Ethics of Living and Dying

Although, to be honest, I'm tired of hearing about the issue, and I hope that after today, it will be laid to rest. This issue has been so emotionally charged, and I wish peace to the family involved. However, I just wanted to discuss some of my reactions to what I regarded as a highly creative and insightful piece. I think it would be something like this in reality if she woke up.

It is interesting that while there seems to be many who protest the removal of a feeding tube for supposed ethical reasons, many people say that they would not want to live in a vegetative state themselves. So whether those who are pro-right to dying are just not speaking in fear of being seen callous or not, I don't know.

It was interesting to hear someone from this side of the ethical argument saying succintly what I've thought: that the issue is really about whether we support a kind of life that is beneficial to the individual (and what 'beneficial' means). I think many agree that in the case of an individual who has been in a coma for 15 years and whose brain tissue has been replaced with fluid, there is no beneficial purpose to living.

In that case, if I were in a vegetative state, I would prefer to have the right to die and hope, despite Bush's recent contrary defining of the word 'strength' that those who were caring for me would have the strength to pull my tube out.

A Long Deep Thought (Or so he would have the photographer believe)

Here I am on the roof of Johnny's beach-house. Notice the wicked new style aka the matrixy black coat that Johnny and I looked high and low to find, then knew immediately was a fit. If only you could see the shoes I'm wearing right now, you'd probably faint. Sidenote: notice how my shoulders slope. I barely have shoulders but the way they are here is already an improvement. Before they were so hunched you'd think I was Golem. However, I'm structurally improving every day. Thanks to Johnny for strategically beating my shoulder blades in.
 

Costa da Caparica

Time seems timeless right now, or at least shifting. It’s been very warm the last few days (well, 15 degrees celcius IS balmy) and the snow has almost melted away. People are all coming out of their cabin fever and replacing their symptoms with spring fever, hence the army of joggers and the heightened frequency of short skirts. I’ve been feeling somewhat carefree, but mostly restless to get school over with and start work for the summer.

Lately my sleep patterns have been unpredictable at best, and irregular. I feel like I do here in this picture, brought back full circle, stopping to think, as I know that time is limited –at least as a category for certain moments. I woke up this evening after a nap –still trying to recover from this hell weekend, went upstairs to find a note from my parents, the soup cold, and no one home.

Howard left this Monday on another exchange. I had some soup and watched Sex and the City and thought of the glamorous lives of Samantha Jones, her constant need to monitor and spin PR blab, Charlotte, with her good intentions for Elizabeth Taylor, her show dog, who unwittingly gets gang-banged in the park on her ‘victory lap’, Carrie Bradshawe, her struggles with being a writer AND being able to nurture a comfortable relationship with ‘The Russian,’ who replaces but does not allow her to forget about Mr.Big and the lawyer, (I’m sure all you attentive fans know who I mean) who has such a doting, sweet boyfriend, Steve. I mentally distracted myself from the assignments, media kits, interviews, surveys, advertising scripts, organizational behaviour exams and awareness campaigns, and drank a chocolate milkshake, thinking of Howard and how he almost learned his lesson in Portugal.

Now that school is almost over, I have kind of a deontological attitude about it. What is done is done, but I should definitely follow my plan, and learn as much as I can, no matter what. I’m not enjoying it, but I want to make the best of it. I’ve had too many days in class where I’ve just been such a Johnny rotten with my Helen moods and snappy mouth, so lately I’ve been trying to be as pleasant as a grandma that smells of lavender and finds every day lovely. I’ve tried to talk to my classmates as much as possible and ask them about non-school stuff, in the hopes that if they relax, I’ll relax too. Without the pressure of too much more to go, it doesn’t seem so bad.

In this picture (above), Johnny had taken me to the beach in La Costa. She has a beach house there and she lead me to the roof to seduce me with the view. Although too cold to swim, we walked through the quaint, tourist town, getting a taste of the real fruit ice-cream sandwiches and looking for souvenirs. I found many figurines of saints. It seems the Portuguese are very proud of their Catholicism, and I found just what I was looking for: a bottle stopper with the famous Lisbon cock (as in rooster, you dirty minded fiends!). I had to protect Papoila, her dog, from the vagabond dogs and curious quadrupeds. I waited outside a shop for a little, unsure what to do in this new culture, when the friendly woman who owned the shop assured me that I could come inside and greeted Papoila with a petting. I came inside and ended up finding another pair of perfect brown ankle-hugging casual/dress shoes. They were so priceworthy that I thought perhaps I could also find some runners while I was at it. After trying a couple pairs on, including the ones without laces that Johnny alerted me about being absolutely hideous, we closed the deal with the original pair and walked on. We had to watch out for the glass on the cobblestone, so that Papoila wouldn’t cut her paws, but my feet were feeling koshy, in the padded footclothes. It was a weekday, so it wasn’t so busy, but I felt like a child again, like I was in a theme park where there was cotton candy and colourful images everywhere to appease me. Where nothing made sense but everything was so wonderful. That’s why I got such a kick out of the horsey ride.

When we got to the beach house, I went to the bathroom and turned on the light. Instantly, a radio blared. Apparently, this was Johnny’s father’s idea of burglar-proofing the place. It was beautifully decorated with shells and plastic, or rather, 'wooden' fruit. The family photos and leisure bookshelf made it seem cozy. It is the kind of place I could stay for a few months and forget the rest of the world. With some hunger in my tummy, we decided to take leave of La Costa and go on to our next adventure, after getting what I call “frango mehor.” (Johnny has told me over and over that this combination of words is meaningless and inane, but because I’m ignorant, don’t speak Portuguese and always mix it up with Spanish words, I liked describing the spicy chicken that we got as ‘frango mehor’ because to me, it translated something like ‘major chicken’ or extreme chicken or radical chicken, which it was. I had an endearing relationship with the chicken in Portugal, as I did with the fish, but I’m sure if someone came to Canada and started shouting “chicken bulbous” and laughing hysterically, I’d regard them as a freak. Oh well, the chicken just made me excited ok? (sorry vegans)) Johnny and I got in her magical car, and raced off to our next adventure, but where that was, you'll just have to wait and see.

