life

Handy Man – haha

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I was asked, are you handy? I just laughed. Oh my, no. I am the most “unhandy” person in the world. When I look around my house I think, man I should’ve hired a professional. When we bought our house, it was a fixer upper. The basement became a swimming pool every June, our rainy month. The carpet in the living room smelt like a cat litter box. The hot water tank was hours away from an explosion. Our entire backyard was exposed because the fence collapsed like a broken teenager on tic-tok. I said, no problem, we can fix it.

Ok time to fix – her -up. I tried to put a fence in and I’m so glad it’s in an area that no one can see. Five years later and it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy. At least in Pisa they have the excuse that it’s a natural process. The only thing natural about the fence I built is natural incompetence. Then I tried to tile the floor in our downstairs bathroom (luckily only used by me). It looks like a pitcher’s mound. Then there’s the bedroom door. We took it off to paint, but it wouldn’t go back on correctly. We couldn’t close the door for a year. Then one morning I looked at the door, walked over, replaced the missing screws and voilà the door closes. We now have privacy. So many other dysfunctional projects. I’m surprised the house is still standing. 

However, I am glad I know people who know what they are doing. I have a great neighbour. She’s so good at handy-person things. We are renovating our kitchen, and she’s done a fantastic job patching and painting the kitchen walls. I can only stand by with my jaw dropping and pour more wine. I have another handyman friend. He’s European, so all projects are done with care and precision (me – measure once and cut again and again and again). More than once, he’s come over and repaired my horrible mistakes. He did great job with our bathroom. Now he’s going to help put with our kitchen renovations. We exchange dog-sitting for reno- skills although my Czech pal is on the losing end.

Another section of our privacy was falling down, but this time exposed to the world. Luckily another neighbour came to the rescue. I did very little (thankfully) except call the “Bobcat” dude to come and drill holes for the posts. But only after hours of a manual auger attempt that required a bathtub of Absorbine Junior the next day … and following week. Our privacy intact, I am very grateful for the assistance.

Yes, I have learnt after many years of attempted home improvement to call a professional. One may watch all the tv programs and youtube videos you want, but if the aptitude is not there you are screwed.  I have other qualities, like … well I dunno. I can write poetry, always a useful skill. 

Street Songs

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Last night I was in an unvisited room – white brick walls, very open, but warm with verdant carpets covering a cold floor. A blond dude stood on a small stage, with a guitar and microphone. He was releasing his only album.  I had no idea who he was. An invitation came in the mail. I responded with a presence.

The music was soothing and mellow,  reminding me of a golden California sunrise  –  yellow with so much hope and promise in the skies. I felt the sunrise in the words as they flowed through me like warm bath bubbles. Every song was great.  Folded cardboard sheets  were passed around. I saw them on a golf course. A sign-off was mandatory.  Beside every track was an approval box.  I put a check mark beside every song.  But not all the songs were present.  I heard more than I saw. I had to tell the producer. We need the warmth. Panic. Action.

 I got on my bike and headed down a street lined with dirty grey buildings and greasy round porthole windows, so thick light couldn’t escape. The air was cold as I glided down the unknown pavement. I passed a relic with a dome shaped roof covered in green metal.  So many poor people along the route –  leaning, squatting, and laying down on the cracked sidewalk The citizens starving with their skin peeling and falling off the bone.  Eyes so dark and sunken like buried seeds in winter.  I wanted to help, but I couldn’t stop. The producer calls.

I got to a shopping centre with a tall glass office tower. The windows were  shiny and mirrored. In the reflection were the starving people on the sidewalk,  behind me.  I turned right, but as I did a large dump truck pulled out in front of me. I was struck. I fell down and couldn’t move. More panic.  The music must get out. The road was blocked. I thought about the sidewalk, but it was covered in people. I sat on my bike, wondering what I should do. I shook. Rivers ran down my face.

