The 30′s had a lot of hard-working folks who just couldn’t find honest work, but then there were guys like me who avoided honest work completely. That’s why I moved to the coast, it’s the easiest place to live without really trying.
I’d been in town long enough to know who the strangers were, and one day this ship came in looking for crew, a guy I’d never seen before. Says he’s looking for two men, three nights, no questions asked. The pay is great so I get a friend, and no questions asked, we load the ship up around midnight and set sail before sunrise.
Right away I get into it with the boss. Won’t tell us where we’re going or what we’re carrying. Big heavy crates, no labels, doesn’t even say which end is up. I must’ve asked a dozen times what was in ‘em, nothing. Could be dangerous, I tell him, allergies and all that, but he doesn’t care.
Continued…
My Regular Mind, posted on July 21, 2010 at 10h38
After Ultimate last night, someone pointed out that one of our opponents was missing a hand. My first reaction was to feel guilty for playing as hard as I normally would, but later reflection left me wondering. Surely by playing a sport that so frequent involves the hands she must want to be treated equally, so if I had adjusted my level of play, wouldn’t that have been insulting? Would I have played differently had I known before or during the game?
At a tournament many years ago, an opponent was missing most of his left arm. This was a much more noticeable amputation, and I found myself changing my intensity while covering him. Not smart. This guy knew the game and he was fast. Even when I was firing on all pistons, I barely kept up with him. I couldn’t treat him like anyone else; he was too good.
This makes me wonder about other physical limitations. Like how I’ll always take advantage of a mismatch with a slow defender. This is of course just good strategy. But what if instead of a slow defender, it was someone who was blind in one eye and I purposefully stayed to that side? Would that be fair play or would I be capitalizing on disadvantages?
The thought I had while making my way home last night was how my actions change, consciously or not, when my awareness changes. The conclusion I came to — at least as far as sport goes — is that if you’re coming to my house, be ready to play. But if we’re going to a tea party, well, I’ll take it down a notch.
Poems, posted on July 17, 2010 at 03h37
When once I was so mighty
And stood against the storm
Now the wind blows lightly
And all my roots are torn
I’m weathered, weak, and wilting
And collapse upon the floor
Not mighty, but soon I will be
And brave the storm once more
As inspired years ago, at my most fragile.
Crime of Life, posted on July 15, 2010 at 03h36
There are times when we hear something that makes us rethink our entire life’s habits. As example, I was visiting a small town in Alberta shortly after a friend’s wedding, talking to two people from high school that I hadn’t seen in years. I started telling a funny story about a shady pub I went to once, wherein two drunk people were cursing each other out, back and forth, repeating the same two words over and over. Except in the story as I told it that day, they weren’t just drunk people: they were drunk Indians.
One of the people I was talking to turned to his friend and said, “See? I told you! It’s not a drunk person, it’s a drunk Indian. It’s always a drunk Indian.”
It wasn’t at this point in the story that I totally understood his meaning, but when I did, I realized my discrimination. And further to this, it wasn’t even about Indians, or Natives, or whatever label might be applied; it was about unnecessary details and why they are used. The story I was telling wasn’t particularly funny itself; it was the stereotype of the characters involved. These days I consider the relevancy of those extra details.
Today I no longer have black friends or white friends, Jewish friends or Native; I just have friends. And if you ask me to describe them, I’d tell you what you need to know.
Comicles, posted on July 11, 2010 at 05h16
Before humans came along, borders of course did not exist. We made them up. And when we did, the land didn’t change, the air didn’t change… nothing changed except us. We started to believe that our invisible lines were better than anyone else’s. And this lead to many intense rivalries between people on different sides of these silly invisible lines. So with that, today’s word of the day is:
Patriotism (noun): the belief that the invisible boundary surrounding the relative place of your birth is somehow superior to everywhere else. (Similar to the my-dad-can-beat-up-your-dad phenomenon.)
Really, people, can’t we all just be buddies?
Note: this Comicle is presented in fabulous black and white so you can colour outside the lines! Fun!
Additional note: as has been pointed out to me by Eric — a man who changes his web theme more frequently than I change my socks — I actually defined nationalism, not patriotism. Properly, it should read: “Patriotism (noun): the belief that the invisible boundary surrounding the relative place of your birth is FREAKING AWESOME.”
Poems, posted on July 6, 2010 at 08h31
The swallow that sings as the sun is rising
Feels sorrow as the sunlight fades
The days to come are promised to none
So sing for tomorrow today
As inspired by Belize, 2007.
When the General came into the shop, he came with thunder. He was an arm of the President — the arm with the sword — and his questions were commands to be followed without question.
“Printer!” barked the General. “Will you make posters to hang in the city! Will you tell the people the truth about their glorious President!”
Work was slow and money hard to come by. Food was nearly impossible to find anywhere, every market was empty. The Printer was shaking, he had so little to eat.
The President was generous to his few loyal supporters. His General was ruthless with the rest. It was unwise to disagree with their requests, and really, what bother is it to anyone if it’s truth being printed or not? And what was truth anyway? Truth is printed all the time, by anyone! Let the people do as they will!
At the end of each day, he returned home and in the abundant food for his family he found truth. And each morning, it was lost, and he entered his shop a liar. When the door closed behind him, it sounded like thunder.
And so it went each day for months and years, his hands covered in the dark ink of the government. He could not care what horrible shapes the ink took. He would not look at it any more than to check the coverage. Day after day, he laboured.
The colour was the richest black. It was his pride.