Short Encapsulation of Good Friday week

I gave my two weeks notice two weeks ago and tonight is officially my last shift. I have to start in about 20 minutes and it will be especially long. I'll have to get my shoulders in twisting mode so that I can slink between the packed bodies to grab bottles and sneakily soak up spills with my handy cloth. It was a good afternoon though. Both Good Friday and today have been nice flaneurish days since I've been treating myself to walks and social time and numerous coffee chats. I went to the comic book store with Kaz, of K-pet, and looked at some grotesque and beautiful images of Swallow, Sandman, and some fairly poor knock-offs of Batman and Batgirl. Kaz and I talked of the news of our current plans, whether to travel, or how it will be when he goes to Tokyo. The faces of the pro-live protestors to Terri Shiavo's controversy about whether a woman in a vegative state should have her feeding tube reinserted or pass quietly away watched us from the newspaper laying on the table and photos of bunnies or headlines about crucifixion or whatever it happened to be, or announcements of rereleases of that Mel Gibson movie I still haven't seen come out. I did see Stepford Wives yesterday though. Quite disturbing when a families are so concerned with appearances that they would prefer a robot spouse to wear like a trophy. Nicole Kidman's characters make me a little nauseous. This one is intense. But it so brilliantly portrays a neurotic that I feel violated just watching it (like I'm supposed to?). The idea is interesting but the story is just to exaggeratorily ridiculous. Christopher Walkin plays a character who runs a very successful business, implanting nanochips into wives brains and overhauling their physique to allow their husbands to manipulate them with remote controls. The day before I had the day off school but went for a counseling session to learn more about my educational facility and worked on a project. Wedsday was normal school but we had a guest speaker who is the head of the broadcasting department, and has been on the air for quite an experience, even broadcasting the rampid fires that were burning down British Columbian forest as they were in it, with first hand contact to the firefighters. He talked to us about radio advertising and creating what he called, the "theatre of the mind" by writing voice scripts. Rushing now as the minutes count down and I still don't have on my uniform. I had to buss bar-run and take care of the entire restaurant last night. I will continue working one shift a week for awhile even though I'm officially DONE because my employer is desperate, and I'm happy to force myself into a little ease-off work as I near my self-imposed holiday from part-time. That will still give me 8 hours extra per week to do fun things like the above. I will also but posting more pictures from my trip and readdressing my Portie experiences. Ah, that wonderful fantastical land. Howard still talks endlessly. Well, until then. Cross your fingers that I don't break too many glasses. Ciao.

*****
-Several hours later-
*****

I tended a bar I've never been through. It was busier than bingo. Staff was energetically worried and frantic. We ran out of glass racks. People were spilling everywhere. We were understaffed. A water line burst. The bar started flooding. The dance floor began flooding. The bussers were occupied with mopping. The water was all turned off. The dishwashers were helpless. There was a lot of swearing and confusion. A lot of mess built up. The bar-runners just dumped cherries all over the kitchen floor. The cook was very angry. So were a lot of people. But the loyal dishwasher almost had to be kicked out. She wasn't betraying her duty. We stuffed the garbage compacter past capacity. It wasn't working. Garbage bags leaked as we lunged them, pushed them, tried to catch their contents. Finally we realized that the garbage was not Jonah, and the compacter was not a whale. There was more than it could swallow. We emptied garbage bins beside the dumpster. We called it quits. It was 3:30. I got tips directly from bartenders. I wiped all the tables. I'd say it wasn't a bad night. Time for sleep. It was my last night. But I'll be back in EITHER this Friday or Saturday. But not both.

Meditative Poem

"Live life so that your pastor doesn't have to tell any lies at your funeral" -my dad

An ill prepared existence leaves its mark,
on the mind disinterested, lacking spark,
or in outcomes organized in ad hoc ways,
mustering strength in numbers that will not stay,

Treading danger into rows,
reflecting on the things it knows.
The human heart palpitates,
spreading out to draw from slates,
of poison, sugar, and/or both
and you're the master chef.

My ever-pleasant activities dwindle down,
the music that I played you doesn't sound,
It's the rhyme of things that went off key,
just when I thought I'd straightened up and be.

Tilling like an somnambulant farmer,
in a field of cluster bombs,
This is not the life of plenty,
I just want to sing my songs.

Beg for forgiveness, beg for glory,
Break down and fight or better yet, make a new story,
You're full of lies and murder, your eyes look out estranged,
but learn to know your image, then you can rearrange.

In the mean time I focus on being a nicer person,
I calculate ways of having to do less math,
I want to come off smoother after years of rehearsing,
I want to feel fresh when I've taken a bath.

To get to tranquility, one needs not traverse excess,
You're not going to learn, just by making a mess,
Be fair with yourself, and don't play lethal games,
Live a fit life that goes well with your name.
@Copyright 2005 SirBarrett

Howard Makes Ice Cream

Howard's long, lanky body stoops over a bowl of his own meticulously prepared, all Howardian Goat milk and maple ice cream. He is caught in the action of furiously spooning out the melting liquid. He greedily smiles and looks up excitedly at me: a sure sign that the mixing process has been successful.

