Christmas Presence

This is a picture I took in Israel of where I thought Jesus migh t have sat when he taught the Beatitudes: "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you."(Mathew 5) Tonight I saw Pacific Theatre's "Christmas Presence". Ron Reed and the original company that performed it 25 years ago had gathered together to do one more performance of this strangely moving enigmatic questioning of the Christmas story. Immanual. God within.

It reminded me of the miracles that I experienced when on pilgrimage to Bethlehem I crossed the blood streaked streets in the sights of sniper rifles. The way was harsh but the journey was worth it. I stood with dozens from other lands and sang a Christmas carol in as many different languages. I was moved to tears then as I had been over and over again in what seems rightly called the Holy Land.

Reading the Beatitudes again tonight I see once more why these teachings caused those dependent on external finite earthly power to resist the notion of internal infinite heavenly power. Yet Love conquers all.

Earlier this week I saw the epic movie, Australia, with Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackson. I cherished the idealism and sense of the sacred that filled this movie as much as the extraordinary scenery and panoramic views of a country of ancient song.

I found Sarah McLaughlin's Wintersong album and played it all day in the truck along with the Sheree Plett Christmas album I got this year. I was shopping for family. Thank God for sweaters. And especially thank god for all those articles of clothing and accessory where one size fits all.

It's not Frankincense, Gold or Myrr I found but the Bible said there was gift giving that first day. I'm not not so bothered by the commercialism as the forgetting of the message of forgiveness. Love your enemies, Jesus said. In the Triune Brain of McLean, the lizard, mammalian and human anatomical constructs develop sequentially into that which is truly human. Lizards don't love but mammals can love their family and perhaps their 'tribe'. To be truly human as Jesus was, he said Love God and Love your neighbour as yourself. It stands to reason that if your enemy wasn't your neighbour he wouldn't be your enemy.

It's Christmas. It's a time of Love. The winter solstice was no doubt taken over by the church from the earlier tribal traditions. The secret part of WWII I most enjoyed learning of was that men all along the firing lines refused to kill each other in the thousands or more at Christmas. Instead they crossed the lines and shared their meager rations.

I'm hoping that this is happening right now. Peace on earth. Good will to men! Merry Christmas.

Vancouver Snow

Snow in Vancouver. It began last night when I was at the Rainbow Church Christmas party carolling. We sang Silver Bells. "City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style, in the air there's a feeling of Christmas...." This is rainy Vancouver. When it snows the 'air' has no feeling of Christmas but rather rank terror. Even as I speak cars, silly enough to try it, are plummetting down the alpine Oak Street to an adult rendition of Bill Cosby's Baby Coach Wheel go cart spectacular descent to sure destruction in the unsuspecting freeway traffic of W6th.

Vancouver drivers, notorious for buying driver's licenses under the table, stoned on the principal billion dollar crop, BC Bud marijuania, (which also explains the bizarre local politics ), now have an excuse for fortified egg nogs in the morning. Those who are older with aging livers and a potpouri of geriatric medicines never 'share' their 'recreational usage' with their unsuspecting neurologists, cardiologists and psychiatrists because they consider marijuania a herb and alcohol an elixer. 60's flashbacks then compete with hearing aid feedbacks as horns honk and cars collide. "Hey man, we're tripping."

In addition there's multicultural bedlam with half the southern immigrant drivers never having seen snow let alone driven on ice. Meanwhile the west end traffic police have only been issued bicycles or if they're lucky, motorcycles. Canadian Tire sells out it's slim supply of snow chains in one day. Displaced Winnipeggers are en mass teaching emergency counterintuitive ice driving techniques to awe struck Vancouverites.

In Vancouver we 'go to the snow'. That means Whistler, Blackcomb, Grouse or Cypress Mountain. It's not supposed to come to us. The City Planners would never use salt on the roads as they need all the salt they requisition for their tequilla.

By afternoon the sun usually comes out. The ice will turn to slush and everywhere relief will reign. Then Robson Street will again be festive without the snow as everyone hurries to buy a Christmas tree and chat over Starbuck molkas about the surviving the latest 'blizzard'. Only if the rains return will the 'air' of Christmas again sing on city streets of Vancouver. Silver Bells. White Christmas! Humbug! A good monsoon. Now that's a Vancouver Christmas!

