ve now got this young bully right in my face standing full in front of me , the dog still circling behind me, watching for a change to get at Gilbert,  two bully assailants.

 He’s screaming, “Did you kick my dog? If you kicked my dog I’m kill you.”

“Your dog attacked me and now you’re threatening me.”  I said with shock and disdain.

“My dog didn’t attack you.”

“Yes it did”. It was still there off leash looking for an opening to get at my dog

“I”m going to kill you and your dog.” He said. 

He was standing arms up, odd position. I was not moving, staring him straight in the eyes, defensive mode, I hate to think how many times I’ve been in this position.  So many bullies attacking us as kids. The biker knifing me when I was 16.  The gang with the chains and knives threatening us northern Ontario.  The guys swinging billy clubs at me. Getting shot at. Guys with knifes, guys with guns.  I escaped the muggers in Athens only a couple of years back. I could run fast then. First lesson of self defence. Run!  But my knee hurts today.

 I ‘m wary. The kids’ a punk. I’m steady ,ready. He has his arms up chest high away from his body. I just watched his eyes but figured later that this stance was supposed to attract my eyes. He had one arm out and the other cocked for a punch. I saw it with my peripheral vision. Didn’t fall for it. He seemed a little perplexed. The look that goes with guys who figured they had an easy target. Probably attacked other old guys before. Predator, only picks easy prey, normally hides in a gang.  

He also seemed to not mean to say “I’m going to kill you and your dog.”  He seemed to register that he’d ‘technically threatened me’, whereas his first statement ,”if you kicked my dog I’m going to kill you “ that was said with confidence. That was okay. He might have been a jail house lawyer but he did say “I’m going to kill you and your dog”.  I reacted to that, getting even more ready. I take the first punch always and luckily don’t have a glass jaw and mostly get the last punch. Still my mind is screaming I’m too old for this shot.

Then the thought flashed through my mind.  He’s gong to hit me and I’m going to hurt him bad and his dog’s going to attack me and Gilbert who can’t even see the assailant just smell him. I might just kill his dog to protect Gilbert. Then I’m going to go to jail. I’m going to go to jail for defending myself.  I had no doubt I’d ‘win’. Men can size each other up.  Even as an old guy the punk wasn’t dangerous alone. But he could come back with his ‘gang’ . I can’t fight gangs any more. I’d fought against several guys late teens taking down three out of 10 with kicks to the face and knees to the head causing the other half dozen guys to let me leave. I walked through Harlan in my 20’s.  I’d been an athlete then. Now I’m old and fat and I’d probably beat him unconscious with my fists or do a hip toss , throwing my back out, and breaking my fingers so I couldn’t do surgery, play guitar or write reports. That’s what flashed through my mind. 

“I’m going to kill your dog,” he sneered.  He backed down. Turned began to walk away. His dog had headed back to what was a girl and their bike.  He turned to follow and looked back at me “I’m going to kill your dog”.  He said. So many people competing for Darwin Awards these days. 

He owned the city.  The police and citizens they’re the prisoners. The City Council doesn’t live here. They’re out in Elite World, somewhere in West Vancouver or maybe on the  Moon. Too many politicians stoned. They’ve got body guards and guns , criminal money laundering and drug dealing connections and lawyers on speed dial. The province is only less corrupt than Quebec whose owned by Mafia and Biker gangs.  

I”m nobody.  I’m not safe.  He put his dog on leash and then walked back saying he again was going to kill my dog. I phoned the police then.  I didn’t trust him not to turn around and come for me.  But It was over. The altercation was winding down. As the call was going through he was getting further away. He was going.  I was shaking. That’s what happens after adrenaline with me. I’ve saved lives and then been shaking in hospital corridors after the resuscitation of some adult or child.  

I remember stopping this guy slapping his pregnant wife on the maternity ward , threatening to kick her in belly, her crying. I strode in and pushed him out of the room and he pushed back and then left. The police arrived, asked me for a description. I thought he was 6 foot tall. It was in threat mode.  We make ourselves look big. The English wore tall black fur hats on their heads for that purpose. The guy was something like 5’5”.  I shook after that, embarrassed.

The police call was awful. I felt liked I was being interrogated , told them the street corner, that he was going away from Hastings by the park but then the guy wants to know north or west or towards Richmond and I can’t see the mountains and I don’t know what his girlfriends’ wearing. I’m in self defence mode watching his eyes for movement ready to defend against kick or strike. I’m not an outside observer.  The questions upset me.I felt sick to my stomach. I’m feeling faint and nauseous.  Then the guy asked if I wanted to talk to a police officer.  I thought he was. But then he told me he was the ‘call taker’.  I was too fed up, him asking me questions I didn’t have the answer to and didn’t want to discuss. 

But then the guy cut in front of me with the dog and a friend a block ahead of me turning on to Hastings. Talking on the phone I’d been slowly waking back to the office. Now he’s between me and the clinic. I say I want to talk to the police.  I’m afraid. I’m afraid for Gilbert. I’m afraid he’s now  going to be waiting outside my work with other low life. I’m reminded of the bully in high school who waited for me caught me with a brass knuckle under the eye,  before I took him down. The police arrived. I’ve still got the scar. The fear seems cumulative. I didn’t used to be so disturbed. I think I took things better younger. I’m not feeling good now. 

I got back to the clinic. I told administration what had happened and that I was going home. I’ve stiff upper lipped my life and I just can’t do it any more. I ‘m too old for this shit. I was still shaking. My voice was quivering. I couldn’t help anyone and no one could help me. I say, I can’’t work here any more I don’t feel safe.  I’ve been unhappy with the dangerous drivers on the commute, the hostile neighborhood, everyone so easily offend and now an outright threat. I figure it’s some kind of warning.

I haven’t felt safe in Vancouver for a few years.  It’s the atmosphere.  I can’t get it out of my head the greatest police woman I know  saying “I left when the city wouldn’t let the police fight crime but wanted us to record crime.” She also said “we’d catch criminals and the judges just let them back on the street.”  I see all these guys who have had gun crimes and they’ve done a very little time. Then  they all tell me they have guns. Meanwhile I’m treated like a criminal as a law abiding citizen with a hunting rifle who done more exams and tests and been vetted more than medical school. I’m just a hunter and I’m treated worse that criminals with guns. There’s no deterrence. It’s Bizarro World Canada.  I’m afraid. I never got over a Canadian paying a terrorist who murdered an American soldier $10 million dollars. Crime pays in Canada.

My colleague talked to me as I headed out for my car. “I’ve phoned the police too and it’s the same things.  Always this whole list of questions about me like I’ve done something wrong and nothing happened .” He’s supportive, worried I’m okay. I’m not okay but I appreciate his concern. 

I couldn’t drive home. I pulled over to the curb and cried. I’m old and afraid. I’m afraid I’m old and vulnerable and I can hardly protect my dog. Im grieving more these days. I’m afraid I can’t shake it off. I’m afraid I don’t feel safe in Canada. I feel so vulnerable. Just driving a few blocks in the DTES a half dozens people walked across the road in front of me. If I hit them I’d be held accountable.  The tent city is just there. There’s cops and drugs on crime going on right there on the street, Insite is near by and the cops can’t even go there because it could threaten the addicts so my patients tell me that’s where all the big drug deals go down.  “The cops can’t go there.It’s the criminals own place. No surveillance.”.  