"I'm telling them about you stuffing your face Howard!" "MMM!!" He slirps/coughs out some ice cream. "Now why'd you go an' do that you twit!" "Oh be nice! Tell them your secret!" Howard keeps one eye glued to me and finishes his bowl in detail, like an edgy fox at the waterhole. "I'll tell them what it is." The way he puts down his bowl reminds me of the judge's gavel, his face becoming stern with decision. "That's simple. Give me the blasted keyboard."

WHAT YOU SIMPLY MUST DO IN ORDER, IS: (and children, do not try this at home)
TAP THE CANADIAN MAPLE TO DRAW ONE OF THE MANY ESSENCES OF LIFE: SAP. BOIL IT INTO A NICE BROWN SYRUP.

MILK ONE FEMALE GOAT, DRAWING SEVERAL LITRES OF MILK, IF THE GOAT IS WILLING. IF NOT, UP TO ONE LITRE AND NO MORE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOATS.

HAVE SOMEONE MIX THESE INGREDIENTS FURIOUSLY, WHILE THE ELDEBERRY, OR OTHER SMALL WILD FRUITS ARE ADDED BY MEANS OF DROPPING THEM, ONE BY ONE, FROM A FAIR DISTANCE, BY SOMEONE WHO CAN AIM.

THEN THEY SHALL BE WHIPPED UP IN THE MAELSTROM WITH A SILVER SPOON. HOWEVER, DO USE DISCRETION IN CHOOSING THESE FRUITS, FOR THE WRONG FRUIT CAN LEAD ITS WAY TO WICKEDNESS. ICE CREAM IS PARTICULARLY VULNERABLE TO UPSETS. FOR THIS REASON, NO FRUIT CAN SAFELY BE RECOMMENDED. THE ONLY SOLUTION IS SIMPLY NOT TO INCLUDE FRUIT. SIMPLY USE MAPLE SYRUP, AND MUCH OF IT. THE SUGARS ARE IMPORTANT. YOU MAY ADD STRAWBERRIES LATER, IF YOU MUST.

THE NECESSARY WAY TO CATALYZE THE ENTIRE PROCESS IS TO HAVE SOMEONE POUR THE LIQUID NITROGEN OVER TOP OF THE CREAMING MIXTURE. IT WILL THEN BECOME MORE DIFFICULT TO STIR AS IT FREEZES, BUT THIS IS PRECISELY THE TIME WHEN THE STIRRER MUST SPEED UP. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT THE STIRRER HAS NOT BEEN APPOINTED SIMPLY OUT OF CONVENIENCE, OR NEGLIGENCE OR DRUNKENESS OR VICE OR BECAUSE THEY ARE HUNGRY, OR BECAUSE THEY ARE A FRIEND OR AFFILIATE TO SOME UNRELATED INTEREST GROUP. IF ANY OF THESE THINGS BE THE CASE, THEY SHALL HAVE NO PART IN THE STIRRING, UNLESS THEY ARE TRULY ANXIOUS TO STIR, TO THE POINT THAT THEY CANNOT HUMANLY FAIL AT STIRRING, BECAUSE IT IS SO SINGULARLY THEIR INTEREST TO STIR. THEN YOU MUST GIVE IN.

ADD VANILLA EXTRACT AND PLACE IN THE FREEZER FOR ABOUT 15 MINUTES. AT THIS POINT IT WILL SETTLE ITSELF DOWN, ACCEPT THAT IT IS ICE CREAM, AND BECOME MORE EN MODE FOR INGESTION, LIBERALLY SPEAKING.

WHEN IT IS SERVED AND THE GOAT HAS BEEN WILLING, I ALWAYS THOROUGLY ENJOY EXTRA GOAT MILK TRICKLED OVER THE ICE CREAM, BUNCHED IN ROUND SCOOPS AND DECORATED WITH A MINT LEAF. HOWEVER, IF THE GOAT HAS NOT BEEN WILLING, THE ICE CREAM SCOOPS MAY STILL BE NICELY SHAPED, AND THE MINT LEAF EVER-PRESENT.

IT IS MY RECOMMENDATION THAT YOU STRICTLY REPLICATE THIS METHOD AND DO NOT FOOLISHLY DEVIATE FROM MY WAYS, UNLESS YOU ARE VERY BOLD. IT HAS TAKEN DETERMINATION, BUT MOSTLY, CREATING ICE CREAM HAS MERELY BEEN AN EXERCISE OF ACCESSING MY DESIRE FOR BOTH THE CHEMO AND THE THERMO SIDES OF TASTE.

THE "TASTE" (IF YOU WILL CALL IT THAT, EVEN THOUGH IT REFERS TO MUCH MORE THAN JUST THE TASTE BUDS) IS SOMETHING THAT HAS MADE ME PROUD TO BE A WAYWORD, FOR I DON'T IMAGINE I'D HAVE STUMBLED ACROSS THIS ICE CREAMING METHOD, WERE IT NOT IN SOME EXPERIMENTAL WAY. IT IS THROUGH THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOME TRADITION AND ALTERNATIVE METHODS, STUDY, CONCENTRATION AND THE HELP AND RESOURCES OF MY BROTHER HENRICK, WHO HAS A MAPLE FARM AT AN UNDISCLOSED REGION IN ONTARIO THAT I WAS ABLE TO BEGIN LIVING THIS DREAM.

WE WERE JUST HARVESTING THE SAVED BOTTLES OF MAPLE SYRUP FROM NOVEMBER WHEN THE TREES WERE FULL, AND THEIR BARK COLD. LUCKILY MY ICE CREAM HAS BEEN CONSISTENT NOW SINCE 1999. LOOK FOR IT IN YOUR STORES:
All Howardian Goat Milk and Maple Ice Cream

Now Howard has handed me back the keyboard. He tips his hat and says "Well, that's all there is to it. Anyhow, I'm off to bed." (Howard has a guest room upstairs that he comes to use about once every few months, just as an emergency thing, so that he doesn't have to worry about accomodations when he's just breezing through the province). Now I want some ice cream though. I'll have to stop him. "So if you made a big batch of it, where did you store all the rest of the ice cream, Howard?"