A bearded man rose from the sidewalk and walked towards me. He held out his hand. I reached into my bag – slung over my shoulder and hanging on my right side – and took out a bundle of  scorecards. I gave it to the man. He took it and smiled. He went back to the sidewalk  and raised the scorecards with a holler. People rose, gained weight, and were covered in the most glorious gold clothing. They danced and sang the warm songs.

I turned my bike around and headed back down the street. The street people were gone. The green roof was now bronze and shining in the morning sun. The buildings were clean and new. A warm gust flew up the alleys and the streets. Lights glowed in windows and people moved inside, busy. The smell of rich and savoury food filled the street. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I sang.

Bookstore

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A couple of nights ago, I was in this bookstore. Slate grey roof and ceiling with dark mahogany shelves stacked with scattered tomes, big and small. I have a reading list, but I can’t see the titles on the page. I scan the shelves trying to find matching titles. Paper shaking in my wet fingers. I walk over to a table stacked with books like a three-D puzzle. I look under the table and resting on top of a broken wooden crate is a copy of Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. The spine is broken. The book rests in two pieces.  I’m not sure the novel is on my list, but I’m glad I found it. I leave it hoping to come back.

I move around the bookstore checking my list with words I can’t see. Behind me I hear a famous voice, but I can’t see the face. The man is yelling at someone in the distance behind a closed door. He is upset the other person is closing the bookstore. It’s doing well, he says, so why close it. The female voice says, because it’s time. The raspy voice mutters incoherency as I hear his footsteps move away.  A door opens with the tinkle of a bell and then closes without a sound. No faces, only sounds.

I pull a book off the shelf. I can’t read the title, but on the cover is a dark woman, dressed in regal purple with gold trim. Her hair beehive style adorned with sparkling geometrical figures like a castle tower with golden windows. Her beautiful head crowned in gold and rubies.  I know her, but her name falters.  I look ahead. She is standing stair top between two dark wooden posts, carved with intricate male heads-  dark, shiny and bald. The Queen touches the figures and raises her eyes.

I am no longer in the bookstore. I follow dignity down the stairs. She glides. Her feet don’t touch wood. My bare feet feel the hard, slick wood as I move behind her. When she reaches the bottom, she turns and goes into a magnificent room, filled with ancient books.

The room is dark but  graceful – rich cherry wood, a piano covered in books.   Maps adorn the walls – yellow and crisp and ready to fall into pieces. I see a large golden globe in the centre of the library and a statue of a famous man.  The women turns and hands me a book. It’s very heavy, bound in leather and on the cover a map with river indentations and rising mountains. Both are cold to touch.

I take the book and walk out of the room. I go up the stairs and I walk until I’m back in the bookstore. I know exactly where the book goes. I put it on a shelf. The book glows golden. Anyone who enters will see the book and they will know.

Night by Elie Wiesel

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A student gave me a copy of “Night” and it sat on my book shelf for many years. I was scared to read it. Then my niece was assigned the book for her high school English course. I pulled the book off the shelf, blew the dust off  and pealed back the cover. I wish I had jotted the student’s name in the cover.

I have to say this is one of the hardest books I’ve ever read. Right now, I am sitting in my comfy chair with a cup of coffee, knowing I could go into the cupboard and grab a snack or I could put on my warm winter coat and  walk out the door anytime I want.  But  the pages show me a sixteen-year-old kid, running twenty kilometres in freezing temperatures with only a thin musty snow-covered blanket around him, fearful that if he steps out of line an SS solider will shoot him in the back. And if he falls, he will be trampled to death. We should be so thankful for all we have.

While reading the book, it is hard to imagine how a group of people could treat others so horribly. Packing them like cattle into train cars with no room to sit, standing for hours with no food or water. The train stops. Bodies are thrown out like garbage and then the train moves on – lives forgotten. It is hard to imagine the cruelty because I have never experienced anything close to the lack of humanity carried out by the Nazis. And I wish I could say that society has learnt, but we have not. One only needs to look at the Chinese treatment of the Uyghurs to realize the lessons of the holocaust are silent to some governments.