CAA-AGM

It was the Canadian Author's Association 2008 Annual West Coast General Meeting. A noteworthy collection of writers had gathered together in this Georgia Street Vancouver Whitespot on the way to Lion's Gate Bridge near Stanley Park.

The trouble was that they were all in disquise. Obviously paranoid about being recognised they had got out of their pyjamas and house coats. They'd washed their hair. Some had shaved. Others had slept for the first time in weeks. By all external appearances they looked largely normal. A little bright eyed, a bit too eloquent, laughing excessively, they were trying not to let some cat out of some bag. Otherwise they were normal.

No one would have guessed that they wrote steamy romance, dirty sex scenes, devious intrigue and gruesome cadaver strewn mysteries. Properly dressed in brown tweeds and white sweaters, talking of their work, they ate fettucine or fish and chips with knives and forks. An historian even showed around pictures of her latest grandchild.

The technical writer spoke quietly to the person next to him about artic terrorism. A dozen conversations about a myriad of highly suspicious subjects obviously embedded with arcane code were happening all around me. A former minister claimed to write urban fantasy. Two fellows in golf sweaters talked about the various methods of war time killing. It was all highly irregular.

Pirates, lovers, sexpots, spys, adventurers, irreligious , rebellious, and sometimes even inspirational, they were a dubious lot indeed. Story tellers. Writers, scribblers, jotters and word processors. They'd been at it along time. Some of the young had even gone white haired with their craft. Outrageously original, they claimed to use their imagination. At the same time some were delving into obscure sources for lost secrets claiming it was research for their latest work. Subversives, all of them. Vainly autobiographical and gossippy biographers. You couldn't tell which was which.

I confess I tried to put a face to a particularly incisive bit of political satire or wonder if that rather fetching woman had written that downright mischievous bit of romance.

Yet on the outside, overall, you couldn't tell them from the Kiwanis or Rotarians for instance. Maybe one or two clutched their wine glasses a bit possessively. The coffee drinkers showed nail and cuticle damage. Someone spoke a touch hurriedly. Perhaps the waitress hovered a bit more until the bills were individually paid. But otherwise they could easily have passed as normal humans.

At least until the book draw took place. As each person's name was called the individual proceeded to a table full of published works. That's when the madness or transcendence occured. Each of these otherwise innocuous looking beings took on an otherworldly sheen and glowed uncannily as they touched the treasure of their fellow authors. It was some kind of reverent communion. As each took a book in their hands it was as if they were suddenly complete. A faraway look appeared in their eyes. The meeting ended abruptly thereafter. They all almost scurried out of the restaurant

I followed of course. I had a book too and felt inspired just holding it. A warm and cozy feeling. Electrifying even.

Perhaps I wouldn't report this to the authorities, I thought. I didn't quite know where it was leading. It was clear that I was returning. These people warranted serious study. Maybe not research, yet. But someone had to keep an eye on them. Left to their own devices they were producing books. And alot could be said with a book. I'd already been right to suspect them of having words. I'd be back. No doubt of that!

Bluewater Cruising Association

http://haykind.blogspot.com/

I've just come home from the Blue Water Cruising Association's Annual General Meeting and Awards night. My friend Tom sailed back from Hawaii this summer with me on my SV GIRI. 2700 miles in 34 days slowed down just a tad by a broken mast a thousand miles from Hawaii. Tonight Tom received the BWCA's 999 Offshore Sailing Award. I'd already received the offshore skipper award for solo sailing to Hawaii in 25 days over the Christmas of 2004. It was good to be in the audience hearing Tom graciously receive his award. We'd seen alot of water together and he commented on just how much water there was "out there" . That brought appreciative laughter from those who'd done their share of ocean crossing. With pause for inspiration he said, "I'm glad to have gone where you can be sure of finding the unexpected. " Looking around the room I saw the 'elders' of that august sailing community nodding. He'd touched a chord.

Adventurers. That's what we were. And the sea is the mother of surprises.

Dec.8,2008

I keep forgetting to say that I've won a Folio. My article "Blind to all the signs" won in October, 2007. It's the international writer's award. I had my bio in the Canadian Author's Association West Coast Chapter newsletter and didn't mention this award. Silly. So I'm mentioning it here. This is a quote from the Medical Post.