Filed under Howard Wayword

Nelson Mandela and Will Smith Team up to Fight AIDS

I wrote an (slightly altered version of the following) article for an assignment, from the point of view of Artists Against AIDS Worldwide Canada, a fictional offshoot of the real AAAW but I also greatly admire Nelson Mandela, and the concert sounds good, so perhaps it's suitable to post for general interest.

Nelson Mandela will be hosting an AIDS benefit concert today (March 19, 2005) in George, South Africa. It will boost the effort to treat the ever growing global epidemic which is intense in the ex-president’s home. So that it’s not all doom and gloom, Will Smith, the hilarious actor and star of Hitch, will host the show. Both celebrities have been on Oprah, and they will be working together to bring together this diverse collaboration of musicians. They include Annie Lennox and Queen, as well as local musicians and teen stars.

Nelson Mandela may have retired but at the age of 86 his public presence just won’t quit. He is a world-renowned activist who has seen many changes in his lifetime. He spent years in prison and helped put an end to Apartheid. However, he obviously feels a continuing need to lead us to find solutions to problems like poverty, which contribute to AIDS. While in London for a rally against poverty he said: “I recently formally announced my retirement from public life and should really not be here[.] However, as long as poverty, injustice and gross inequality persist in our world, none of us can truly rest." (1)

The world would be a different place if Nelson Mandela weren’t here. His son died of an AIDS-related illness this past year. One might think that faced with that situation one would just give up. Instead, he spoke of the need to talk openly about AIDS and not let it fester silently without raising a hand to stop it. What with about 25 of the world’s 40 million HIV-positive people living in Africa , and there being 70,000 babies born with AIDS in South Africa (2) every year, Nelson Mandela’s Children’s Fund was set up to help create a better future for us all. The program provides education, health care and support programs. He said that “without children the world ceases to exist” and this is certainly true not only when we think of what reproduction means, but also in the sense that without children and hope for the future the world would no longer be a meaningful place.

Poverty and disease are ultimately issues of democracy, since it is our duty as a civil society to ensure that every child has the chance to grow up with education and a choice to make a difference. If we can extend democracy, then “our children should be prepared to build an even better society than we ourselves were.” (3)

So there is no reason why this concert shouldn’t be a huge success. Nelson Mandela’s last “46664” (his prison number) concert was attended by 40,000 people and viewed by two billion people worldwide. Nestled in between the coast and the Outeniqua mountains, the village of George is full of history and offers good accommodations for visitors from abroad. (4) This is a rare opportunity to see new and old musicians, and with a host like Will Smith, it should draw together people from all over the globe.(5)

2/ Associated Press, Feb 14, 2005.


Filed under Heros

Idling

Having a strange moment of boredom just now. No one is on msn. The school looked like a ghost town today. Has everyone gone missing? No, just busy probably. It was lioness' birthday today. woot! Here I am sitting at my computer, alone in my house. Apparently, because of Dr.Phil's influence, my father was coerced into taking my mother out for dinner. I will not throw a possesive child temper tantrum. Couples are supposed to do this thing. My parents have always had a good relationship but they had five kids. I think it's good for them to get out on their own once in awhile. Wow, you know you're bored when what your parents do seems exciting! No, that's not true BC, don't say that. Parents are cool. Ok.

So, it was a busy week but only because I spent a lot of time doing tedious things like running around getting transcripts in the hope of being admitted late for Fanshawe college. I'd like to do a post-grad one year program instead of the diploma PR program I'm doing now and finish at the same time as I would next spring. I think I'd benefit from a change in geography. This year I'm sheltered, and it's fine, but, it's strange. I don't really connect with my classmates, I hadn't researched the program before I started, I'm always late and tired because of my schedule, things just make me go blech! I'm not used to living at home. That's why I often escape to Guelph, where I lived last year, but yet, I don't really fit there anymore either.

I also got some info about teaching english abroad, which would be awesome. I have a craving to see more of the world. I originally wanted to teach right after university, but I didn't get into teacher's college. Why not teach a skill I already have and is it high demand: english-speaking! I stayed up late on Wednesday trying to figure out my new recording software. I yipped with glee at finally being able to record multiple tracks but then disappointed myself at not being able to smoothly loop a midi track that I created. There are so many features it's amazing, but it also means I'll need to do some fiddling and hone my technical skills so that my voice and guitar can be arranged and accompanied so that the listening ear will be stopped dead in its tracks. I'm not a perfectionist because I believe that the process of recording always interferes/influences the music, but it can do that in a complimentary way and there's no reason why I can't just keep storing multiple versions of my songs and just keep on trying to fail better the next time.

I saw Mr.S who is going to Dominican Republic for a vacation tomorrow. Have fun buddy. Although I didn't get my anxious hands on his bass for some novel pleasure, we had a green beer to celebrate the snake killer and saw some punk bands. I don't like punk, or at least I haven't gotten into it. However, seeing people with gashes painted on their faces and publicity stunts involving syran-wrap and nudity was nostalgic of my teenage days when I'd go to an indy concert almost every week, to get out and rebel. Everyone needs one of those sentimental reflections once in awhile.

