When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations.
When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence.
When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths
which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.
Yours sincerely,
John Fitzgerald Kennedy
Amherst College,
Oct. 26, 1963
so when exactly was it determined that we want ordinary people in the white house?
it was dad-gum embarrassing to hear clips of sarah palin’s “goshdarnit this” and “doggonit that” during the american veep debate last week. do her handlers truly think america wants/needs elly-may clampett a heartbeat away from the oval office? the whole point of electing leaders is that they have demonstrated AN ABILITY TO LEAD. i do not want a “regular” “average” “ordinary” “joe sixpack” or “joe lunchbucket” anywhere near the white house, or as PM of canada for that matter.
forgive me, but i want important political decisions that are going to affect my future — and the future of this seriously troubled planet — to be made by intelligent, articulate, well-educated people with an understanding of foreign affairs, economics, climate change and social issues; people who get that freedom of religion includes freedom FROM religion. i would be really impressed if the candidates knew MORE about all of these issues than i do. yet, strangely, intelligence in a candidate has somewhere along the way become a negative thing. intellectual = elitist = too hoity-toity for The Average Voter to understand or appreciate. in canada, some people seem to think that wearing a sweater makes you look more like a warm-and-fuzzy “ordinary” citizen and therefore deserving of a majority government. i have nothing against sweaters, in fact i own quite a few of them, but if i ever run for office i sincerely hope that people don’t vote for me merely because i shop at eddie bauer.
i recently heard somebody theorizing that american voters liked george w. bush because they felt he was someone they could sit down and have a beer with. that “ordinary joe” thing. i don’t know how true that is — but it did seem to work for ralph klein here in severely normal alberta. up in good ol’ snow white alaska, just this side of russia, ms. palin — she of all those doggone main-street yankee values like moose-hunting, book-banning and revenge-firing — seems to genuinely believe that she’s qualified for the vice-presidency of the united states of america because, gee whiz, she is able to find a soccer field with an SUV! and there are people who applaud her for this.
sorry, but i don’t think being a soccer mom or a hockey dad demonstrates that you are qualified for anything except maybe capable doing a lot of laundry and treating a dozen rug rats to an occasional post-tournament pizza.
and should you really cast your vote for someone on the basis of how much of a “regular joe” they are; regular as in they are fun to have a drink with because they drink coors and not cab sav? i know a lot of people who are really fun to drink with, but i wouldn’t want any of them near the red phone when the planet is invaded by aliens; or having the power to decide whether i should be allowed to have an abortion or marry a same-sex partner. why? because they’re ordinary. and being the leader of a nation and making those kinds of decisions is not ordinary work. it takes brains, and integrity, and a sense of fairness, and justice, and tolerance, and enthusiasm and a special kind of energy and vision and passion and compassion … and that is why most of us are not qualified to do it. most of us, thankfully, recognize this, and that is why we are so glad and grateful when that rare someone comes along who IS qualified to do it.
one of the recurring side themes on the now-defunct West Wing television show involved the fear that u.s. president jed bartlet was “too smart,” and the concern (from within his own party) that his intelligence might be held against him on election day — people don’t want a smarty-pants in the white house, after all.
frankly, i’ll take a smarty-pants over an “ordinary joe” any day.
it is not unreasonable to expect some measure of the extraordinary, of the exceptional, from the people who want to lead your country into the future. from the people who are asking for your vote.
your plain, old, ordinary vote.
remember this on october 14.
spare us the ordinary.
vote smart.
if you missed it … too bad. we can’t get it back. you’ll just have to trust me that it was freakin’ awesome.
we’re now living in a post-po-fest world … and those of us who stopped by the ARTery last night are all the better for it.
when i was in grade 6 i loved those alfred hitchcock collections full of murder mysteries and quirky tales of the macabre. so when john lavallee offered to swap me a 50-cent paperback hitchcock anthology for a bic pen, i didn’t waste any time saying yes.
the book featured lots of neat dark stories … many of them i still remember. one in particular has stayed with me for almost four decades. i don’t recall the author’s name but the title was “For All The Rude People.” It was about a guy who decided to wreak a little vigilante justice (e.g. death) to people he observed treating other people like crap.