The book follows the sixteen-year-old author from his home in Sighet (a part of Hungry in 1944), to Auschwitz in Poland then to Buna also in Poland and finally to Buchenwald in Germany where he is finally liberated by the Americans. So many horrors along the way. A major take away for me is I hadn’t realized that initially the Hungarian Jews were not worried about the Nazis. In 1944, news radio kept professing that the Red Army was close at hand. No need to worry, they thought, the Russians are on the doorstep. The Germans will be defeated. It’ll be all over before we are rounded up but it was not to be.  Soon the ghettos arrived and then the trains.  Once transported these degraded humans were starved and dying and then it was too late to fight back.

I am so glad the book is taught in high school. I am equally glad I’ve had the opportunity to read the book after so many years. It is an important reminder what can happen when an egomaniac takes power and uses the destruction of a group to obtain power. Wow sounds familiar even today. When will we learn?

And finally, Happy Hanukah

Baby Beetle Camping

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Yesterday, I loaded up the black Beetle with all my camping gear. I was with another person, but I can’t see her face. I never can. We got to an undisclosed location and pitched our tent  in a perfectly round crop circle.  The grass stomped down, but long on the outside. About thirty feet beyond the enclosure were tall spruce and pine trees, so thick you can’t see daylight. I pitched the lean-to style tent, open at the front, but sliding down at the back.  Standing up was impossible.

It started to rain. Torrents. The tent started to move as the crop circle became a giant swirling hot tub. If we didn’t get to a dry spot or higher ground, we’d be swept down into the unknown. Panic flooded us. The rushing water sound so loud we were deaf.  We got out of the tent and ran to the Beetle, still fairly new with a yellow interior. It was parked outside the circle. Once inside, I looked through the sun roof, but only saw dark, angry skies.

It was very quiet inside the German bug . Amazing considering the torrent outside. Then I heard tiny lips smacking. Hunger.  I turned around and behind me was a baby firmly strapped into a bucket seat. We leaned back, so we could sleep. We didn’t have individual sleeping bags, so we covered ourselves with only one bag. It wasn’t very warm. But much better than outside in the cold swirling rain. The baby slept between our heads. Baby sounds. Gurgle. Giggle. Ga-Ga.

We had a fantastic sleep. The rain stopped. We got out of the car. The baby was gone. It took us some time to find our tent. It was wrapped around the base of a tree as if it were a blanket protecting the massive lumber’s roots. I gathered the tent. We were on our way to the bug when a woman walked out of the trees. She had thick curly black hair spun into two wispy spirals. Dark round sunglasses covered much real estate on her shiny white face. I swore I’d seen her in a cartoon.

She walked with heavy authoritative steps and stopped in front of me. She raised one leg and then the other and stomped them on the ground. I felt the vibrations. I’ll give you this gun for that tent. I hate guns, I said. It was a shiny silver gun with a black handle. I was afraid and felt I had no choice, so I said sure and took the pistol.  She took the tent, turned with her heavy steps and walked away. I had the horrible weapon shaking in my hand. She stopped, turned around and tossed a bullet clip at me. I caught it and gave her a direct line across my face. She said, just in case.

She walked into the forest and disappeared with my home. I took the gun and buried it in her footsteps, hopefully, never found.

The Fall of the House of Usher

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The only known picture of Poe

Netflix ‘s “The Fall of the House of Usher” is brilliant.   Creator Mike Flanagan takes on a Poe compendium –  six short stories (while touching on others) and one very famous poem.  Not only is the program great viewing, but it inspired me reread Poe. I haven’t read the Virginian since Uni and it’s interesting to get a “grown-up”  (haha nice try) interpretation many years and beers later.