The guy swaggered.  The dog swaggered.  The girl, well, they like ‘bad boys’. Makes them feel safe, even if they kick them around. Eva Brawn world .  Good girls are so passé. The new world order. He swaggered. He could have hit me. It was in his eyes. I truly felt that if I looked a little weaker and hadn’t kept saying “get your dog on the leash”, he’d have lifted his leg and pissed on me. He’s top dog in this area. I’m little dog.  He’s got the City, the Politicians, the Media and he’s beat on others  before. He’s probably spit on his share of cops too.

I was glad when the cop phoned me. He game me confidence. Felt reassuring. 

“I’ve been working down here for the last 25 years and it’s probably the worst it’s been.”

“Three guys murdered yesterday scared me,” I’d said.

“Only one guy shot and two other incidents. It was bad but not as bad as that. We’ve got the guys description and we’ve got some guys who will keep an eye out for him.  If we find him we’ll call. He sounds like he’s got away with bullying other people. If you charge him we can deal with it as a criminal thing. You’d have to pick him out of a line up. He did threaten you and that’s criminal. “

“I felt if I defended myself I’d go to prison.” 

“Only if you use unreasonable force.”  

“What’s reasonable when you’re defending yourself”.  

“Yea there’s that.”

It don’t trust the government.  They’d asked me if the guy with the dog was white and I’d said no. Maybe aboriginal, not black.  But there it was ‘white priviledge’ and ‘social justice’. It was in the tone. Old white guys are in season. The judges aren’t reasonable. If anything they’re afraid too.  Afraid to offend one of the social justice groups.  I felt alone. I was thankful the cop sounded sane.  

“It’s not as bad as it seems. I can tell you.  There’s enough of us on the police force who know what to do but we’re not allowed.”

I immediately think of New York . The city is amazing. Overnight they had good city administration and the city became great again. Safe, clean. A tourist attraction.   I trust this policeman..  He’s not a politician. He’s down to earth and reassuring. He’s not blowing smoke up my ass.

“Thanks. Okay. You’re a good man.” I say.  

I got out of the car again. I’d taken the call on the Mini speaker phone. I felt light headed. I sat down on a staircase with Gilbert. It was a busy loud street and I saw the little guy was afraid. All the noise. Old blind dog. No doubt he worried about me. I cried again. I’m exhausted. I’m just exhausted. I felt weak and clammy. I had to slow and settle my breathing. Reassure Gilbert. Sit for a bit. I still didn’t feel right. 

I got the text asking if I was coming to work tomorrow. I figured I would. I don’t think I can take Gilbert downtown anymore.  I don’t know how parents with children can live in Vancouver.  I know my friends with toddlers are terrified of the criminals ,the needles everywhere, the gangs. 

 I ‘m afraid for my dog. Seeing that pit bull charging full speed right at me and Gilbert,  then this guy threatening me.  All he had to do was put his dog on a leash. 

I’m home now and tired and afraid and men don’t cry. Tough men like me ‘buck up’ .  

I just can’t seem to get it together. I keep crying. IF it’s not the bullies in government with their ‘lick above, kick below’ mentality, it’s little shits on the streets picking on the old guys. I’ve got to pull myself together..

This too will pass. 

The Dinner Party

We needed the house to sleep and live in.  As a young married couple it was what one did.  Buy a house. Fix it up. Decorate it.  Live in it. Go to work to pay for the house. Have the parents and family to dinner and then have friends over.  Not just dropping in. But for having a dinner party.  

We’d argued about the couch. She wanted white and got her way. She always got her way.  I’d loved the hard wood floors and the oak cabinets in the kitchen, the mosaic shelves.  We’d agreed on most things.  Not the colour of the couch or the colour of the walls. 

“They’re pink. She’s got you saddled with a white couch and pink walls.” He said. My friends laughed at me.  

“They’re peach.” 

“Pink. Didn’t you even put up a fight?”

“I did.”

“Not much of one.”  

We were young professionals in Winnipeg, Manitoba, the heart of the country.  My friends and  I liked each other’s company.  Hung out together.  Discussed Seinfeld and George.  Played racquetball and squash.  Our wives were friends. We mostly were all young and married.  New in our work. It was stressful but we were the brightest and best. That’s what we were told.

I don’t remember who divorced first. It wasn’t me.  Others went onto have children and grandchildren.  Long careers. Stable noteworthy folk. We’d had similiar beginnings.  

I liked the picture of the polar bear on the wall.  She was with her cubs up close. All of them eating a seal.  

“I don’t like that picture,” she said.  “It’s too martial.. It does nothing for women’s digestion.”

“I almost died to get that picture.” I said.

“It doesn’t fit our decor.”  

At least she liked my friend Toni, professor of art at the University of Manitoba’s painting.  She put that in the living room above her white couch.  

Looking back I think I could have compromised on the polar bear picture frame. I’d carved the frame myself waiting to deliver a baby,  in the arctic , where I’d met the polar bear mother who’s intent had been to eat me.

I felt pushed into a tiny corner but held my ground refusing to take the picture down.  Sometime later I’d find she’d moved it to the basement.

We’d just brought in groceries from the Toyota.  The car was parked in the garage and the groceries had to be brought from the back seat and the trunk. Years of being a vegetarian helped me immensely choosing vegetables. Once we’d got the parkas off and outer boots off, the groceries in the kitchen, I’d start on the chopping.  I loved chopping vegetables and making huge tossed arrays with treats like almonds strewn into the standard fare. The piece de resistance was my salad dressing. I made my own.  Just the right proportions of oil and vinegar, one fresh egg, and Tobasco sauce with a touch of soy, stirred lightly.  

She had selected sole for the evening.  She had a recipe from the Joy of Cooking.  Sole in white wine. We’d bought a dish specifically for oven baked fish. It had it’s own woven metal basket. A work of table art.. All was presentation.  That was her most important contribution.  That and her special nut pie. She liked to cook the nuts in sauce to pour it into a light pastry shell.  It was a delicate procedure and all the ladies expressed delight at her pastry.  My salad was not a show stopper. But I’d loved my Henkel knives. I’d always loved knives and chopping vegetables with Henkel was sweet.  I had bought the baggots remembering Paris as I did. We’d both been to Paris separately.  I’d ridden my bicycle through the town while she’d worked there as an au pair and been violated. There were things young couples didn’t discuss.  Her past was a minefield.  I dared not go there. Everywhere, especially in her family, were awful memories. 

“It was only because of my sister, I survived it. Mom and Dad always fighting. The boys arguing. The shouting, the screaming. The drinking.  It would have been hell without my sister. We rescued my mother from it all. She says that.”

We’d had the requisite dinner parties with our families. They were the first we invited to our new house.  Early days. She had her mother and father over. I had my mother and father over. We had them over together. It was all very well.  She was pleased.  I found it all very awkward. My mother and her mother didn’t get on so well. She thought they did. But I knew my mother didn’t like other women around my father.  She found her mother alright but ‘brazen’. She was a nurse. Her father was a car dealer.  Dad liked him well enough. As men they got along just fine talking about cars and small towns in Manitoba. They both knew the country. The mothers were the problem.  

“They drink too much. I know they’re your in laws. But they’re not very respectable.”  When my mother said ‘respectable’ she was really saying they weren’t Christian. She was Baptist and she was next to Jesus.  Others were judged by their proximity to her and the Lord.  My mother in law was nominally Christian but clearly not next to God. My parents both thought my wife was.  They doubted I was but loved my wife despite her questionable beginnings.  

