Thursday, July 20, 2017

From A for Applause to Z for Zoubi


Authenticity needs no specific forum. Songbirds can sing wherever they're caged. Or do they? It takes a rare talent to be able to be just who you are, wherever you are. And any artifice one may add to another's stirring performance would perhaps be just that, a conscious accretion of stylistic values held by others to make a performance more palatable, more professional, more sophisticated. But there'd be no falsehood, not if the raw deal, the profound talent, the ‘real’ authenticity of the songster, the poet, the artist already is abundantly grounded. Such is the voice and artistry of Zoubi Arros. Such is the privilege of spending time with this invaluable songbird whose reach is beyond her grasp, whose great potential is as yet unrealized, whose affect upon others is yet sufficiently to be broadcast so that her voice may become a household heart-held 'tumble' of lyrics given a familiar sound. Then those stylistic artifices of presentation semiotics, emotional chiaroscuro, polychromic and personal tastes may indeed give alternative perspectives. (We each are given to preferential tastes.) But there is no denying another’s secure voice of authenticity, however stylistically someone else (like me) might appear to tinker with the experience of performance.

We are each affected by art in its many renditions. And the five principles of enduring art (see: http://mrpswords.blogspot.ca/2010/01/mona-lisas-smile-pentelburys-pentacle.html ) are subtly there if art is eventually to become all-reaching, self-consciously or not. So too for the addition of the Classical Mountain Diagram to any rendition, exponential song for aching song, as well as the effective drama that over-arches the entire performance. Then too, the unique Alphabet of Performance Principles might be applied, patina for patina, layered over the performance until habitual, natural, and absorbed into those comfortable conventions of being in front of others, performing, singing, and ‘acting’. (Acting, it is such a 'dirty' word.) Yet when in front of others, on any stage, we are 'actors'. And whether a speech, a song, a monologue, or a metaphorical ballet of suppositions for any art, we are at once in the spotlight of others' eyes. We are seen!

We see. We bring ourselves. As onlookers we identify primarily with that which is inside us. To not have been homeless, or abandoned, or drunk, or hit and hurt and abused, is to bring oneself, one's identity, merely as a relational entity to the art. But although we may not know the precise recipe by which the painter achieved his effect, or the real specifics of the weaving story behind the songster's rendition, or the iambic craft by which the poet achieved words affecting a relational significance, we can be reached. Our souls are touched. Our emotions are plucked. It is in identification that we most relate with another, with a place, with a sense of connection, and with The Art, piece by piece, or as a whole. Just show me "your integrity" is a phrase that resonated with Zoubi's stellar performance.

"Your problem, Richard," an actor once leveled at me, "is that you do not know how properly to receive a compliment. Praise is a gift. Your dismissal of the compliment, of the applause, is like saying that what is given to you is worthless. Instead, look a person in the eye, thank them for their gift, and honour the fact that they bothered to give it to you in the first place."

We can share lessons. We can learn from others. We can absorb and change and adapt and accrete and mature and more effectively resonate with life. Such is the value of adding to that which we already know. Pablo Casals, at 90, said when asked why he continues to practice the violin, "because I'm hoping to improve." It is that very entelechy, that quality of inner drive and ambition and instinct that has one always reaching beyond one's grasp ("or what's a heaven for?" wrote the poet, Robert Browning.) Yet in our reaching for yet more, even in all our authenticity, we may fear losing our integrity, our old paradigms of practice. But not Zoubi!


"I just want to know God's thoughts; the rest are details," Einstein said. Yet we are still best to learn, and to keep on learning. One can sing atop Mount Tolmie, or perform in one's basement. If you're like Zoubi Arros, your authenticity will always shine through. And even in our learning, yes, integrity can remain.


