Distractions

It might be easier to deal with if it were a straightforward medical problem. Or attributable to genetics. Not that I would wish on myself all-out attention deficit disorder, popping Ritalin to keep me in line. But being easily distracted has its challenges. Very early this morning I received an email from a friend in Hong Kong. It made my day, but destroyed all my earnest plans for those Sisyphus-like activities laid out before me.

I was asked a simple question. “When will Though I am Gone be screened at the imminent Vancouver Film Festival.?” Like Alice, I tumbled into a cyber hole that lead me into another world. Not that the question was complex. I expect to discover the answer tomorrow when film festival offices are open for business.

Ever-curious I wanted to know the name of the filmmaker. Which led me to a wonderful interview which Shen Rui conducted with compassionate historian and film director Hu Jie (胡杰). He yearns to know the real and recent history of his country, China. He is a searcher after the truth, and a compassionate visual chronicler. In many ways apolitical, his films are more of a scourage to the establishment than those of a confrontational sort.

So today has been all about Hu Jie. I was willingly hijacked from the role of Hercules, and left King Augeas’ litter a-lying about me while I immersed myself in the fresh air of Hu’s story, so ably translated by Ms. Shen. And found his film on Youtube, albeit in ten segments. Now, later in the day, some seem to have disappeared. And all are blocked in China apparently.

Christopher Columbus is quoted as saying By prevailing over all obstacles and distractions, one may unfailingly arrive at his chosen goal or destination. Look where that got him! And me? Well my distraction may get me into even more uncharted waters. Time will tell.

Pedal for Hope

They arrived in the neighbourhood the same year that we did. Muslim Harji was tall and genial, and his wife whom we always called “Mrs. Harji” was warm and spontaneous. They had fled Uganda when Idi Amin’s regime threatened. Now they were a very busy couple setting up a small food shop on Avenue du Parc, in the midst of a heterogeneous community. Hassidim, Italian and Greek Canadians, Quebecois(e) and Anglos such as ourselves.

Then a daughter, Ayesha, was born to them, and a son two years later. The little store thrived as a family enterprise. Sadly, they retired after some thirty years of hard work. We picked up on their story at the library a few days ago, when Muslim, after warmly embracing us, recounted the Cairo to Cape bicycle journey which he and his daughter made last year. It was part of a fund-raising effort by the Aga Khan Foundation. Muslim didn’t have enough time to tell about the whole 12,000km trip, so he focused on Sudan. This was the Sudan you never hear about. Ayesha’s blog reveals the no strings attached kindness they encountered amidst the material poverty.

One day, in the small town of Karima, we were invited into the home of a man we didn't know, who didn't speak any English at all. Being the cautious traveller, I was worried that this was going to be some sort of scam with a request for payment at the end, but we went in and sat down on the floor of a thatched little open-air hut surrounded by palm trees.

After some small talk where, with some difficulty, we explained to them that we were on a bicycle expedition (only to get the same incredulous response), a young boy came forward with an enormous tray that he put down on the floor. He uncovered four bowls of food - salad, a delicious curry-type dish similar to what my mom makes at home, beans (called foul, pronounced "fool") and a sweet vermicelli dish (like sev for all you Indians out there). Around the four bowls were round pieces of bread and we all sat there on the floor and ate together. The man also gave us a tour of his compound (including his home, a wheat-grinder, a kitchen and a women's section - there were a lot of them, don't know how many wives this guy has, but anyway) and also gave us fresh figs right off a tree.

After all this, they just led us back into the street, we all said our goodbyes and they pointed us back in the direction from whence we came. No money, no payment, no nothing. It was just plain and simple hospitality, and he disappeared back into his home like this was nothing out of the ordinary. Everywhere along the road, many members of our group have experienced similar displays of openness and good will from the people in this country.

"Leave well enough, alone"

This is an old saying from my childhood. To be told this by my mother was a polite way of her saying “Shut up, you’ve already said too much!” Delightfully burdened with only fond memories of her presence, I feel free to indulge. It was the recent furniture store visit which set me to thinking. I won't leave well enough alone. Thinking about how people leave their mark.

My feelings on the robber barons, past and present, who leave such “gifts” as Carnegie Hall, are mixed.

The amenity is often appreciated, but the naming.... Why aren’t they named after some of the workers who died to make the amassed fortunes? My hero and companion in this line of thought, since schooldays, has always been Shelley, and the way he celebrated the once noble Ozymandias.

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies.........

Enough. Back to the furniture store and sofas. The latter word apparently coming from Turkish into English almost 300 years ago. But what about ottoman, and chesterfield? And to a lesser degree, davenport? The world's population lolling about comfortably on them with the Sunday paper. Wouldn’t this be a fine way to have one’s name remembered.?

schlimmbesserungen

We set out to explore the bargains at an SAQ Dépôt. I picked up a bottle of Metaxa Seven Star as well as a French blend, a plonk which I recommend. Then I continued on with my good friends who are searching for suitable furnishings for their home-to-be. They are still at the exploratory stage, measuring tape in hand, and eyeing various combinations for purchase at a later stage.