Women grow bigger with age.  The men take up less space. I remember an image of the two of them in the kitchen vying to clean dishes and my mother’s frown.  Her mother considered herself superior and didn’t appreciate how superior my mother thought she was herself.  

“You cooked the meat well,” her mother told me. I’d thought it wasn’t such a big deal. I had an oven with numbers and a thermometer that I stuck in the roast. I ‘d majored in biochemistry. But this arcane art  of the cooking of the meat took on mythical manly proportions.  

“I heard my mother tell you, you cooked the meat well. That’s high praise.” She beamed.  I often thought women were unusually touched.  My dad had certainly liked the beef. But he was as he was proud to say, ‘a meat and potatoes man.”  My mother didn’t approve much of spices. “Salt and pepper were good enough for the Lord.”  She once said. I never did learn where it said that in the Holy Bible.

We’d served roast beef and baked potatoes with sour cream that night. Because my parents hardly drank we went light on the alcohol.  Her father hadn’t liked that.  My dad didn’t care.  “Nice enough, fellow,” he’d said of him.  It was a very tense affair and we talked of the stress of having our parents over. She loved her mother but didn’t care for her father. I loved my parents too but was focussed on the future.  It was the friends that mattered.

I loved my house.  I loved coming in from the cold to the warmth of this place. In the summer I loved the back yard. I’d put a barbecue by the back door and barbecued year round. I grew basil and peppers along the sidewalk so I could use them for cooking.  

It was the dinner parties for the friends that mattered most to me.  I’d read of the Huxley’s and Virginia Wolf and thought the ‘circle of friends’ was apocryphal. The whole dinner party was a piece of work, a symphony production. Live theatre.  We’d made the stage so well. My carpenter friend, Gord, had hand produced the perfect table and chairs. Oak. Minimalist.  Elegant.  He was a university graduate. Rough in his work but extremely clever in his mind. The finished product art. I loved his company though his association with a security firm and the tales of the dark side of the city that his family’s business brought him next to, seemed risqué.  I rather thought of him more as the carpenter monk in Herman Hesse’s Narcissus and Goldmond. 

I wasn’t a theologian but took pride in being an ‘intellectual’.  An ‘intellectual’ colleague had called me that and I ‘d rather beamed in the glory of it. Now I had my carpenter friend, like Jesus, and we discussed character and heaven.  He charged me well for his work but was much admired. His wife was an artist in her own right. He worked out of his home, his basement turned into a workshop. I loved his pragmatism and the freedom of his life.  By contrast I felt such pressure in my work and home. He seemed satisfied. He’d have an annual party and bring in lobster from the east coast.  I’d learn later that it was mostly customers and lots of booze.  I loved it more than my wife who preferred a more stately affair. Though he made dinner tables, his parties were always smorgasbord plates set on side tables.

My brother in law introduced me to Jean Luc Ponty, jazz electric guitar.  John was an accountant. He liked hockey.  I did too. I liked him well enough but what we most had in common were marriage to identical twin sisters.  Our wives truly were the beauties of the world.  Lithe with  long blond hair.  I taught mine to dance Viennese waltz. We froze whatever dance floor we were on. Everyone happily stood aside and watched her flow like mercury about the room.  We loved Cleo Lane those days, attending the concerts she had in the summer in the park.  I thought of music as central to the dinner party.

The choosing of the stereo had been as important as the choice of blond hard wood for the floors of the house.  I’d gone with a musician acquaintance to ensure I had the best one. The speakers, the turntable, the amplifier.  The turntable was Phillips but the speakers had to be Bose.  

She cooked the main course but I made sure that the sound was just right.  I liked a mix of music for greeting and appetizers, the dining and the after dinner conversation music. I felt that if I got it just right I could massage the evening to perfection.  Repartee and fine feelings would flow from all the parts of the evening coming together. I S days he turn table was as much the man’s job as the barbecue. 

She seemed to think the night all depended on the main course and the house she’d decorated and her dress she’d chosen. I thought it was more about Steely Dan, Jean Luc Ponty, Yehudi Menuhin and Ravi Shankar.  She shopped at Holt Refrew for her dinner party dresses.

The women wore cocktail dresses and heels. The men wore slacks, sweaters or  jackets.  Guests brought a bottle of wine to add to the collection.  I favoured Mondavi Brothers Cabernet Sauvignon and a German Riesling.  I was a wine connoisseur in those days, as only young academics in Winnipeg Manitoba could be. I thought serving Dubonnet as an aperitif always began things well. The guests arriving and leaving their outer clothes in the hallways coming into sit on the white couch and white lounge chairs.  There was a cut out portion to the kitchen so that whoever was doing preparation could still be a part of the conversation in the living room. We’d had that modification made to the house when we redid the cabinets and mosaic counters.  

I always felt uncomfortable sitting on the white couch talking with people at first.  I’d suggest she do it but she insisted it was the ‘man’s job’.  I felt my knees came up about my ears on that couch and that we were became all ankles and knees.  I was glad to get the dubonnet poured and get glasses into everyone’s hands.  No toasting at this point. Just lubricant.  

Breaking the ice conversation was always difficult with her friends.  Debbie was a quiet beauty, large brain and very pleasant but I always thought she was more interested in the price of things.  I didn’t know her man who like her was calculating the costs of everything in the house as if they were cat burglars.  I thought them shallow though I cared about money as much as the next person I thought it gauche to enquire about prices. I simply didn’t see things in price tags. I was more interested in ideas.

“She doesn’t want to be poor. Wealth is security for her.” My wife said. They’d been friends since childhood and she defended her.

“But she’s never reciprocated. She’s come for dinner a dozen times and never once returned the invitation.”

“They don’t have anyone over.  They’re not social that way.” 

“She’s social enough if someone else is paying for it.” I said sounded oddly like my father.

“I don’t think she’s that way at all. You’ve got her all wrong. She’s a very dear friend.’

“Maybe, but I’ll still watch the Oneida.” She didn’t laugh. I meant it as a joke. 

Other than her being cheap and a taker I liked Debbie well enough.  But she also didn’t have a lot to say, smiling, listening and looking pretty but never contributing to the conversation.  I was the one selecting the evenings companions always hampered in my design to have an illustrious dinner party of great conversation by her insistence on her girlfriends who were ‘fine’ but not at all the entertainment I thought my friends were. Her sister was dynamic but that was pretty much it.

 My friends Frank and Miles and my artist friend Paul were definitely brilliant dinner party companions  I found my friends and their dates incredibly entertaining. I’d often add a young professor ,male or female from work, a playwright. I always ensured  a single man and a single woman to balance out the table. I loved ‘match making’ . We’d have ten for dinner and 8 would be couples. 

We had the Rosenthal dinnerware, the Colleen crystal, Oneida silver, and candle light.  The men were handsome. The women incredibly beautiful, young well heeled, bright and downright sexy.  Mile’s Kate was startlingly funny. I loved when Jon could come. He’d often play guitar after. I had always had a guitar about in those days. Later it would be a Martin but then it was the Canadian guitar, the wood suited to the changing climate.  Susan came later too. But mostly it was conversation, good food and booze. I loved those dinner parties, the conviviality, the laughter and the rich exchange of ideas. 

“The communists really did think they just had to put up a banner, ‘workers unite’ and all the workers of the world would come to them. They were deeply disappointed. They didn’t give up on that tactic till the wall fell. They moved then to the environment.  Saving the world became their new gambit for power. I don’t think it’s going to work out well for them but that’s what all the concern about the spotted lizard is.  Part of their grand strategy for world dominion.”Frank said one night. 