Monday, July 17, 2017

Attenuated Acceptance(s)


They lied! The deception rankles. Yet we perpetuate it ourselves, ad infinitum, it seems. We teach about Tooth Fairies and Santa and Father Christmas. We teach about the Easter Bunny. It's kiss the Blarney Stone, and love little leprechauns. And it's watch out for black cats and cracks and the Tokkelosh. (Of course, you'd have to know what a Tokkelosh is, but that's why many Africans have their beds up on bricks, just to prevent the Tokkelosh from leaping up!) Children learn to fear it. So too for the Boogeyman! Yes, we advance the Gods of yore too (especially in reincarnations of Greek mythology). And how easily we o'erlook the Roman Gods, never mind Ra or Isis. Yet although not everything is scary or real, there remains the sense that, Icarus like, one's flights of fancy ought not to go too near the Truth. Still, Ockham's razor divides, (we’ll learn.) But deceit and prevarication marries the self, and in its guises we respond with emotion. We feel things. We are touched. No wonder when someone outright lies, or is in and of themselves false, we are uncomfortable, outraged, incensed, and deeply cut. Or not.

Who amongst us has never (ever) lied?

William Ockham, in medieval times, outlined a split between perceived reality, and that which is actually real. It was the dawning of science. To one side was declared that which is True, and to the other fell that which is 'good' (or bad, for that matter). Religion became divisive. Science triumphed. And the Ptolemaic system was replaced by the Copernican. Knowledge of itself became a pursuit of facts. Intuition, that ephemeral substance of superstition and supposition, was sliced aside by the incontestable, by the rational and actual-factual. And to this day our schoolchildren and our populace are led to place a higher order of value on the materially attainable, on that which can be measured in accountability. Spiritualism and Angels and Friday the 13th are for zombies. It is no wonder that the marvel of Spider-Man and Wonder-woman and Thor and Harry Potter entertain us so; we easily delight in our suspended disbelief.

Which of us still really believes in the Gods? Believes in magic? Believes in miracles? Believes in ghosts and goblins and sprites? Believes that our sacrifice will do much to tally the balance of our karma? Believes that our connections with others are 'forever', and are independent of our actions that disconnect and dissolve and fragment and bifurcate the expected from the actual? It is in our very politics. We argue. We are present to each moment, yes, but Future and Past are adjustable, even so for the very depth of breath one may take at coming to a single tiny period.

We breathe. We are alive! But let us not unto the farce of our fragile thoughts admit that we do not search for some succour for our present predicament. “Somebody, save me!” We each feel insecure in the perpetual climate of uncertainty around us (since it is predicated so much on the actions of others: how they drive; how they dance, dress, think, behave, speak; and what their avowed politics are!) We feel helpless in the face of all the conflict. We are victims. We cannot do much else but exercise our one poor lonely little vote. Say our piece. And the bank rates will change. Taxes will change. Death will steal us each away. Ideas will rot at our stability. New habits will break our comfortable old paradigms. New expectations will threaten our very soul.

And so, which of us has not disliked that with which we do not agree?


Learning to accept and allow for and integrate and have compassion for and include that which is not understood may take lifetimes. (Or is that stretching 'a truth'?) We can feel the other's upbraiding of our Self as a physical punch, as a slap in the face of all that was meant, that was intended, that was learned. Potential and purpose, or presentiment too, dissolves to disillusion. We are incomplete. And in accepting incompletion, so are we more accepting of another. No?


Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Coordinating Contrition


Immediately wrought contrite over a childhood thought, of more than fifty years ago, the old man deeply shuddered. The searing of it had resurfaced, unwittingly. But why now? What was the cause? Where did it spring from? Who else had he hurt in the long hurtle from the 'there', in the once-upon-a-time, to the here and now? How aware had he been? And why had he not, as far as he could remember, recalled with sufficient regret having had that ‘bad’ thought, again, until now?

Guilt is an awkward thing. It resonates with rancour. One easily can beat oneself up. What self-serving impulse, what shallow instinct has not invaded any one of us? And how can one be forgiving of another if not having had, albeit in some smidgen of a way, a similar 'sin' visited upon the self? Have you never (ever) wished someone dead? Have you never-ever filched, stolen, or sneaked so much as a cookie when not supposed to? Not even thought of it? But there are much more subtle issues at stake in the monitoring moments of the self than taking actual action. There is thought itself. And such thoughts that we know instinctively to conceal are those that we might examine in ourselves more closely. For they indubitably saturate the consciousness. They can cause others to feel uncomfortable. They can be unethical. They can harm one's integrity. Yet we think of almost everything, (and which part of Everything is 'not'?)