Medical Post's physician-writers win prestigious Folio award October 09, 2007
NEW YORK Those amazing “doctors who love to write for us” have done it again for the Medical Post, garnering a glittering gold award in late September at the prestigious Folio: Awards show here.
THE FOLIO-WINNING ARTICLES
Blind to all the signs
Seeing beyond despair
A sinking feeling of helplessness
Approximately 3,000 entries were received overall for the competition, billed as the largest and most prestigious awards in the North American magazine industry. “Eddies” were given for excellence in editorial content and “Ozzies” recognized excellence in magazine design.
Spirit of medicineThe Medical Post received a Gold Eddie award in the Business-to-Business Healthcare/Medical/Nursing “Best Single Article” category for its “Spirit of Medicine” series. The articles were personal accounts from Drs. William Hay(“Blind to all the signs,” Nov. 14, 2006), Larry Kramer(“Seeing beyond despair,” Sept. 26, 2006)and Paul Caldwell(“A sinking feeling of helplessness,” May 25, 2007)on the emotional struggles they face daily in their profession. It marked the third time this year Medical Post doctor-written columns has been honoured in industry award competitions.

Dec.4, 2008

"Be Yourself - everyone else is taken."


"What's the opposite of being paranoid? Thinking you're following someone?"

"When they outsourced the suicide lines overseas, an american called and upon saying "I'm suicidal," was asked, "Can you drive a truck?"

Anthropologists asking new tribes what they call themselves usually hear the same thing in whatever language, "The People". So their next question is what do you call "others." In this regard Inuit means the people whereas the Cree word, for their northern neighbours, Eskimo, means 'fish eater'. In Borneo asking the latest tribe what they called themselves, they were told, "The People" so they asked what do you call others, and were told others were called "The Edible Ones".
Given this understanding of tribalism, sociopaths can be considered those who belonging to some tribal grouping do not consider 'outsiders' , for whatever reason, 'kind'. A new useful term for this tendency is to call this 'othering'. The psychopath in contrast is solely a loner without any real identification with humanity and therefore metaphorically considers all 'others' as 'edible'. Jay Lifton, author of Nazi Doctors, in his discussion of the psychology of war states that alienation is a central tenet of the propaganda campaign. Each sides engages in dehumanizing the other for the justification of their own ends.
Looking for similiarities as opposed to differences is the methodology of compromise and peace. The mind subtracts and divides whereas the heart adds and multiplies.

"It's a good day when you're on this side of the grass."

Quantum of Solace - 007

Quantum of Solace with Daniel Craig as Bond was great action, terrific acting and all round a marvellous romp. Almaric as villain Dominic was as truly sleazy as the cynically portrayed CIA characters were believable. Judi Dench as M was most endearing while Olga Kurylenko was a passionate beautiful and intelligent Bond woman. The cute and lively Gemma Arterton (Strawberry Fields) was a delight. The plot however was a bit like the lyrics of a heavy metal song, not particularly important given the explosions and gunshots. Suddenly there was a necklace.

Given that M's mothering seemed to replace the former polysexuality of Bond, one wonders who the producers were marketting too. And where were the gadgets!!! Still it was Bond! My childhood friend Kirk called from Malibu to say we had to see it when he got to town. As grade school kids we'd read the first Ian Flemming paperbacks together. What would adolescence have been like without the unforgettable Bond girls or the extraordinary Bond cars.

We're now older than Daniel Craig, the new Bond and my ponch matches Kirk's thinning hair. Decaf at the Starbucks beside the Scotia theatre was a long way from A&W Root Beers of earliest years or wine and beer of later Bonds. Talk was of family, friends, Obama and Federal Reserves. Were the Parti Quebecois really going to be the next government of Canada?

After the last Bond, Kirk said, "What would anyone expect from boys raised on role models whose government licensed them to kill and let them chase beautiful women and drink on the job. " I'd said it was no wonder that men of our generation by comparison have felt ripped off in their work lives. I laughed when Kirk asked, "Do you think Canada paid a product plug to have our secret service mentioned in Bond?"

Out on the street Kirk showed me all the airbags in his new Mercedes. I told him I was driving my 50 cc Honda rather than the 1200 Harley because "It's safer on the wet winter streets" So thinking of safety we both drove away from another reckless and wild 007. One of the few good things to come out of the Cold War.