now I’m not about to take things that far, but I do find myself thinking about the character in that story more and more these days. particularly when i’m on the bus. because stepping onto an edmonton transit bus seems to turn otherwise polite citizens into completely insensitive, inconsiderate dorks. so i’ve decided this behaviour should not go unpunished. don’t worry, i’m not going to follow you to the end of the line and kill you, like the fellow in the alfred hitchcock story did. but i am going to rant about you and your ignorant, offensive, childish behaviour in this blog from time to time, in the hope that pointing out your social flaws helps improve your manners and ultimately makes the world a better place.
let’s start with this afternoon, when i was on my way home from the drugstore. the bus was full, but since i didn’t have very far to go, i didn’t mind standing near the back. however, an elderly gentleman boarded the bus a few minutes later, and he also ended up having to stand because there were no empty seats.
i did a quick scan of the seated passengers in the front half of the bus. there were at least six white males, all clearly under the age of 30. sitting. yep, six able-bodied strapping young men remained in their seats while a senior citizen stood unsteadily in the aisle.
eventually someone stood and offered a seat to the grey-haired gent. but it wasn’t any of the young men. it was a young woman in her 20s.
now if you’re about to suggest that feminism is to blame for the death of common courtesy, think again. this isn’t about men opening doors for women, or lighting their cigarettes. this is about people being courteous to each other, period. when seniors, or disabled persons, or pregnant women, or women with kids in strollers board the bus, and you’ve got two working legs, act like you’ve still got the good sense the goddess gave you and GIVE UP YOUR SEAT. it’s not rocket surgery. (and oh, move your backpack off the seat beside you, too. why should your bag ride when someone else is forced to stand?)
next on the hit list is celebrity hat etiquette: when you play for the oilers, and you’re dining in public, take your freakin’ baseball cap off at the table. i don’t care how much money you make not scoring goals, dude, it is grossly disrespectful to wear your hat to the table. it suggests you were born in a barn, and lack even the most basic of social skills. so unless you’re camping, or at a barbecue, lose the lid. An NHL contract is not a licence to behave like a boor. like it or not, you’re a role model to some of the kids in this town, so here’s an idea: act like your momma raised you right.
another public transit horror: i recently overheard two young dudes, both of whom appeared to be around the age of 20, chatting while they blocked the back doors of a bus (infraction No. 1: don’t stand in front of the doors. It’s an exit, not a dance floor). one guy very loudly said to the other: “hey, d’ya wanna know how to fix your dishwasher?” the other guy said “how?” & the first guy roared: “HIT HER!!!” at which point they both laughed uproariously, like this was the funniest thing either of them had ever heard.
now listen up, assholes: sexism is not funny. physical abuse is not funny. domestic violence is not funny. it’s a crying shame that in this day and age, boys like you are still somehow picking up signals that it’s not merely OK to beat up the women in your lives, it’s downright amusing.
that is way beyond rude, gentlemen. it’s a disgrace.
dishonorable mention: to the large sweaty guy in the “overworked and underf*ked” T-shirt — here’s a quarter, go out and buy a clue. you wanna get lucky? try being a lot less vulgar. a walking billboard for profanity may work in the WWF, but it doesn’t exactly send out “man of your dreams” vibes, sugar.
for jennifer and joan,
with gratitude
We have all been here
together, before.
What you need, you will find.
Is it answers you seek? Truth? Tranquility?
Or merely … possibility?
From this place I will take:
The power of the circle. Spirals.
The breaths of a million years ago.
Blessings. The ancient, inviting scent
of the temples.
White lace. Black Madonna.
Red peppers. Green olives. Yellow sun.
Pink morning sky. Several sets of purple toenails.
The bluest water I have ever seen…
and the big orange glow
of a Gozitan moon.
Goat cheese. Garlic. Sun-dried tomatoes.
Honey sesame bread. Hummus.
And eggplant,
permanently tattooed on my tongue.
Cisk lager. Hop Leaf. Kinnie.
Piercingly strong, dark coffee.
Tales of scotch and water for breakfast.
Listen: Xlendi. Ghajnsielem. Tarxien.