Indeed. "I am not to be held responsible for the thoughts that enter my head," said Einstein, "just the ones I entertain." Yes. We easily have thoughts ballooning by, but being conscious of them, learning when to look away, to veer off course, or purposefully to go higher (if not deeper) into the realms beyond their immediate import, now there's the thing! We are too easily impregnated by “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune". We too easily (especially men) can lean at an atavistic slant to one side and with cocked heads study the click-click of high-heels bobbing by. Distractions abound! Thoughts infiltrate. Yet it’s in deeds that we perpetrate who we are, indeed.

"We are what we think", writes James Allen (in 'As A Man Thinketh'). It affects our character. It affects our circumstances. It affects our health. It affects our purpose, our achievements, our visions and our ideals. In fact, the effect of our thought affects, ultimately, not only ourselves!

Thing is, the territorial imperative would have us linked by constellation to the genetic code impelling us since Adam. (We can hardly be held responsible!) Yet 'sophistication', (that word that connotes a veneer of civility yet denotes the management of one's animal instincts, one's selfish desires, one's self-serving impulses,) sophistication would have us manage our motives, manage our base natures, manage even our memories. Yes, how does one free oneself from the tyrannical grip of the past? Somewhere in thinking-about-our-thinking (that essentially meta-cognitive process of practicing more than being predominantly led by intuitive feeling, and with our using the perpetual bridle of thought on the free range of emotion) we attain a sifting through the shallow, callow, lewd and rude. We slough off the dross of objectifying and vilifying and adjudging those whose condition renders them insensate to our own preferences. In effect, we become more and more enlightened, if such a thing be recognition of being more and more at peace not only with the self, but with everyone and everything, despite their given predilections.

That ‘ill’ teenage thought felt by the old man, a day or two ago, had him shudder with regret. Thing is, even though he tried throughout today, and with this writing, to recall precisely what that thought was, he cannot. It is as though we eventually shudder at our past sufficient to sift beyond its effect on us, such that forgiveness of the self becomes a primary platform from which to realize yet more compassion, acceptance, and conscious of others too as they are connected to the self. Always.


After all, "All for one, and one for all!" Yes?   

   

Sunday, July 2, 2017

'Harvey', Homilies, and Hope


How very fragile it all is. One hurtles between cities and hopes all will be well. Like life. One mounts a concept, a production, a venture, and expects a success. All our lives, we have grand schemes, dreams, and beliefs. We wear talismans. We imprint ourselves with tattoos. We pay obeisance to our ancestors. We take on personas and beliefs and expectations. And eventually, it dawns on us: perfection is so very fleeting, so momentary. We best go with the flow. (Learned lines, rules, are so difficult to generate each time, as though truly "for the first time, every time"). And our holding onto what is essentially transitory, each little passage of life itself, tends for too long to be too attached to the past. We each move from moment to moment. We step but briefly on the boards of the great panoply of life, and each person, in their time, "plays several parts."

Where have we heard that before? What part of Awareness; Balance; Character (versus Personality); Demon-(S)-tration; Enfoldment; Fear or Favour; Give; Heighten; Intensify; Justify; Kinetics; Lunge or Lilt; Momentum; Notes; Observe; Pivot; Question; Respect, Receive, Rejoice;
Semiotics of Speech; Tone, Tempo, Texture; Utterance; Value; Waken; Axcept or Expect, (but not Except); Yield; or Zig-Zag is just far too esoteric for you? Precise coordination, definition, or resonance may well be obtuse. (So also for incomprehensible medical or engineering terms. Or for cosmology and astrology and phrenology. Yes, big words and their effect on our eschatology can be off-putting). The more one knows the more one knows how much one doesn't know!