Frank’s father, a doctor, had fled Checkoslovakia and his insights into world politics were so beyond the average Canadian. Paul, the artist, was Latvian an had visited Riga. His mother and grandmother had escaped the Russians and the Germans.  

“When I  visited , “ Paul said. “the things I took that people most cherished were the condoms and American jeans.” He laughed.

Miles, our resident writer and poet spoke of Ginsburg and Franny and Zooey.  We all talked of books and movies. It seemed we were all ready Saul Bellows those years.

For me, Red wine always made the girls breasts look bigger.   Susan and Lynn were best endowed. I found that by the second bottle of the night, considering I’d begun with the dubbonet, I was losing eye contact, but  I felt I’d died and gone to heaven.  My wife’s breasts were already perfect. They became more so after a bottle of wine.   Paul danced on a table once or twice. Simon sang Gilbert and Sullivan acapello.  Miles sang IRA revolutionary songs. Frank couldn’t stop laughing.

 In the summer as guys we’d go out into the back yard and smoke cigars. I was a bad influence.  Later I invited Lori and didn’t know that her husband was a drug dealer.  I just loved the variety of conversations. 

“I delivered twins for the first time.” I shared. 

“How was that?”a big breasted beauty asked me.

“Shocking. I didn’t know there was another one coming.”

“No shop talk,” my wife said.  My wife liked to interrupt me when I was about to tell a story.  It was like there was this music control in her mind that insisted that it must always be elevator music. Her family had been so angry and rock and roll she liked the superficial. Only later when as guys we sat about drinking drambuie or whisky while the girls sat together talking about whatever, I never knew, by then didn’t care.  

We were discussing hockey teams or government and I was wondering if I’d behaved because I was by then hoping everyone would go so I could sleep with my delectable wife. I’d have slept  with any of the others wife’s or all of them together if decorum allowed. Getting ‘lucky’ in marriage, as we called it , all depended on my personal performance in her eyes. It was never very good.

“What’s the greatest sexual turn off for women?” He joked

“Wedding cake.” He said when I didn’t answer.

There was a point in the dinner party when we all sat at the table and the food was being savoured. The candlelight lit up the room. Snow was falling outside.  Handel was playing on the stereo.  I’d lean back in my chair and look at the light flickering of the crystal, this collection of friends, my gorgeous brilliant wife, and think for a moment, that life couldn’t get better.  Then I’d help her clear the table and we’d sneak a kiss in the kitchen. 

The herb teas and liquors would come out. The coffee and French Press.  It was all so good. The dinner party.  A domestic play couples put on for friends. An improvisation.  Ours was a favourite. No one ever turned down an invitation that I recall.  Often colleagues would ask about these special times. The word of them spreading. We had parties too.  It was good to entertain when young. Before the divorces and the babies.

I remember the Rosenthal and wonder where it is today.  She took the Colleen crystal. I have no room in my life for that these days. I loved my library, floor to ceiling books. After the dinner party the men and I would stand in there and talk of the latest books we were reading.  There always was talk of shop and politics but mostly we discussed ideas.  The times of existentialism. Kafka Camus.   Reading Dostoyevsky.  

I remember the best nights we made love after the guests were gone and the dishes were stacked in the dishwasher. She was truly exquisite. I became one with her spirit, wild in the night, smooth as a lake at dawn.  Her sensuality flowed out from her, forming a halo around us. Lying back looking up at the ceiling my heart beating, the musky scent of her beside me, her breath returning to normal, I felt samadhi.  If I’d died in my sleep those nights it would be good, for I’d have known heaven on earth. 

The dinner party, he fine food, the wine, the conversation, love making and sleep.  Waking in the morning a little hung over.  Reading the Manchester Guardian Weekly on the white couch in pyjamas and wool housecoat, I Tek ER watching her, fragile, move like a fawn across the room. She drank the coffee I’d made her holding the cup with both hands. I savoured her, reminiscing on the deliciousness of the evening. All of it but especially her.

That was the dinner party. Colleen Crystal and Rosenthal dinnerware.Candlelight and Epicurean. Philia and Eros love.

  

Rainy Sunday, Autumn, Vancouver

I’m really feeling guilty. I’ve missed the Oyster Motorcycle Run to Anacortes. I’ve missed church. I’ve missed a birthday party. I just walked Gilbert only because that’s his bathroom break. All I’ve done is have a long enjoyable breakfast with eggs and scones and delicious coffee. Then I’ve read Facebook and engaged in silly political discussions just for the heck of it. Mostly I’ve lain on the couch. I’ve texted with Laura who is doing the same. I did shower and shave. That was an achievement.

I always long for days off and have these visions of all the things I’ll do. Like defrost the fridge, shake out the rugs, know God, teleport myself to another galaxy, reincarnate to a more sensible and intelligent host with younger body, leap tall buildings, invent a cure for cancer, be rich and famous and even as as bimbo like Trudeau get to fly about talking nonsense and getting paid wearing pretty socks with penis engravings on them.  As a feminist why would he wear penis socks?

Now I’ve meditated. I listened to my breathing. I invited God into my life and said I’d do his will but even that didn’t motivate me. My friend says I’m probably overworked and need some down time. I’m always overworked and need down time but I’m not ready to retire. 

All I really want to do right now is drive across Canada in my truck with my camper, visit relatives and sail my boat to the Atlantic Ocean. But I’ve got a better plan to visit India where I’m attending a medical conference.  Generally I’m enjoying this life well enough and not so stressed as to have it impact my aging health so negatively that I must leave for my sanity. I have to wait for next summer to free my landlocked boar. 

I fear for the future but then I’m living in today and know that is just insaneity to be out there worrying about what I can’t control, it’s even inviting negativity so I must be grateful for what I have. Which I am.

Except for the rain.  I did get to use my Starry Nights umbrella I bought at the Vancouver Gift Store when I walked Gilbert. 

 I need to get Molly Maid here and I’ve got to make some progress getting rid of stuff in my storage locker. There’s just too much ‘good stuff’ and I really don’t like ‘sorting’ the good from the bad.  So much needs to go. I talked with the digital file folk. I’m looking forward to the Starfleet RV coming but I screwed up and lost the specs I needed for the improvements.  I look at my office and think of moving when all I need to do, to avoid pouring gas on it and setting it on fire, is to tidy the clutter.  

It’s hunting season and I’d normally be out trekking about the woods but I’m actually leaning more to the Egyptian fans, lounge and half naked ladies feeding me grapes.  I want a barge and an empire and don’t desire slogging about in the rain looking to harvest some wild animal. Now I will regret not doing that come winter when I love venison chilli so I’m betwixt and between.  

I’ve just got the makings out of the freezer for barbecue or stew. I’ve a rabbit there too. I didn’t know I had a grouse from last winter. The rabbit is from spring. I must eat these up sooner.  Gilbert likes when I forget things since he gets the freezer burn bits. I microwave them and he thinks they’re just fine.  My hunting buddy is the sort that would drink out of the toilet if I didn’t give him clean water. He’s not fuzzy and not easily offended.

Meanwhile I’m thinking I’ll read. 