Hagar Qim. What do you hear in the names?
Valetta. Marsaxlokk. Mnajdra. Ggantija …
How many faces can you see in the stone?
This place has made us feel sacred.
Timeless.
In awe. In tune.
Centred.
Blessed.
At peace … Home.
This place has given us
visions of living limestone. Sweet, smooth rock.
Magic beans. Swollen vulvas.
Exquisite fat ladies … Maiden, Mother, Crone.
Wrapped in the loving arm of a giantess
we have been tugged
inside the dreaming,
closer to the lap of the goddess …
a place of radical joy
where we feel grateful for love … vision …
healing … music …
for everything.
you have done ritual before.
If you change places,
your name won’t know where to find you.
what i expected is not what i got.
i need to do more of this.
Look at that moon.
You can’t get much more
hot-damn halleluiah
than that!
My other name is … bursting at the seams.
I am divinity and I am nothing.
All will be answered in time.
I don’t need to be anxious; I can just let it come.
we can come here and circle,
and i can experience nirvana
… i appreciate the breaths.
So what intrigues you more?
The sleeping lady
or the slamming door?
revealing, renewal, revision
returning …
the story
is about
to change.
i wore my lover’s garden faux-Crocs to work today. only partly because it is joyously hot and i’m growing weary of socks; mostly because i was half asleep when I walked out the door. still kinda sticky and buzzing from the opening night of folkfest. conscious enough, however, to remember to grab the headphones & plug in the shuffle for a little musical inspiration on the slow stroll to the bus stop … because some mornings ya gotta wake up the ears first, and if you’re lucky the brain and mouth eventually, if somewhat reluctantly, will fall into step as well.
the unit is always on random play, so i sleepwalked through melissa etheridge’s similar features and managed to dodge the morning rush hour traffic (considerably thinner than usual, due to august vacations) while marianne faithful husked out as tears go by. as the trusty ol’ #106 turned off the quesnell bridge and curled around into fox drive, i skipped over rufus wainwright’s version of hallelujah and love hurts by nazareth in search of something to grab me with both hands and yank me into TGIF mode. and then bingo — there it was, sympathy for the devil. the perfect anthem to jack me through those office doors and into the corporate elevator … because it’s friday, it’s day 2 of the edmonton folk music festival, and sometimes ya just need a little mick ta get the synapses over the hump for that 9 a.m. meeting.
see ya on the hill …
It also fits with this week’s Totally Optional Prompt: “Lost Stuff.”
his pictures still hang on the walls
the closets still smell of his clothes
the big desk in the spare bedroom still buried under papers, books,
bird lists, photographs …
the daily journal entries of his life
his paintings are in the cellar
leaning in stacks against musty walls
covered in cobwebs and dust, mouse droppings
the colours dying
he stopped painting after we were born
deciding a young wife and three small children
left little time for meandering through the woods
toting easel and oils
counting thrushes and sketching landscapes
the last time he picked up a brush
was to paint a portrait of me.
i remember sitting in a big armchair
trying to keep still
while he transformed an ordinary piece of board
into a remarkable likeness of the six-year-old girl i was back then.
that portrait is gone now
lost somewhere between the great lakes and the prairies
misplaced? or left behind, or just plain vanished…
and how could i have been so careless?
when i come again to my father’s house
someone else’s pictures will hang on the walls
someone else’s grocery list will be tacked to the fridge
someone else’s dishes will clutter the sink
someone else will have filled the birdfeeder
patched the boathouse, tied up the dock
swept the leaves off the deck
someone else’s clothes will fill the closets
someone else’s paintings will gather dust in the cellar
We haven’t written letters
not needing to remind ourselves
that he’s himself there
and I’m myself here.
Once we went over each other
like with rough hands, arguing
for every hard corner of a reason
stuck out on each of us.
But that each was each we agreed
and because we were two … one.
We actually met once, since;
he wrinkled up a grin, I nodded
we said hello.
We haven’t written letters
Not needing to remind ourselves
that the things we do make roots
sucking sweet water.
Like he’s a tree out there
I can stretch out to lean on.
He won’t move.
spatherdab 