But this I know: We had a marvelous success! We each took a slice out of life, committed ourselves to its import, to its moment, and brought ourselves to the creative collaboration with passion for attaining a product worthy of our time and effort. (For those not "in the know" we might refer to a social engagement, or a graduation, or perhaps even going on a holiday. The generality of 'application to task' is what is here called up for inspection.) The specifics, the details, all add up to what becomes a fragmentary memory, eventually. Recall the holidays you've been on? Recall every day? Recall the parties you've been to? Recall every guest? Recall the birthdays you've had? Recall every present? Indeed, the specifics fade away. But the essence of the time spent, the energy that went into the event, the feelings that were realized, they all become part of the past that we are making, even as you read these words. We can but do what we do within the given moment, imperfect as the collage of moments may eventually appear, on reflection. But that overall 'good' sense, the lasting 'happy' impression, that's the one for the memory banks! (Even though, yes, some of our memories are indeed 'bad'). We each learn. We each process things. And many things strike us each quite differently, indeed.

Science needs have it perfect. Certainly, I want my brakes on the car to work! I want my vehicle's engine, mile after mile after hour after hour to turn over, smoothly, efficiently, and to transport me to yet another realm. So too for our hearts. So too for the arteries and vessels and molecules and atoms that constitute our very sense of existing. Be good, "Or what's living for?"

'Harvey', an invisible Pooka, as the alter ego of Elwood P. Dowd, harboured being pleasant as opposed to being smart. He imbued politeness, respect, dignity, grace, and comportment. He stood for sensitivity to others, inclusion, and integration. He was neither pretentious nor inauthentic. He imbued a sense of collaboration, of a ghostly presence to be accounted for at every occasion, and of a respect for the dignity of the whole. Harvey, indeed, is expected to be a part of all of us, always. To see Mike Johnson play Elwood was to witness the very best of a person brought to light, each and every time, as though being present was indeed the first time, every time. So too then might we represent that much in ourselves, as much as is possible.


Or is that just too full of homilies and hope?


Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Just A Judas?


Betrayal burns. Guised in many cloaks, it steals our souls. And although sometimes we, the victim, are able to forgive the betrayer, I find it harder to forgive myself for having betrayed. In the veils of subtlety betrayal arises when I share information that poisons perceptions; such is the sin of scandal. My listener has no need to know what I so insidiously share; even if I am asked, "How's so and so? Have you heard from him or her lately?" Negativity not only adds to bad news, it makes stronger the sensibilities that impelled me to share salacious tidbits in my unthinking offing. Upon reflection, upon introspection, upon thinking about my thinking, I realize I am relaying the creep of crud. Yes, we best block it. We best not betray.

Perhaps i never should have been given the role of Judas. I was but fourteen or fifteen at the time, and the school play, a Passion Play, involved a whole lot of my school chums, way back in circa 1968. I wore a red smoking jacket, (a woman, 40 years later, reminded me). I danced a special Judas-dance, with a girl from Girl's High. (Perhaps the reason so many boys participated was because several girls from that school were selected to rehearse and perform with us.) The thing is, now, some 45+ years later, I realize how deeply my subconscious was affected. The character of the real Judas was hated. The perceptions of the real Judas was vile. And I'd been the one chosen to play the role. (I recall how very much I'd wanted to play the lead, Jesus.) And for too many times in the rest of my life, at some test of withholding onto sacred trust, or of having to disclose incontrovertible yet private truths, I've hedged and revealed and shared. And paid the price afterwards. Bitterness at the self is a hard pill to swallow.

So, in the psychogeometric proclivity of my squiggly line nature, I've guarded against the instinct to be free with my words, to be free with my revelations, to be free with my judgements and my want to ingratiate myself, puppy-dog like, with strangers. (And even more so, with those close to me.) No, it's better to cordon off loose-instincts with the square shape of promises to myself (let alone to others). It's better to contain the circle shape of trusting-integration within me to the square of expectation and loyalty. It's better to harness the triangle shape of my ambitions and self interests yet again within that square shape that has declared a wall against scandal, or of spreading rumours, or worse, of outright betrayal. And it's best not to be indecisive, rectangular, or wispy-washy with my commitments. Yes, the mind-shapes of triangle, square, rectangle, circle, and squiggly-line apply. If we were evenly balanced we'd be exercising 20% of each, but our predominant proclivity arises most of the time, especially when put to the test, and that'd make for at least 25% of oneself to responded to tasks, or to any crisis, from one's predominant 'shape'. (For myself, being a squiggly, my creative and flexible anything-goes nature can be a weakness. I can be fickle. I could betray.) Best to guard against that!