I’reading this novel about the US splitting into Red and Blue states.  A what would the world be like if Hillary won the election.  Kind of like those what if Hitler had won the war series.  So far its playing out with the urban coastal masses attacking the rural town folk. Interesting since it’s got a little of the Civil War, North and South going but the industrial base of the coastal urban centres is counteracted by the crime and gangs and political correctness.  There’s been no all out war but and ‘foreign policy’ is on hold.  It’s a bit like the division that occurred with the Bolsheviks and Mensheviks too, the left being blood crazy and without any scruples so Lenin, murdering the czar and any competitor succeeded.  There’s that going on in the novel too.  I prefer as simple western but there’s a whole great philosophical and theological discussion in this. There’s good and bad on both sides. 

I was called an “old white guy’ today.  It’s the new slur.  I’m dispensable. The left who celebrates ‘diversity’ exclude me. I’m just an ‘old white guy’.  

Solvent Green.  It’s time for a re run.  Why not? Cannibalism has been around forever. Placenta eating vegans move over. If they want to incinerate the old lets eat the young. The old debate about tough meat and succulence. They’ve developed a high protein slurry from insects. Most people just like the taste and don’t want to know what they’ré eating. We certainly didn’t know what the hospital food was when I was training.

Now I really should have a nap. Read. Nap. Make another coffee. Masturbate. Make booty calls. Swim. Hot tub. Watch tv. Indulge the Netflix addiction and face the propaganda bombardment. Choices. Choices. Play guitar. Write a sonnet. Lift weights. Go for a short ride on the KTM. Feeling like a middle eastern prince without the option of slave girls, pedophilia, or killing Christians or homosexuals for entertainment. I could become a late age gamer. Where’s that what to do until the messiah comes Book I had back in the Alan Watts days. The old white guy is probably going to read and nap.

God, thank you for the rain on behalf of the plants who apparently glory in it loving the carbon which arts students want to eliminate.  Thank you for lazy Sundays. Thank you for family and friends. Thank you most for Gilbert who took me for a walk. Thank you for indoor plumbing and hot water. Thank you for the propane heat and satellite internet. Thank you for this couch and this computer and FB and friends and family.  

Thank you for health and wellness.  Thank you for mobility. Thank you for all your blessings. I’m thankful for modern times and the advances of science and all the housing developments that keep it dry and cozy inside my cluttered living space. 

Blue Heron in Brunette River Walk with Gilbert

I have often seen the blue heron in the neighbourhood. He tours a mile distance and has a nest back in the olds high in the trees. I’ve most often spotted him down by the little falls much further along the trail. Today though he was nearer and he had just flown a short ways further so we saw him gain.

Vancouver Art Gallery

I went for the Albert Giacometti sculpture.  Since I was there I visitted the other exhibits upstairs.  There’s were a great contrast and very enjoyable. A bit celebrity collage.  Terrific ideas.  I loved the combinations and juxtapositions.  I loved Andy Warhol and some of this brought back my visit to the Warhol gallery in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania.  There was even some well selected Emily Carr in the beautiful winding stair case foyer.  After seeing the exhibits I took the mandatory trip to the gift shop, the best in the west.  I was delighted to find a gift for a friend and end off a culturally marvellous afternoon. 

Alberto Giacometti, a line through time, Vancouver Art Gallery

I love the Vancouver Art Gallery. I’m thankful to the artists I know who raved about this Alberto Giacometti exhibit. I’m so glad I was able to experience it before it closes next week.

I didn’t know Alberto Giacometti by name though I’m sure I’ve seen his works. He was born in Switzerland in 1901 and studied art with Rodin’s assistant in Paris in the 30’s.  He was one of the Surrealists He was in Switzerland during the war returning to Paris. His first major exhibit was in Institute of Contemporary Art in London in 1955.  

I loved his rough hewn textured sculpture with extra terrestrial representation. A large foot then long slender leg topped by a tiny body.  I loved his woman with smooth breasts and walking man and head and hurry.  His painting of a tree and his self portrait were delights.  I loved his dog. 

Again as ever the Vancouver Art Gallery has presented a fantastic exhibit.  I wandered on to enjoy the rest of the exhibits and visit the wonderful gift shop but it was th Giacometti that inspired. What great art and ideas.!

Belief, hope, reality

« Cogito ergo sum’, I think therefore I am.   Descartes

« Yahveh », that is who I am. « God speaking to Moses at the burning bush.

« Namaste » - Sanskrit - the holy spark in me greets the holy spark in me.

« I and Thou » Buber - The first recognition is I and it. The sacred journey is to I and Thou. 

« I and I »  Rastafarian, where I replaces ‘me’ and I&I refers to the oneness of ‘jah’ God.

« Human being » - Who man being? Schizophrenic short hand

« Humus » earth.....therefore - ‘earth being’.

« Mother earth and father sky »

Anxiety is a measure of one’s distance from God but equality a measure of one’s humanity.

Existential angst -  ‘a sense of dread in face of an apparently meaningless or absurd world

(This is the philosophical ground from which an existentialist begins their journey valuing most freedom and authenticity)

-Soren Kierkegaard

Big Bang - « In the beginning there was God, not God and building blocks » 

Bang - hippy term for sex and orgasm

« We are stardust. We are gold. We are billion year old carbon

And we got to get ourselves back to the garden. ». Joni Mitchel

« They paved paradise and put up a parking lot. ». Joni Mitchell

« Determinism and Fate » versus « Free Will » 

« I am God. You are God. God is greater than we are. 

If you know who you are, then you may know I am

Yahveh ». William Hay - song for University of Winnipeg choir performance

God is omniscient, Omnipotent, Omnipotential.

God is Love.  

Jesus Christ - God within, God will come again.

The Great Commandment: « Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and witha ll your mind and with all your strength. The second is this « Love your neighbour as yourself » There is no commandment greater than these. ». 

« Without love what do we have now? ». Doobie Brothers.

Love and War - Bhagadvagita

« O Arjuna, the Atma that dwells in the body of all (beings) is eternally indestructible. Therefore you should not mourn for anybody » 

Considering also you duty as a warrior you should never waiver. Because there is nothing more auspicious for a warrior than a righteous war. .....If you will not fight this righteous war, then you will fail in your duty, lose your reputation, and incur sin. ». Krishna

The four loves of the Bible

Storage - empathy bond

Philia - friend bond

Eros - romantic love

Agape - unconditional « God » love

« Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. » John 4:16

« Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ beneath me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise, Christ in the heart of every man whom thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hear me. ». St. Patrick Breast Plate

« May the long time sunshine always surround me and the pure light within me guide my way home. » Quaker song

To sin - means to ‘err’ - term used in archery when the archer didn’t get a bullseye every time.

« The Spirituality of Imperfection ».  

« I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate to do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out.  For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do - this I keep doing.  Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it , but it is sin living in me that does it. »

- St. Paul. - best description of addiction, and the war of the true self and false self within.  Human nature and the struggle of free will and ‘choice’. Again the issue of fate or free will.  

« God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. » 

« Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven ». Satan, Paradise Lost, John Milton.

« But you’re gonna have to serve someone, yes indeed, 

You’re gonna have to serve somebody

Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody. ». Bob Dylan, Nobel Prize for Literature.

« An inner sense which distinguishes what is right from what is wrong, functioning as a guide (like the needle of a compass) for morally appropriate behaviour ». - moral compass .  Righ and Wrong = morality.  « What would God say? »  « What is the ultimate good? »  « Love is as love does. »

« Show me, don’t tell me. »

Humility and Gratitude.