I went over to my friend Justin's to read through a script about a man who's offered a job to work at creating poisonous gas in a lab for the purposes of war. It was written in the thirties but the dialogue is a bit clunky, we agreed. It was hard for him to appropriate the angre he feels as the character leading up to the closing line which is something like: "I'd like to give your kind a sock in the mouth" at which point he punches the industrialist. At first he seems to go along with the coersion his boss is offering to lure him into the position, but then as he remembers how his brother was killed at the front, how his mother just couldn't take another death, and how he is being asked to spy on his coworkers, he simply cannot settle for that. It is good to see Justin doing well, keeping busy acting, modeling and caregiving. He's a well-rounded guy.

So, now school is consciously getting near its end for the year and the future has many opportunities both certain and uncertain. I'm sure I'll feel mentally and physically healthier once I start working full-time with a cash reward system instead of a reward system that involves numbers on paper that cannot be exchanged for commercial value on tests and assignments. I'll be busy and not so cold. I'll be finishing my part-time job after next weekend so then I'll be able to break out of the late-night routine that although consistent, I've grown to dislike.

All these factors will help me be able to plan in the future and take up things I've had to sacrifice because of the scholastic season. I've been frustrated with a lot of things lately, but then at the same time, more and more things have been falling into place, relieving me, reassuring me. I'm really looking forward to it all. So, I guess I'm not so bored, just taking a breather, in order to finish the marathon. I thank my blog for giving me this space to close the door on outer distractions and just inhale. It is always here for me. My set of current tasks are just one race which is snowballing into more, but that is good because I simply cannot stand being idle.

Friendly US Firer Still Not Sorry

U.S. pilot who dropped bomb on Canadian soldiers haunted by memories

Pumped up on "go pills" on an 11 hour flight mission in Afganistan on April 17, 2002, US pilot Maj. Harry Schmidt dropped the bomb that killed four Canadians and injured eight more. They were part of the Edmonton-based Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry. He says it wasn't his fault. It was the fog. It was the fog that made him not recognize the Canadians who were doing a live fire exercise on the ground. He thought that they might be the Taliban instead. It was a foggy so he couldn't really see much, except he saw fire, so he dropped the bomb.

He still hasn't apologized. Bush did that officially for him. The message was sent along. The apology was official, professional, but impersonal and ingenuine. If someone had to tell me my son was dead because someone thought they looked vaguely like the al-Queda, I'd want some first-hand explanation. But afterall, according to him it is not his duty or responsibility to apologize. One might see him as a little stubborn. He conjures up a situation of himself as a helpless victim of autocracy. It would be different if he had his own liberty to exercise his conscience (yes, try to entertain the argument) or his will perhaps, but as he says, he was "just along for the ride."

Now, everyone makes mistakes. There's a whole list of them here. I guess that's how you justify dropping a bomb on a wedding, or your submarine kills a bunch of Japanese schoolchildren -I'm only human, cut me some slack. As one of my much-loved English professors, Gregor Campbell, once asked: "how do you apologize for bombing someone's village?"

Perhaps that is the question Maj. Harry Schmidt is struggling with, or at least one that is similar. He hasn't even had time to deal with greif because he's had to defend everyone including the military and his family for the actions that the military itself deemed "arrogant" and undisciplined. What a martyr he is for putting away his own sensitivity for the benefit of us all! He is such a rock!

It was stupid that no one informed him that Canadians would be practicing in the area, but if he had no go-ahead then why did he make up his own rules? When permission to drop the bomb was denied, he did it anyway. It is not as if his nerves just accidentally seized up and he pressed a wrong button unpremeditatively. He just did it anyway. Maybe he just felt like finishing up his shift early. I don't know.

I realize that I empathize with soldiers only as someone who knows nothing about the stress of always being potentially under attack by terrorists, except that as a Canadian or as a pacifist or as a guy who likes to walk on the left side of the street sometimes wearing headphones and blowing bubbles, I AM always potentially under attack by terrorists. I've had controlling bosses in the past, but if a job tells me to do things that go against my conscience, I quit. In the case of soldiers, they go AWOL. In this case, NO ONE EVEN ASKED HIM TO DROP A BOMB. So I guess I just don't understand why, even if he's not sorry because of some PTSS or other encephalous malfunction, he doesn't just apologize anyway. He could monotonously say "sorry" since his track record proves that he can be impulsive at times. It would be something.

News Reviews

Time ticks away as I look for the Castelo Sao Jorge. I don't know exactly what I'm getting into by going through this gate. 

This is the gate to Rua Augusta from the "Black Horse square." 

The statue in the square. since you asked, I found out that this is the "praca do comercio", or as some call it the "Black Horse Square." named after King Jose I indeed. It is part of the palace or Terreiro do Paço that survived the 1755 earthquake that struck by the water.  

"For God so loved the World, that He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have everlasting life" prince of peace, Nazerean, son of God and son of man, the Messiah. The one who was not sent "into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved" John 3:16-7 It was He, who came not to serve "but to serve and to give His life a ransom for many." -Mark 10:45

He who healed the suffering, calmed the seas and forgave them for not knowing what they did. It was He through whom we could be found when we were lost, NOT this statue. (I was still lost) However, this statue was set up to please directionless wretches like me along the way, and so I took this picture, in rememberance of Him.  

ah! Irresistable backways! 

picture of a picture of a picture 

no comment. Pictures speak for themselves 

These are some glimpses of the streets and sights in Alfama, Lisbon. I see art and dynamic, the prosaic and spiritual, changing of light and colour as I walk along lost and filled with wonder. 

If Only to Get to the Castle: An Alfama Story

While I was in Portugal, I wanted to catch some Euro scenes and see the architechtural feats of the land. Johnny said that I must go to the great castle in Alfama. That way I could ride the subway and the tram and be touristy. She gave me a set of simple directions of how to take the subway to Rossio and then emerge right in the centre of Alfama from underground, she drew me a duck too. She draws the best ducks, but back to the story.