Poe had a huge fear of being buried alive. In the TV version we have many burials. In one episode a nasty corporate bastard (Rufus Griswold – Poe’s real life nemesis and biggest critic) is tied up, buried behind a wall and left to die – “The Cask of Amontillado.” We also have Arthur Gordon Pym (buried in a dark ship hold), as the Usher’s nasty lawyer henchman, played brilliantly by Luke Skywalker. Bruce Greenwood another sci-fi marvel ( Capitan Christopher Pike) is also excellent.

The Masque of the Red Death is another Poe story brought to light. The vacant and run-down house where Perry (Prince Prospero in Poe’s story) holds a massive party is almost identical to the Prince’s palace – a black walled room with scarlet windows and a brasier fire. The original guy holds a masquerade ball inside the secure palace walls due to a devastating pestilence outside (oooh how pandemic). Carla Gugino – crafty, clever and very sexy in her Red Masque of Death brings about a nasty death inside secure walls just like the story.

The Black Cat episode is very closely related to the story. In Poe’s version a very malicious cat follows the narrator home after he hangs his pet cat in a drunken rage – just like the screen version . We do have a body buried behind a wall in both tales, but in the TV version buddy doesn’t bury an axe in his wife’s head and then bury her behind the fireplace.

The Tell Tale Heart has a nasty bleeding heart controlling the characters (as in Poe). However the modern heart is artificial but continually pumps terror, causing a bloody catastrophe. We do have a bathroom murder in both versions. In Poe’s version he chops up a body in a bathtub and then hides the body under the floorboards. No hidden body in this one. But in both versions the heart gives the murderer away.

The Gold-Bug episode is quite a distance from Poe’s story. In the small screen version we only see the shiny insect symbol representing a company. The original is all about logic and deductive reasoning leading to a buried pirate treasure. A method used by Poe’s detectives that  influenced Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Without Poe, Sherlock Holmes might never been born.

The entire series has Murder in the Rue Morgue’s detective C. Auguste Dupin listening to Roderick Usher tell about The Fall of the House of Usher. The end where all is revealed is a very clever twist that brings all the stories together. Poe was a master horror writer and the first detective fiction scriber. So many have followed in his foot steps.  Please Mike, can we have another series? I’d die if it was “Nevermore.”

Decorations

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Last night I was in  front of a chalkboard covered in  undecipherable symbols. People were dancing – backs on the ground, hands behind their head  with hips bouncing up and down as if they were a swing bridge.  The group wore identical grey tee-shirts with a colourful swirling label pasted on the front and bright pink  pants.  All were in very good condition, not an ounce of jiggling.  They gave their presentation, and after everyone clapped.  I said I must go downstairs and rearrange the Christmas lights. It was April and getting late.

I went into the basement of the old school. The well worn steps were steep, shaky and crackling with every movement. Once the door closed behind me, the world turned black. I hit the bottom.  I took my phone out and pressed the torch. Where was the light switch?  I spanned every wall and the ceiling looking for illumination. Nothing. No bulbs, switches, or any hope for light.

As I walked along the bottom, I saw cubicles on each side of a long dark corridor. The storage compartments were sectioned off into small three by three-foot spaces, jammed to the top with colourful cardboard crates. Letters and numbers scribed, but unknown. Each compartment had a chicken wire front door framed with two-by-two pieces of wood  with an engraved number on top, but no order. On each door was a lock. I forgot to bring keys.

I shone the light in each compartment, hoping I’d see a Christmas decorations label. I finally found what I was looking for on the bottom shelf of number fifteen. The door was locked. However, unlike the other locks, this one needed numbers. I used the last seven digits of my school identification.  The metal clicked.

I opened a box and took the tree lights out, pulling the cord while wrapping the green and red bulbs around my shoulder and hand.  A colourful circle of lights.  My arm was getting sore. Just as I thought my arm would fall off, the lights came to a stop and lit up like, well, a Christmas tree. I put the glowing  bundle into a bag labelled “Decorations,” closed and locked the door.