Thank you Lord Jesus, light and love of my life.  I am made in the image of God. I am a child of God. 

« You are a child of God. God does not make shit! ». Scotty S. 

« High self esteem comes from doing esteemable actions.  Do good for others and you will feel good yourself. » Scotty S.

Silmilkameen River with Laura, Gilbert,the KTM and the Adventurer Truck Camper

I woke up with sadness, grieving summer I guess. The sea air was chilly.  I felt the arctic north wind in my bones.  The winter winds chasing the summer sun south.  Southerners always complaining and never appreciating how they won the geographical lottery.  So many cold winters in Winnipeg. So many freezing nights in pre fab trailers up north.  The adventure of bush planes and canoes, flat bottom boats in ice break up, helicopters . They come back to me. I smile and fear.  Each expedition was a test of faith.  Planes landing on black ice. Skidoo’s going through ice.  Gunshots wizzing by my ear. Knifes flashed in front of my face.  The loneliness.

I carry the memories.  I miss those deceased.  Ancestors and family and friends. Gone before.  I’m waiting in God’s waiting room. So much to do, so little time.  Ennui. Gratitude.

I loved this weekend.  There was a learned efficiency in the many moving parts.  Working till noon in a clinic, hurrying home to get the truck to my home. I haven’t a parking space. I miss home driveways and garages, libraries, space.  I’m always moving about people.  I must load the truck before someone comes along and demands I move. I’ve the ramp for the KTM690. I mount it on the front of the truck.  Laura watches Gilbert and loads her bags. She’s gathered food from the refridgerator and loaded it in a cooler.  I’ve brought my guns and ammo from the storage locker the night before. I’ve the clothing, binoculars, helmet, gloves. There’s licenses and papers and keys . A myriad of detail. It all goes well.

We’re on the road. It’s a grand feeling leaving home and heading out to the freeway. I liken it to when I slipped the lines of mooring on my yacht and pulled out into the channel. I miss the sailing and the clear horizon. Here I’m just going interior but it’s still « the journey. » The humanity metaphor.

Our first stop is Chilliwack where I load the Camper. It’s always reassuring to find it safe, thankful to John who owns the Chilliwack RV Storage and watches over all our vehicle babies.  I’ve spoken this week to Frazerway and learned it was a fuse on the Happy Jacks. I’ve stopped at Canada Tires and picked up a box of different types not knowing which one. I replace the fuse. It works again,the happy jack works!

Laura and I have the mounting of the Camper  down now. It’s a bit of jockeying and lining up and backing up just right. Together we do it.  A team. Gilbert is in the back of the truck sitting high on the luggage, holding down the guns below him with his little dog weight. Tail wagging. Useful.  So proud.  Good boy!  We’re back on the road. The Adventurer camper is on the Ford F-350. 

We stop at the Husky.  It’s $200 of gas to fill the truck tank. The meter says I’ll have some 700 km with that.  The government is taxing us more for their luxuries, nannies and jet flights, cash gifts to foreign dictators, favoured provinces and cronies.  It’s ugly.  I never knew Canadian politics to be so downright evil. I am irritated by the price of gas and the abuse of Alberta. All the lies.  The price of gas triggers me. I fill the propane tanks. It takes a while to fill the water tank.  Then we’re loaded.  

All we need is lunch and dinner which we get in Hope, stopping at the A&W.  Dry momma burgers and a meat paddy for Gilbert, French fries and onion rings.  Large coffee. I put on the Johnstone’s audio western I picked up at Husky.  The miles ride by on horses.  Desperados burn ranches and kidnap women. Mountain men come to the rescue.  It gets dark soon.  Another sign of fall.  

The night driving is enjoyable for me but Laura can’t see at night. I’m driving with a blind dog and a blind woman. The road becomes sinister when the pavement changes to gravel. Miles of construction. I’m not concerned but the passing cars are going dangerously fast considering the rainy highway conditions, the gravel and darkness. I must not think that someone has been drinking. Laura is frightened. I turn off the western.  Listen to the wipers. Drive at 60 km. Visibility is down.  Then it’s over. Pavement again.  

The last stretch into Princeton seems longer. It always does. I see the light of the mine on the hill. The town is reassuring. So many times I’ve stayed here

« I came here first hunting in 1987, » I tell Laura. She’s relaxed with the neon lights. The rain has stopped.  It’s 8 pm.  Darkness has come earlier.

It’s not far then. The wilderness campground closer to Keremeos.  I saw another hunter in cammo at the gas station.  Competition. I hope there’ll be an open campsite. We’ve come other times late and all the sites were full so we had to go further.

Tonight I drive in watching for overhanging branches. The high camper takes a bit to get used to worrying about a ‘low ceiling’. Fear of smashing the fragile front of the camper overhanging the truck roof. We sleep in that area just above us. The bed is calling my name.

« Get the fucking light out of my eyes, » he screams. I’ve dismounted from the truck and am checking out the sign on the tree to see if it’s a site. Each site is numbered.  I turned to the sound, looking with the flash light.

A man and woman are sitting at a campfire further up the hill.  « Get the fucking light out of my eyes,  I said. » He shouts, again, drunken tone, belligerent. Barbaric. Low life. 

« I’m just looking for a site. » 

« That’s not a site you fucking moron. » 

« Good God «  I said, «  enough of the attitude. I’m just looking for a campsite. »

« What the fuck did you say to me. You want a piece of this you little shit. I’ll show you whose boss, Coming into a campsite at night shining your light around. Who the hell do you think you are. You fucking prick. I’ll show you. ». 

I am back in the truck. Laura is scared. I’m not. I just feel stupid. I ‘reacted’. I ‘m tired of driving. I’m tired of Laura’s fear. She’s triggered by the drunk. Her past is countless bomb craters of violent drunken men and her protecting her babies from their rage.  The police calls at night. Living in constant fear.  I know. I’ve got the phone calls from her past.  So sad. The unwillingness to love and the preference for booze and hate.  These rageaholics and their demon drink. 

 I’m tired of bullies and low life’s. I just want a break from the drug addicts and alcoholics. I want an escape. I shouldn’t have responded. I let down my guard. I’m always on egg shells in my work. Now I’m on egg shells everywhere. The thugs have no restraints. The police are no longer protection. They live in fear.  The elite with their body guards and guns and high walls and corrupt government officials. It’s Third World Canada as so many claim to want to see escape from their ‘shit hole’ countries but want this to be like there where the corrupt ruled. Dog eat dog. Survival of the fittest. Cooperation and reciprocity and all those Canadian rural values gone. It’s free needles not ‘needle exchange’. More booze and more drugs and someone’s making a lot of money. It’s  not me and it’s probably not even Canadians except for the elite capos.

In the world of the western there’s a good guy and a bad guy and a damsel in distress. The good guys win.  It’s simple.  As I drive away slowly carefully not wanting to be reactive and hurt equipment. I still hear him shouting waking the whole campground.

« You fucking prick! Who do you think you are, shining your fucking  flashlight!. »

  I could have been wearing yellow.  I loved reading Dr. Paul O. describing his alcoholism,  « I stare at a blank wall  and find a problem and it was even more of a problem if you didn’t see what a huge problem it was. »

Last month we’d arrived in paradise at 100 mile House and there was a needle on the picnic table.   The DTES needle exchange program corrupted by greed and profit twisted to become  ‘free needle program’ brought to you by the Canadian tax payers money and new gas and carbon taxes.