Our weakness can prove to be our strength, should we guard against it. We can temper our obstinacy. We can draw our boundaries more clearly. We can consider the sharpness of our impact on others more carefully. We can consider the effects of too much vacillation. And we can more considerately practice the need to commit, to see a project through, and to keep one's word.


Being Judas is different from playing Judas. When we play we are making choices. When we just let ourselves be, we dip into and exercise and do and perpetrate the predominant proclivity of our natures, and too much of anything tends to harm others, let alone ourselves. The life unexamined is hardly worth living, wrote Socrates. We come mostly from one of five minds, in fact, a psycho-geometric proclivity, purports Susan Dillinger. And to that end, being just a Judas, or choosing more carefully one's role in life, is hereby submitted as part of the juggling act. So may one affect one's very soul. Indeed in deeds. So may we give shape to our lives. Always.


Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Voting for Veracity


The golden coin rolled into the vomit. The man in the wheelchair could not reach it. He still drooled from the fresh offal. At his feet the puddle of rancid yellow and brown goo prevented people from standing close. Yet still, his outstretched hand, begging passersby, beckoned. And since there, I stooped, plucked the golden Canadian dollar up from his wretch, and though it dripped from the pinch between my forefinger and thumb, I more carefully dropped it into the filth of his palm. A regular on the street corner, the homeless man could only grunt. He does not speak. He cannot move himself. Inarticulate, uneducated, virtually immobile, and indisposed, this man has been on much the same corners for over six years now. He always recognizes me. He always gives a wave. At times I've gone to get him a coffee. (He once was able barely to get the phrase out). Sometimes he'd get a coin or two. And sometimes I've happened to be close enough to see other homeless people dipping into his silver coffee tin, giving him a pat, and then their ambling on. What he does for his toilet needs one does not want to know. What he thinks, day in and out, there with his head hung low, and there with his rags for clothes and his hair unkempt and his teeth rotten and his eyes glazed and his hardly able to talk is a great pain to see. In fact, for most people as they go on by, he is made invisible. Very few acknowledge his presence. Very few drop coins into his cup. And when he sits there, in suspect puddles beneath his wheelchair, or with evident droppings close to him, he is among the great sad sights in our universe. Late in the day an old woman, achingly disheveled, hauls him away. Yet to take on the full responsibility of attending to him; to see to his longevity; that's something entirely beyond normal expectation. We have institutions for that. We have a social contract. We have government workers and programs. And so we can walk on. After all, the value of picking up a dropped coin in the vomit is dependent entirely on the value of the coin itself. I would not have picked up a dime, nor a quarter, not a nickel, and definitely not a farthing.

Back in my parked car I carefully wipe my fingers with two or more of the antiseptic cloths from the plastic container we keep handy. Passengers in the car, sometimes a dog, children especially, all leave fingerprints and... Well, better to keep things clean. But we cannot wipe away the offal of our societal constructs. We cannot always choose who we see. We cannot make invisible the makings of others. We are best to watch where we walk. And by looking ahead, we can even avoid the unpleasantness of stepping into the turds below. Sometimes hindsight helps too! After all, since history happened, we may as well learn from it. No?

The voting card between my fingers (the same ones I'd dirtied with vomit) I now carried into the booth. Around me were tables of officials, all making checks of identification documents and people's addresses. And when putting down the distinct privilege, for me, of my X, I knew that my choice reflected the freedom to do so. But was my choice the right one? We sift through the crap given to us by the political system. No sooner do I feel strongly approving of one candidate than someone else, some TV advertisement, some newspaper heading or essay or article spews out to confront my surety. Friends and acquaintances do too. No one is pure. No one is entirely right. Or is he, or is she? Hope springs eternal. And in the confusion of obfuscations and improprieties and insecurities, I make my best stab at finding the gold among the dross. Like plucking up the coin; one hopes that one has made the gesture worthwhile.