I started walking back down the corridor. I couldn’t find the stairs I came down. I was confused and lost. Just as my eyes started to swell, a glowing rectangle frame appeared. I opened the door. Bright lights. Many voices. I smelled pine,  banana and old spice.

I went to a directions counter. I knew the server. Her English was good, but not proficient enough to understand my predicament.  I said hello. She was very concerned because she didn’t give the right amount of change to the previous customer. I said, don’t worry I know the person.  I found her.  She was flexing in the hallway. Her body bent in pink pants. I told her the counter person was upset because she didn’t give her the right change. She said, laughing, don’t worry she can keep it.

The Struggle

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While sitting in my very comfortable and safe  backyard I was thinking about human struggles. Doesn’t everybody struggle? Isn’t this the human condition? Aren’t we always fighting some internal issue?

I look across the street and I see three adults and two children, basically two families, living in a two-bedroom main floor apartment. They are probably paying an inflated and unreasonable price for the place (greedy landlords are sweeping my city). I also see them working like dogs. The blue car man leaves his house at six a.m. and doesn’t come back until six p.m. The silver car person drops her kid off at day care at seven and isn’t home until the evening. Ditto with the other red car adult. They are working too many hours while living in expensive and cramped conditions. Financial struggle for everyone except the landlord.

Then there’s another young couple living next door to the financial struggle. They are out walking every day for hours. One day I saw a very expensive treadmill delivered to their house. I’ve also seen food delivery perhaps one too many times (again due to working too many hours). He works in IT, so he sits  in front of a screen all day. She also has a sedentary job in the health sector (I’ve met them a few times). Jobs with eight hours of little or no movement. One can guess their struggle. A difficult problem for everyone in our desk trapped culture.

Then I think about my minor struggle with a little too much wine on a Friday night. I am very, very lucky and I am thankful  everyday – I don’t have financial struggles – so lucky to get a mortgage when the price of housing was low. I don’t have weight issues because I can afford to eat good quality food. I also have lots of time to go for walks in the woods or around my neighbourhood or take my bike for a spin or run whenever the conditions are ripe. Yes, I am so lucky. I have one struggle, but it could be so much worse.

However, it’s all about how you deal with the struggle, right? Buddhists tell you life is a struggle, and the reason why we struggle is impermanence – shit happens outside your control. Hence the reason to live in the now – accept the now. Fredrick Douglass, the American slavery abolitionist: “If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” Or my favourite by Lucretius, the Roman poet, “Life is one long struggle in the dark.” Now, ain’t that the truth.

It’s all about how you deal with the struggle. Is it negative? Enough to draw you down into the pits of despair and leave you groping in the dark for anything solid and familiar. Or do you rise above the struggle and stand a top a mountain and shout – everything is fine and become so much wiser rising above the challenges life brings.  Or how about just accepting the fact we all struggle, it’s not a big deal. Accept it and move on. Don’t we just finish one struggle only to have another bounce up? I have no idea. But right now, I have to take my empties back to the bottle depot and go weigh myself.

Ward 14

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Last night I stepped out of a cab – directions unknown. The rain poured in slanted silver sheets. I was saddled with a horribly disgusting passenger. The object next to me was all black and gooey as if covered in shiny tar. I have no idea where he came from. He was just there.

You would have a hard time telling if the blob riding with me was human. The thing rolled out of the cab and lay in a dirty puddle, floating like a lung oyster in the toilet. And the putrid smell, decaying organic matter not of this universe. The sick shit was my roommate and I couldn’t have walked into a more horrible condition.

I was renting a cramped but clean studio apartment from a guy who worked with me at the hospital. I was very sad because my previous roommate was an outstanding fellow – kind, considerate and the most honorable human I’ve ever met. My landlord hooked me up with the new roomy but warned me to be careful. Honour was not a genuine blob quality.  I had no choice because rents were so high in my city, one had to take on a roommate. I got stuck with a piece of shit. Soaring costs and terrible humans cause havoc on social fabrics.