Thank you Jesus. There’s a site by the river.  Laura is afraid and wants us to go somewhere else.

« He’s just over there. » she says.

« It’s the other side of the campground. » I answer. I know he’ll be hating someone else soon and forgotten about me. 

My only concern is the Canadian Legal System. I can defend myself in the night in a tent from armed men in the wilderness. I’ve done it. I’ve scared off bears and wolves in the night. I’m not afraid of them. This guy could come over intent on axing me in my sleep and I would awake and I would disarm him and I’d not care enough that in the tussle I’d kill him. Then I’d go to jail for self defence or be imprisoned in the evil Canadian legal system which would accuse me of ‘excessive force’ or some such urbane fantasy when I’m stabbing this fellow with a knife to protect myself and my blind dog and Laura from his axe..  He could even axe me and I’d survive the fight. I don’t doubt my dirty skills.  Drunken belligerent fools are never a concern but rapacious corrupt twisted legal systems are.

I can’t forget that a drunken bully broke into a 90 year old WWII vets room in Surrey just a few years ago. He kicked over the old man’s chair put the boots to him and then began rampaging his place for money.  The old guy lying on his side waiting for the animal to come back to finish him off reached into the lower drawer and took out his Luger he’d taken from a German solderi in hand to hand combat to defend his country.  He shot the man.  The next 6 months he faced charges. He likely lost his gun. He no doubt was brutalized by the courts so superior and pompous , protected by the police who no longer protect citizens,  but sure protect those who pay their pay and their pensions.  He was 6 months accused  a murderer but  finally let off.  6 months is an incredibly long time when you’re 90. Some fat cat judge rich with time and money waddled slowly through the cancer of Canadian beurocracy all because some drug crazy animal didn’t get the care he deserved and victimized some old guy.

Those were the thoughts that went through my mind as my body continued the camp set up.

When Laura’s afraid or tired she gets angry at me. She’s upset now that I’m taking so long at positioning the truck and camper. I’m unable to see in the darkness. I’m jumping in and out of the truck to see until I  realize that I just need a light back there . I ask Laura to stand with a flashlight. It’s like the guy who helps the planes park. I’m centred in a second. The happy jacks go down. I have the gear moved to the camper.  

Laura goes to bed. Gilbert loves the campsite. After hours of driving and focus I’m feeling the tension ease.  There are a few campfires around.  It’s quiet. No boom boxes. No more loud mouths.  He probably stole money from the mob and is waiting to find out what they’re going to do.  Maybe the light in the face triggered his years in federal penitentiary. The guards coming around.

I’m settled in my corner on my seat winding down. Drinking Perrier. Having a peanut butter sandwich.  Soon I pet Gilbert and crawl into bed beside Laura whose hot flushes make her a wonderful hot water bottle in the bed.

Morning is grand. I’m waking before dawn again,  Just happened. I could have gone out hunting then. It’s the best time. Instead I meditate.  Gilbert’s glad I’m awake.  I throw the ball before settling into focusing on breathing.  Lord’s Prayer.  Thy will not my will.  Holy Spirit come. Breathe.

Then coffee.  It’s still dark outside.  Gilbert gets to sniff and pee.  I come back in and settle down to the second cup, stove top expresso, reading an espionage novel I’ve downloaded from Amazon kindle to my Ipad. There’s one bar on the cellular service. No internet. When it’s light I dress and unload the bike. I filled the motorcycle side boxes with hunting ‘stuff’, rope, bags, ammo, knives, saw, axe, extra hoodie.  I love that it’s not raining.  Laura is a wake but still in bed.  I lift Gilbert up to sleep with her. I leave them that way. It’s 7:30 am. Kiss Laura on the forehead. Leave a radio.  I’ve got the Ruger 30:06 for deer and the Brazilian 20 gauge shot gun for grouse.  The latter sticks out the back, the cloth case under my rump and a bungee holding it down further. I’ve the Ruger slung across  my back.

Thank God it’s not raining. The Silmilkameen is glorious. The sky is cloudy.  The evergreens are majestic. I love the putt putt put putting out of the campground up to the highway, gunning it to high speed, feeling the wind in my face, hoping I’ve enough clothing till eventually coming to the logging road. I go back to the the slow speed as the well known road winds up the mountainside. There’s been new logging so the road is not lose gravel, and it’s safer and easier than previous years.

Right away I see the eyes on the hill. A young bear. I try to get out my camera but I’ve stuck it in an inner layer. The bear watches me. Maybe 2 years old. I’m fumbling for the camera. He’s too young to shoot but I’d love a picture. He’s finally registered my threat. Maybe he’ll live to grow old. I watch him lope  diagonally up the mountain. What a great day ‘s beginning. Seeing a young bear in the wild and watching that loping run.  Back on the bike I continued up the hill. It was a heavenly morning.

At the first turn off I left the bike, and walked in with the rifle. I’d not shot it since last spring.  I put up a target. 30 yards. First shot a half inch from the bullseye. Enough.  I got back on the bike. I really was enjoying the off-road motor cycling. Such great scenery. Mountains and valleys , great expanses of land, cut and uncut forest.  All of it eye candy.

I next saw the rabbits.  I actually got a picture. I’d eaten quite a few the last few years but this morning I was fancying venison.  I’d take grouse but I really wanted venison steak.  I never saw a deer. I had a great ride. It got chilly at the top of the mountain where the wind was greater. I had cell coverage, checked for messages. Put on an extra layer of clothing. Took some pictures. It’s God’s country. We’re so blessed. 

I saw the mother and daughter moose after that. They were standing in a clearing, their colouring so camouflaging that I didn’t even see them till they moved. Big animals, Cow and Calf. The calf had those long wobbly teenager legs.  The mother moved out ahead. The calf following. I couldn’t get my camera out fast enough.  The memory remains. What a great sighting!

On the way down the mountain , the sun coming out and some warmth returning to the earth, I met three young brown guys.  I liked that they were doing the Canadian thing.  Looked either Punjab or Afghan, likely born here.  More and more colour in the woods.  Lots of Chinese and Japanese. Once it was just us Caucasians but now the young can have parents from anywhere in the world. Still it’s mostly the folk whose parents and grandparents hunted in the woods of their homeland that seem out in these woods. Last year I met the Russians and Serbs. Nice guys, these young guys. We chatted and joked.  I thought it sad there was no grey beard with them. I’d hunted most of my life with older guys.Learned first from my grandfather ,father and older brother. Then for years I was blessed to hunt with Bill Mewhort. He’s dead now like so many greats. His son and wife continue to hunt together like young Dereck and Naomi.

« Seen anything? » 

« No, » I said.

« Any grouse even? » 

« Heard one in the back woods when I was walking. Have you seen a 4 point deer. We were supposed to meet up here but I’m not sure he got the memo. »

They laughed. I drove away. They’d just asked for information.  They’d not shared.  Reciprocity. Information like a ping pong game. There’s so many of those that Piaget described in the concrete phase of neuropsychological and social development. Takers. Want things for free. Think they’re clever taking.  I’m generous.  Civilized. So few are civilized these days. It’s there in the microanalysis of bits of information.  The exchange.  Primitives from the me first barter development. Babies.  

I shook my head. I liked seeing young guys out enjoying the hunt though. But who knows they might just have a grow op or being out shooting pistols.  I didn’t see any guns.The wary brain alone in wilderness. The silly would think me racist, focusing only on their présélections. I’m wary of everyone I meet in the wilderness whether it’s the woods or the sea.