Alfama is one of the older cities in Lisbon on the Iberian peninsula. Everywhere you turn there is an enticing staircase, a welcoming statue, interesting grafitti and a business of children playing, people walking, construction workers tinkering with walls and scaffolds, and women hanging their laundry on the line. Grocery stores hide in the most unsuspecting alley ways and stray dogs live happily as scouts. The problem is, I would have seen none of this if I didn't get to Alfama. Therefore, it would have been helpful to have something like this.

With J's directions and my dictionary, I set out to find the subway. I couldn't find it. I asked for the metro and a woman pointed to a bus stop. Are there not any underground subways? Submundo? Nao? Sim? Maybe you have to take the bus to get to the subway. I've thought of crazier things. So I waited by the bus-stop talking to girl who could understand me better in English than by me looking up individual words in my dictionary. I was worried that the bus wouldn't take euro bills or that it would take me off somewhere I didn't know. I asked the bus driver whether the bus goes to Rossio, then I thought about something I should have thought about before: even if they understand my terrible Portuguese, how will I get any useful information from them when they respond in a language I didn't understand. He went into a fit of language and then I said "ok", hesitated, and got off the bus. Then I ran back to Johnny's apartment for shelter from a world so cruel and strange.

"You were gone for 45 minutes and you didn't even manage to find the subway? It's BEHIND the bus-stop" "OHHH"

I went back to the bus stop and and a few steps more, looked up, and saw the giant red sign that said "Metro". A path in the park led to the elevator, which I tried several times without avail, felt utterly lost once again, wondering how people ride a subway they can't entre, then looked down to see the clever Porties using the alternate route that had escalators.

The next problem was how to use a subway or rather, get to it. There was a gate with two slots, a button and some bars and glass which blocked the entrance. To the right and left there were machines that looked like bank machines. There wasn't any teller who sold tokens like they used to do in the old days and in my country. Welcome to high-tech Lisbon.

The machines were all Portuguese and my bank card wasn't working in it so I stood back and watched someone use it. They saw me back away from the machine like it was tainted meat, so they weren't sure what to make of the situation at first. Was it jinxed? They put in bills, the amount of tickets they wanted and voila! I did the same, however, just to be safe, I got four tickets. I didn't know if you had to use two to transfer lines or what was in store for me. Then I went to face the gates. I told myself positive messages like "you will be granted access to this transportation facility" but my card just didn't work, no it didn't.

A man was walking by so I asked him if he could show me how to use the card. After a one-try demonstration of my current efforts he laughed at me and pointed to the arrow on the card. Of course! That's the end that has to go in! Even the familiar seems foreign when you're a stranger but I did it, the light went green and I made an inaudible ~whish~ as the air resisted against my body movement and I went through.

I found the proper exit on the map and got on the subway. I didn't know what direction I was going in so I looked up "west" which matched the signs. Handy things, signs. Lucky I was going the right way, Howard would be disappointed if I didn't meet him. I got to Alfama and came out of the ground like a gleeful zombie into a beautiful court, full of pigeons and the hustle and bustle of people. I saw many shoe-shine stops with stickers and flags and statements like "Portugal Forever" in Portuguese.

I took off in the first direction I felt like, just happy to travel, not caring but actually hoping I'd get lost. The heights and depths and twists and turns of the streets and stairs were so great I couldn't keep track of where I was going. I could see the castle in the distance, so I would go towards it, but then get diverted. The streets would curve deviously to the left or right and I'd have to start my orienteering anew. Near the triumphant arc near the "praca do commercio" I found street art and shops with souvenirs, and Portuguese romance books and comics.

A man with a rather burnt face pulled me over and being a friendly fellow, I tried to understand what he was saying. He instantly put a pair of sunglasses right on my face and pointed to the glass window indicating that I should take a look at myself. Ah! I'm being sold something, I thought. He tested me in French and then in English until he realized and converted to what I spoke and asked me "what's a good price for you? 50 Euros. See, real Armani, you see?" I pretended not to like any of the sunglasses and I wasn't genuinely interested anyway so it wasn't too hard, although they were really nice glasses. One pair had the nose-piece bend around a coin, I put on another pair and complained that they were crooked. I kept proposing the lowest prices imaginable, I had a pair I liked and wouldn't settle for ten but nine Euros for it. Then I was a happy customer.

So, I started walking away, hoping I could still get to the castle soon but he asked me if I would like some hash as well and began to follow me. I said no and continued walking and he presumed I was doing my same schtick that I did with the glasses and he presumed bartering mode, asking me if it wasn't a good price for me. I'd say "yes, it's a good price, but not for me" "It's a good price? Take it, here. Take it." He would actually put it in my pocket and then I'd have to say, no, take it back. "No, take take!" and he'd wave his hand as if to shew me on my way. If this wasn't motivated selling I don't know what was. He continued: "Moroccan hash, see, smells good" burning a piece of it on his cigarette. He followed me to the statue and I tried to ignore him by taking pictures. I wanted to lose him and he was starting to call me "friend" so I was getting worried. For all I knew he could have been a nark.

I was feeling disappointed. I was feeling overwhelmed. I thought maybe my sense of being lost was starting to show and he was becoming even more persistent. He was getting inside my skull and then I couldn't take it anymore and I raised my voice to him in anguish "I DON'T WANT ANYTHING! I JUST WANT TO FIND THE CASTLE!" Now I realized I was desperate and losing my mind over this castle. I wasn't being a good sport. It wasn't his fault I had no sense of direction or language skill. He didn't deserve this emotional outburst no matter what kind of salesman he was. He sighed and patted me on the back and said "ok my friend, ok" and then he was off. Phew! Now I gotta find the castle, I thought.