The spacious and elegant showroom was designed primarily for the eye. Vast sweeps of white with pools of dark-finish table tops and subdued displays of colour. Pseudo-artistic creations at exorbitant prices. “Gimmicks galore for home décor” could easily have been the store’s slogan. I was particularly intrigued by all-in-one sofas cum chaise-longues which seemed to be the “in thing”. Cursory tests of either the comfort or practicality of these articles seemed to be the last thing on the minds of potential buyers. These were not your customary IKEA shoppers.

Which leads me to another article by Mark Kingwell. Bear with him. His thoughts outpace his expressive abilities. Unless your German’s up to par, you’ll have to read it to understand the heading of this piece! In the meantime open a bottle and enjoy the fruits of this 12^th century Languedoc Château!

The Reconciliation of John and Gordon

It was February in Prague, just a month after the former Czechoslovakia had been split into two separate countries, the Czech and the Slovak Republics. A sad event for me as I had already made many friends on both sides of the border. And I favour inclusiveness over separatism. But it was a beautiful evening all the same.

Powder snow swirled and glistened under the century-old lamps as we wound our way through the narrow streets of the old city, heading to the Staroměstské subway station. Another time I might be humming Good King Wenceslas as I held my head low against the wintry blast. But not tonight. Christmas was six weeks past. Besides, I only hum when I’m alone.

John, Jana and I had spent an evening in her cozy apartment overlooking the Vltava. After a simple dinner we did our best to empty a bottle of Becharovka. As it closed in on eleven, I headed to catch the last train to the hostel which was home. John insisted on accompanying me to the station. A Czech by birth, he was now a Canadian who had returned to his native land and was organizing volunteers to teach English to an eager populace. I was playing a part in this venture.

A retired career army officer, he wrote The Disarming of Canada, a critique of Canada’s military policy as a peace-keeping force. There was a chapter in it criticizing a peace education project which I had initiated. But over three years of collaboration a lot of trust had developed between us, seasoned with good humour and Pilsener.

The streets were empty so it was a surprise to come upon an unsteady figure in tattered clothing. As we approached, this Robinson Crusoe apparition stumbled again, his bleeding hands pierced by nails protruding from a packing case he dragged behind him. John rushed to his rescue and we proceeded, supporting him, to a nearby apartment. Despite the doorkeeper’s protests we took him to his room, cleaned him up, and John left him with a five hundred crown note. Apparently the wretched one had spent his rent money at a local bar, something that newfound capitalism couldn’t tolerate.

In the process I missed the train. The taxi was much more expensive. But well worth the cementing of our bond. It was the last time I saw John. He was drawn to the smell of conflict and became a war correspondent in Bosnia. He died there when his car ran over a land mine.

The Ghost of Maggie Thatcher?

This is a purely political rant.

Civic employees of the beautiful city of Vancouver are on strike. The libraries are closed for the first time in a seventy-seven year history. And the city has a magnificent library system which not only provides for the reading and research needs of citizens, but actively reaches out to those who are most in need of encouragement - the poor, the disabled, the non-English speaker, and the immigrant.

Their librarians are amongst the most committed of employees, with a sense of mission and passion for their work. Without going into all the details it is clear that their treatment has been shabby to say the least.

But why? This comment from the management on August 13 suggests that the bosses want it that way.

Vancouver's four-week-old civic strike could stretch past Labour Day and into the fall, a city spokesman predicted Monday.

"Our past strikes have lasted on the order of six to eight weeks and if that's an indication of where we are this time then that's how long it might last," Jerry Dobrovolny said.

Was this an event planned by the city administration to recoup money overspent in the run-up to the Winter Olympics 2010?

More information:

End of rant!

Hank

I knew nothing about him, not having a radio in our family home. But there we were, my buddy Gord and I on assignment for Quality Records who handled MGM and other labels in Canada. In our last years of high school we earned enough from these infrequent photo gigs to supplement more regular pay. In my case working part-time for a local supermarket. Doing the gamut from cutting meat to stocking shelves.

It was October 27, 1949 and I was seventeen, in grade thirteen, my final year. On the other hand, Hank was just short of nine years my senior, and had made it to #1 on the Billboard Country Singles chart with his version of Lovesick Blues.

The show took place in the Mutual Arena, a venue for ice skating in winter, and in summer a “roller rink”. It was my first venture into this particular kind of worldly atmosphere. But not the last. I was somewhat overwhelmed, and very intimidated as we entered the cavernous hall. The stage setting, lighting, and swelling audience were a far cry even from the high school auditorium gatherings. Even more remote from our gospel hall’s special meetings.

We were nervous. You can take landscape, or store window display photos over again if you flub them the first time around. But concerts are another matter. Our primary task was to take some shots after the show was over. Which it was all too quickly. Using Gord’s Kodak Vigilant, f/4.5 lens, bellows extended, loaded with a roll of 620 Super-XX, and with a carton of eight GE flashbulbs at hand we began. All eight shots counted.

Neither of us had any directorial skills, but fortunately the record company rep managed that for us. Hank Williams was most gracious to these two amateurs. So was Fred Roden, with Hank in this picture. For many years afterwards I meant to drop into Fred Roden’s Record Corral on Avenue Road north, and give him prints. But, like many good intentions .....