Our actions build onto our societies, however small. Each little thing has a momentum that, if well-intentioned, one can but hope one is contributing toward the health of the whole. But the degree to which we fool ourselves, too, is measured in the detractions. Yet not to act, to pretend that some bits and parts of life are to be avoided; not to be critically examined, included, assimilated, and integrated; is to miss out on being effectual where one can. The degree of conscious thought we put into things becomes the measure of our progress, our measure of contribution. Or do we simply not vote at all?


Wednesday, May 3, 2017

Potential, Privilege, and Peace


Privilege has its disadvantages. Running out of deodorant, oh my! A pesky fly in one’s 2,500 sq ft domain, dang it all! The new brakes slightly squealing on the brand new sports car; better take the SUV. And then, to top it off, there's a leaky shower in the tenant's condo, over 1000 miles away, so one may as well fly there and go oversee the expensive renovation. And what of, back at home, running out of skim milk, and 2% milk for the coffee, and.... Well, ain't I got problems!

Meantime, I gloss over the predicament of the ever ubiquitous refugees. They slide into my consciousness as I lie back on my comfy-couch. My annual donations to World Vision suffices, surely? (How much more do they want?) Yet the images of the fly-besieged children provokes. And then there's The News with its interminable offerings of bad, "bigley-bad" news, ‘breaking news’, and its raw displays of mankind's impoverished condition.

The disparity between what's over there and what is here is very apparent. It is galling. Life is indeed unfair. Particularly to those whose familial and geographic containment is imposed from birth. How does the one fly, of all flies, make its way away from the usual existence that is its lot into the protected space of a plethora of availability? Within the closed up windows and walls of my domain there is food and crumbs and almost invisible treasures for it. For four days it has flitted about, distracting me, the God who lives there, sufficient that, on the fifth day, it got exterminated, killed, done-away-with. (And the Zoroastrian in me, who decided its fate, having done so, did think, 'Would the Master not have set it free?') But to do so would be to allow it to tell all its family (and their families) of the great feast and spoils available if only they would bide their time, await the right moment, and then besiege the briefly opened patio door! They breed!

Did we not do the same to continents? Did Colonialism not invade countries and spaces and overwhelm people and abrogate unto itself rights and expectations? Flags were replaced. Gods were replaced. And now (as one sees the vast amount of foreigners in-cringing on what used to be the familiar,) cultures, rather than being adopted, are being replaced. Gibberish! No wonder there are rising rates of xenophobia, of 'resurfacing' racism, of discord and protest and brutality. Or is it just that we are now nearly eight billion; flies squabbling over earth’s rotting corpse?

Ugly imagery abounds. That's the news. Yet sometimes, when I drive about in 'the wife's' new sports car (or even when in my usual SUV,) it is with a delightful surprise that I see so very many manicured lawns and beautiful gardens and posh mansions and town streets full of shopping people. Amazing that the world still is on its axis, at least, from my point of view. I do not see evidence of the things The News talks about. Well, except that there are indeed a lot more foreigners to observe, in crowded places, indeed. But they are doing the same things we do, talking, checking cell-phones, eating, shopping. And they smile back. And they are, after all, just people, like you and me.

Here in Canada we are privileged. But it comes at a price. It takes the perpetual busyness of maintaining a bank balance, of paying a mortgage, of filling the fridge from the grocery store, of paying for restaurants, and of being extensively taxed on everything. Oh my! And then there is the daily dictum of emails and phone calls and occasional disconnections with wifi to contend with. Oh my! Not to mention that the microwave door that slams needs replacing. Or that the TV console really needs to be specially designed and made to house all our records and DVD's.


We are creatures of the immediate. Each of us. And each moment is all we have. We do not know exactly when the hands of God will clap, summoning us to an unknown. Do we? In the meantime, we wait. We make do. Or do we not? No, peace and privilege are not synonymous.

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Tue, 2 May 2017 05:00:00 EDT CBC NEWS
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