I got home with misery following and decided to go for a run. The apartment was close to the hospital where I worked. I ran around the hospital and then went inside because I was getting wet. As I ran through the hospital, I saw a guy slouched over on a bench with his head in his hands. I went over and asked him if he was all right. He lifted his head; his eyes rimmed raw red, his face clean and never shaven.

He was carrying flowers – all purple, red and white, but they were sagging and shaking in his hands. I asked if he was all right. He said he was fine, but he didn’t know how to get to ward fourteen. My mouth dropped. The worse ward in the hospital. Once you go into ward fourteen, you weren’t leaving without a uniformed escort. I pointed to the candy-striped elevator. Only one ride to ward fourteen. I hugged him. He thanked me, lowered his head, and got on the elevator. A grey woman wearing a white paper hat shaped like a boat looked at me, smiled and nodded her head.

I finished my run through the hospital and went home. Immediately, I checked all my secret hiding spots. My valuables were still in place. I went into the living room and spotted the black disgusting slug on my couch. I thought about asking him to move because he was staining the furniture, but I didn’t want to anger him. Let sleeping dogs lie, literally. I went and took a shower to remove the hospital and sweat from my bones. When I came out, the slug was gone, replaced with a paper hat. The stain removed from my couch.

What? You can’t help a guy out.

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A troubling incident happened a few days ago.  I was brain dead from lingering wine excess (no excuse, pal), waiting for my best mate outside the smoothie store – a health jab after the debauchery. To kill time and shake the cobwebs, I took a stroll around the little strip mall near the purée fruit boutique when this fellow walked up and said,  “Hey pal I’m struggling. Can you help me buy a pair of work boots?”

Now the dude wasn’t down and out looking. Not in the stereo-typical sense (no needle hanging from his arm). He was in good shape, tanned and covered in impressive and expensive ink. He’d obviously spent a considerable amount of time outside. He looked like a construction dude.  Of course, with my numb and stupid brain, I said, “Sorry pal I don’t have any cash.” Truth. I didn’t and haven’t carried actual cash since the early two thousands.

After rejecting the dude, I just walked away.  Right after me he asked another guy, and crickets. I got home and slammed my head on the table. Bang, bang. What was I thinking?  I should’ve walked up to the guy and said, “Hey,  let’s go inside and I’ll buy you some boots.” How expensive can they be? A couple of hundred bucks? I’m not a rich guy but I can surely afford to help some dude out. Isn’t this my social responsibility?

My best mate, wouldn’t bat an eye;  she would’ve walked into the store and either bought his boots outright or at least bought a gift card to help the man out (the voucher idea came right after my bruised forehead). She is the same person who would make sandwiches in the evening and then ride her bike to work and hand them out to those who needed them. I’d take half of her humanity.

A few days after the incident (ironically), I came across an article about Simone Weil, the French philosopher, mystic and all-round super-humanitarian. A woman who as a child refused to eat sugar in support of soldiers soaking in the stinking trenches of World War One. She even fought in the Spanish Civil war even though she was short-sighted and couldn’t shoot.  And what I can’t give up a hundred bucks to help some guy. Geeze, I spend that on Costco steaks. I’m sure I could’ve given up some luxury (and many I have) to help a man who’s just trying to get ahead. I’m so sorry Simone, I let you down.

The universe tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Dude, you live a great life, and you have so much. You couldn’t help some guy who needed shoes? How grateful are you? How much do you care about humanity (you sure profess it’s greatness)?” The universe just tossed me a ball, an easy shot and I let the ball bounce behind me – game over. Thankfully, the universe is forgiving. I’ve taken this as a lesson.  I can still win the match. I won’t ever miss an easy opportunity when a ball lands in my court.