So I went along in the direction of the castle upon the hill. I saw it. It was right there. So simple. I could almost reach out and touch it, those rocky fortress walls. But along the way a convent caught my attention, and I figured it wouldn't hurt to stop in on Jesus. The church was a simple but beautiful church. I quietly went up to the man sitting at a desk, writing and asked him if "photographia" was allowed. I showed him my digital camera. Very gentlemanly he said: "for you, certainly."

I always feel strange when I go in a church and it's like a wax museum, and I find that dramatic statues of Jesus bleeding and suffering right over the pews is different than what I'm used to. It's a little like violence pornography.

All churches express themselves and their values differently. In Catholic churches that I've seen, the painting is detailed and they have so much going on visually that you are called into a mood of worship, if not in Jesus Christ then at least for the architechts and interior designers. It's amazing what people can accomplish when they pool resources for specific objectives for God. Perhaps this explains the pyramids. Either way, physical churches have always been and always will be one of the greatest opportunities for masons and others. I cleansed myself with holy water and went back to my mission feeling fresh.

But to get to my big climax and quickly to the denouement. I never got to the castle. Bit of a let-down? Ya, you think so. I got lost because I was cut off from streets that I wanted to get to, could see but was obstructed from by buildings. You cannot just walk between houses like you do here in Canada because they're all attached. For awhile, I was afforded no outer view so I didn't know which direction to go. Regular habitants were at a loss to try to gesture direction with the use of an arm or finger since I didn't speak Portuguese. After awhile I just wanted to get back where I started and I praised the square for being there when I got to it. I had come full circle and I was just so happy not to be "perdido" any longer.

So that is my story about the Sao Jorge castle in Alfama. It is a majestic, beautiful, omnipresent though evasive thing. It stands only accessible to the few (or rather, every other foreigner that comes to Portugal, because if you're going to come to Portugal, there is no point unless your every effort is put towards the successful coming into contact of the Sao Jorge castle). When I came back and told Johnny she laughed at me and I felt bashful, but overall I think the whole experience made me stronger. To quote Pascal roughly about what happiness is: "it is not things, but the pursuit of things." I pursued the castle, and that is what made it all such an adventure.

Howard's Crush

This was one woman who simply blew Howard away (who, by the way, said he was going to post himself, but now is making up excuses based on privacy out of the threat of what he refers to his "dangerously high and vulnerable profile"). We were walking along in Alfama, the old and beautiful city, when he completely stopped and said "Who is that beauty!" His teeth started chattering and he began acting foolish, taking off his hat, then putting it on again, and not knowing how to operate his feet to walk in one direction or another. "Why don't you ask her if she'd like to go for a cup of tea?" I asked. "I cannot think of it. A woman of that caliber would have tea in her toilet," was Howard's response.

I continued walking and then decided that if Howard wasn't going to make a move, I was. She was a little coy and she refused to look at me, but then she saw Howard, and he made her giggle. When she devoted her attention to Howard, he came and basically took over the conversation. We had the chance to engage her in a very interesting discussion about the disintegration of the unity language in the modern feminist movement in the Canadian conscience and elsewhere. She apparently knows quite a bit about many places in the world but she said she decided to settle down in the city of Alfama Portugal because "the people are wonderful, the sights: breath-taking, and I never feel uncomfortable baring my breasts. It just feels natural."


Filed under Howard Wayword

Would you like to get a little more Intimissimi?

As you can see, advertising is thriving in Portugal. In an average day, if you manage to take a walk around the street or you're waiting for a bus, you will see this image 282397862407560765204376.1 times on average. Compare this to the classic models up above. The bows are very cute, but is this an image of intimacy, as what I believe to be the Italian word of this suggests? The word "intimissimi" works well for advertising because it sounds classy, and as I was telling Johnny, the last 2/3rds of it is a palindrome.

She rolled her eyes when she saw that I had taken a picture of this and said that it is very "testosteronic" of me, but I justified myself saying that I wanted to understand it as a piece of advertising, and have a souvenir of something that is an example of female body image pressure to be anorexic. It also took me a couple times of practicing the name before I was able to say it, and by then, I couldn't stop. (Hear the sound of my voice, done Lt. Horatio Caine style, saying very slowly and seductively, "IntiMIssimi..." It's very hot). Luckily, I stopped wearing bras and panties so this ad provides no incentive for me. Ops! I mean, since I don't wear this stuff (ever), I don't need it, obviously, so uh, I'm not corrupted by looking at it at all. bsp;

evening wing

evening wing
Originally uploaded by sirbarrett.

It was the evening of Febuary 23 after rushing away from an advertising exam and escaping for holidays. There was an interesting effect added by the angle of the lens and the long rays of the setting sun. I was probably somewhere over Newfoundland at around 7pm and some of the passengers were dozing off for sleep. Up in the sky, it was a peaceful time, quietly heading towards Portugal.

airport before takeoff

airport before takeoff
Originally uploaded by sirbarrett.

This isn't a picture from Portugal, actually it's at the airport before I left. The sky is shining with hope. I like gazing out at the idle action of the runways and loading docks.

Reclaimed by my Home and Native Land

And I’m totally knackered now. It will be a 29 hour day so why don’t I just enjoy it? I didn’t really get any sleep last night. I am terribly paranoid when it comes to thinking that I’ll miss my flight. I couldn’t sleep, I tossed and turned, and then when Johnny dropped me off at the airport this morning about an hour before departure from Lisboa, I ran around like a neurotic chicken trying to find which gate was which. I made it just in time to prematurely try to board before my number was called, at which the stewardess kindly told me to wait my turn, and I realized my little holiday was over. As I felt the inertia of the plane lift off, I watched the cute Air Portugal planes on the ground, and saw the Portie's get smaller until they were the size of lady bugs.