The grouse was standing in the centre of the trail I rode down next. It startled me. Looked almost like a flying dinosaur on the trail. My mind took a minute to register ‘game’ ‘grouse’. I stopped the bike and unloaded the shot gun.  I had a 20 gauge # 6 shells in my pocket. Cracked the barrel inserting 2 shells.I stalked forward. They sometimes run a long way. But this one only went a short distance into the woods. I saw his head move and blasted it. I aimed the shot just about the head. Perfect. It did the chicken death dance, flopping and twirling brainless on the forest floor.  Lower neurone still twitching.  I admit I was pleased.  I didn’t care if I came back with nothing but something is always better.  Further there’d be no pellets in the meat. Sonny was right, the 20 gauge is better than the 12 gauge for upland game.

I normally don’t enjoy the last drive down the mountain. In the past the gravel has made it particularly dangerous but now the road was wet and built up some. More of a nice ride. I put the trigger locks on the guns at the highway.  What a rush to be back travelling at 100 km /hr. The KTM 690 is a great enduro machine.  It wasn’t long till I was at the turn off for the camp.  

I love the truck and camper. Just great to come home to.  Laura was up and Gilbert was glad to be lifted down outside so he could mull about and sniff up a storm. I gutted the grouse and fed him the liver and heart. Happy dog.  The breast was good. The pellets had only hit the head and a wing.  I loved the coffee that’s for sure. Back in T-shirt and sweats I was delighted to be in my corner across the table from Laura reading my book. Gilbert was down on the floor chewing on a stick. I’d walk him a few times.  

We had sandwiches. I’d brought fresh Cobb’s bread.  In the afternoon I’d get out the spin cast rod and reel I’d picked up at Lone Butt sporting goods, great mechanism on the spin cast reel. I’d carry Gilbert down to the water. Blind he had a hard time navigating the rocks.  I don’t like fishing much in BC.  In the prairies I always caught fish with lures but here it seems you need worms.  At least that’s my fisherman excuse. I’m not patient either. I like casting. Gilbert liked sniffing about the water’s edge. I lost a hook. That’s usually my cue to stop.  I keep saying I’ve got to get back into fishing more. As a kid that’s all I did. Pissed off Kirk when I was with him. All I wanted to do was fish.  Fished hours from a boat. Casting, casting , casting.  I caught so many pike and pickerel. I’ve caught some rainbows here. But I’m not committed like I am with hunting. Actually I’m not as committed hunting. I mostly like driving about on the off road motorcycle carrying a gun just in case. That’s the joy for me, exploring.  I prefer carrying Gilbert back to the truck and getting back into my seat couch and putting up my feet and reading.  Cheese and Perrier water. More stove top Expresso. Laura likes doing cross word puzzles. Throws the ball for Gilbert.

It’s a perfect autum day. Not too warm.  Drizzle comes and goes.  I walk Gilbert. He likes being off leash able to wander about on his own banging into things and getting his bearings, marking his territory.. He’s almost got obstacles all marked to avoid in future. He actually peed a perimeter. I watched.

Laura had been watching all the neighbours, told me about their dogs and habits.  I spoke with the older couple next to us. Lovely couple. Solar panels and lawn chairs under an awning, carpet, fireplace.

« He goes for a walk and comes back and tells her what he’s seen. They talk. I think it’s about little things. Then they sit and read and off he goes again. The couple on the other side of  us have a big poodle who loves to fetch sticks. There’s a little cocker up on the hill and a lady alone in the trailer over that way has a chihuawa she walked several times. » 

Lots happening in the wilderness camp ground. 

I don’t want to go out at night. I ache all over. That was a lot of exercise hours of riding off road, logging roads and mountain trails. I did some impressive jumps.  I’m already in the shit before I realize this is too dangerous and I’ve got to turn around. Turning around the 690 is a bitch on those back trails. My old Honda 250 was lighter and easier to maneuver in tight places.  I miss the quads. Better hunting platforms but not so much fun as a 2 wheel.

I loved mounting the motorcycle on the front mount delighted to have one less task for morning

I forgot to take the steak out of the freezer.  Laura made potatoes with butter and sour cream.  I barbecued the grouse. Edam cheerse .  Coffee crisp chocolate bars. More relaxing and reading. More walking Gilbert. Then bed , glorious bed! Bed, glorious bed! Is sung.  

Laura has it hot again when I crawl in. It’s wonderful to cuddle like puppies in the nest.  I slept so deeply.  We woke late.  Gilbert was glad when I got up to pee and lifted him up on the bed so he could cuddle with his love.

I had coffee.  Laura rose slowly.  Accepted coffee when I was making the second cup. She loves the Adventurer Washroom. 

« It’s so bright and easy to clean. ». 

I like the shower but I’ve been conserving water. Washing and shaving and enjoying the indoor toilet.  There’s enough water that I could shower.The hot water is great but I was keen to get on the road. We were loaded up in 20 minutes.

In Princeton at the A&W I picked up Bacon Eggers and sausage Eggers, hashbrowns and a meat paddy for Gilbert. We put on the western.

« I like it better in the daytime. The scenery is gorgeous. » She said. 

It really was God’s country.  I was interested when we got to the road work and I could see what I’d thought treacherous. It wasn’t so bad.  

A great ride in the country. Great audio book story of the mountain men and regulators.  We both loved the hostaged school teacher. A real collection of voices. Audio drama. Blackey was as distinctive as Smoke.

At Chilliwack RV it took no time to unload the camper. We really are getting good at this.  

Then it was the last bit of the drive home, the Langley bottle neck not so bad this early in the day and then driving up to my home. We saw Dave and Emory. Gilbert’s tale wags when he sniffs his friend.  Good to see Dave.

« Where’s the deer, » Asked my neighbour Mack. « I told you how much I enjoyed venison ».

« Sorry I only shot a grouse. I barbecued and ate it myself. Didn’t even think of you. Gave the heart and liver to Gilbert. » we laugh. His dog Max is sick. He’s been carrying it out to pee.

It took hardly any time to unload, Laura taking care of the transferring the food we’d brought back.  

She had to house sit in Richmond so was quickly off in her little red Smart Car, Gilbert and I left waving in the parking lot.  

Then I was in the hot tub.  My body was a giant ache but a good ache. The hot tub was great. Gilbert liked walking around his neighbourhood getting reacquainted. We enjoyed the steak I barbecued for our dinner.  

I watched Spy on Netflix, the incredible story of the Israeli who infiltrated the Syrian government.  Extraordinary acting and remarkable history.

I was early to bed and Gilbert seemed to agree. I was up at 5 am and wrote the medical report due that week.  I’d only learned of its need on Thursday, had some vague thought I’d do it on the weekend but didn’t  ‘crack a book’ remembering the times I had similar thoughts as a student. I did write it early morning. 

A day of clinic. That night I did the editing.  I’’d done the research on Thursday night till late. Now I’ve just the typing and formatting to do.  I miss my office and secretary and being set up for doing these reports.  Here I am with books and papers on the floor working on a kitchen table missing all my files I’d had in the drawers in my old desk. 

I had a great weekend. Work was so much easier after the break.  I felt refreshed.  

Now I’ve got to get back to work downtown.  The commute is becoming too onerous. So long in traffic. Once it was four hours added to the day and often now it’s an hour or more each way.  The rain slows traffick. People are getting used to it. I can’t even find the other umbrella.  

I love the BC back country.