It was a hell of a long flight. I like flying, but I never like flying back. I should think of that next time I plan on escaping halfway across the world. Not that that would stop me. I too easily outsmart myself. But really, those pillows they give you are ridiculous, and even when you lean your seat back you’re still sitting up, my spinal column just crunched back and forth as I tried to snooze, my neck tying itself into many variations of military knots. I kept looking out the window like a dog does when trapped in a hot car.

Another thing that made the whole thing creepy is that I was sitting beside the exact same person that sat beside me on the way to Portugal. What are the chances of that? I barely noticed until I saw the pants she was wearing, the same ones she had been wearing, which were Chip n’ Pepper pants. That gave her away. How many people wear those? OF ALL THE SEATS AND DAYS TO FLY! If there are about 40 rows of seats, and there are six seats in each row (which there are) then the chances of her being beside me twice on a single flight are 1 in 240 (so really 480), and she could have picked any flight so the chances are even greater. I was meanwhile reading about the chances of intelligent life evolving on this planet from the primordial soup that covered the earth pre-Cambrian era, and thinking about how many strange things happen all the time just because this is a strange world so it makes sense that we would adapt to be such strange beings, and when you’re in the air the world looks like a dinky little joke of a strange spherical carousel, so actually comparably it wasn’t that odd.

Halfway through the flight I was starting to think I was just going mad so I needed to be point blank with her and ask: did you come to Portugal on Wed Feb 23 2003? “Why yes I did! I thought I recognized you!!” Well, that’s one more of us who no longer needs to register at a special institution. Sometimes everything seems like the twilight zone.

I wanted to see land. When I finally saw something other than the Atlantic Ocean my heart jumped and I felt like Columbus, but it was just ice, then the vast unsympathetic ocean resumed. I swear I saw some other land but it was not North America. The Azores??? Anyway, suffice to say when I finally got to Newark New Jersey, I was somewhat relieved, but I had Douglas Adams to read in the meantime so I tried to immerse myself in the adventures of Zaphod Beetlebrox, Ford Prefect and those characters instead of the annoying movies they play on flights these days.

I suppose it is ironic that I was learning how to fly while sitting in a gliding metal box with wings high up in the sky. I was reading Life, the Universe, and Everything, which was fitting because it contained facts from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, most notably, the secret to flying. The trick to flying is that you can’t be too focused on the task at hand. The secret is in the “knack” of being able to throw yourself at the ground and miss. It doesn’t seem to hard when put that way, but I haven’t tried it yet, because I know it will hurt. You have to catch yourself unbeknownst to yourself. In realizing this, I felt some pride in the fact that airplanes don’t really know how to fly because they don’t do it deliberately. They’re just machines after all.

When I got to New Jersey I bolted like a bat out of hell, but then I had to wait forever and re-check my bags because there’s no integrity to luggage transportation anymore since security went all 911. I was getting worried because my guitar, my Lucy wasn’t coming out of the odd baggage retrieval thingy. My Lucy is not odd. She is beautifully musical. Anyway, running back to the rest of my luggage just before it was about to be removed or destroyed or god knows what by some man reading the barcode with his technology, I beseeched him to radio someone about my Lucy. He did and he disappointed me. “Sorry, no one is recognizing this code.” If you don’t get me my guitar I’m going to rip you, I’m thinking. “You’ll have to make a claim in Toronto.” He said, and that was all. So I proceed to the next line, just wanting my guitar and my case with all my songs. What if someone stole it? Can’t these bastards keep an eye on my damn luggage? I’d rather have my guitar than my suitcase dammit!!! I’m cursing to myself, which raised an eye from the security guard, and I’m starting to get really moody about this airport when the man shows up in my periphery with the added familiar bulk of my guitar case in his hand. “Sorry, they just brought it in last minute.” Oh! Life rushed back into my face. I wanted to hug it, but I would have to recheck it right away, so there was no extended instrumentophilia because I continued on to Toronto after enduring some more re-direction to the next gate and the annoyingly cheerful megaphone thanking me for choosing Newark New Jersey Liberty Airport (even though I did not choose it at all. I was forced).

I did not welcome the ugly sight of the grey dull, white snow from above. Yes, Canada is my homeland, but the trees looked anemic and it was a literal let down to be back. I waited patiently and did my claims like a good boy would and now here I am, in my comfy basement. It will be good to relax and unwind and settle. I will share my trip in reverse so that I can relive it retroactively, piece by piece. For now it is good just to be grounded and not wait in any more lines having to have my passport and ticket and remove my belt shoes, gum package or be herded like livestock. My parents took me in and we shared a meal and I gave them the green wine that the Portuguese are famous for. I have pictures of the chronology of my trip, including some shots of the puffy white clouds from beyond beyonds. Can’t be bothered to get the cord to transfer them to the computer now but they will be, oh yes they will. Today I speak of today but tomorrow I will tell of yesterday, and so on, so the Portuguese travels will unravel. Until then, tata.

Just a Note about the future of Portie Writings

I know I haven´t blogged for awhile. Not that anyone NOTIFIED ME!!! BUT I wish to tell you all, my loyal (unabashedly unresponsive) readers, that there are all my writings of Portugal to come. I will tell you of my experiences with Portuguese culture, language, landscape, technological frustrations, and castles of great. I will even have some photographic gems to display. Stay tuned. Once I land in Canada once again, my fingers will be itchy for the keyboard´s touch, and my mind will unravel this adventure, and Howard´s as well. Stay tuned my friends, stay tuned.