What kind of Turtle is this?… (Canadada Experiment)

In keeping with my recent ‘thoughts’ to re-engage with the ‘living world’, I wonder what this is? Any ideas? OK, a turtle – but what KIND of turtle?

Clues: discovered in a dry rocky bed quarry, in a mixed hardwood/softwood forest, several miles from open water near Gravenhurst, Ontario, Canada. Look at that stubby little snout. So cute.

Can anyone tell, by the markings, if it is male or female? Or, how many partners it mates with? Can anyone guess/suggest its age? Is this one ‘healthy’ or ’sick’? What does it eat? What is it’s primary ‘predator’? What should I ‘name’ it?

I KNOW it is a turtle – but when I THINK about it I trip off into all sorts of different realms. In the short term, it is not my desire to ask an expert for ‘classification’ – rather, I am interested to hear what ‘locals’ have to say abut this beastie. So, if you’ve SEEN something akin to this one in your backyard – TELL me how it behaved, and what YOU thought OF when you saw it. How has this creature played a role in the development of your own psyche and imagination? When did you first EXPERIENCE this living thing?

One resonance, for me, is the well-known native story of the ‘turtle’ as the base of the continent – from which all life sprang off and forth. It’s an old story. Could this living thing have greater ‘Truth’ then our current cartoonish anthropomorphic re-makes, like the ‘Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’ or ‘Cecil the Turtle’ or the ever-popular ever-smiling ‘Franklin the Turtle’? Do these cartoons have ANY connection to the REAL THING?  Isn’t this  REAL LIFE ‘object’ infinitely more fascinating, enlightening – and even useful – then it’s mythological one? Superficially, today, it would appear not. The merchanidising and ‘branding’ of cartoon turtles through books, comics and television supercedes any REAL ENCOUNTER with a ‘living turtle’, for most.

I am reminded of a strange incident many years ago. I had raked fallen autumn leaves and decaying debris at the farm and was having  large bonfire to clean up the mess. Crisp wood smoke filled the air, and heat pushed me away from the arcing skyward flames. It was HOT. It was INTENSE. A small boy came and stood beside me, putting up his hand to shield his Self from the heat, he stared at the fire – “Wow!” he exclaimed, “That’s just like a fire in New York!”

I was stunned. This kid had NEVER been to New York. I knew that for a fact. Clearly, this child had never SEEN a fire burn ‘au naturel’. No, his understanding and experience of FIRE was from T.V. , with all it’s pyrotechnics, explosions, and heavily edited nano-second narrative arcs. This revelation was sobering and kind of sad. I gave him the rake and encouraged him to actually EXPERIENCE the fire with ALL his senses. It seemed important to help him build a REAL memory, not an artifiial and ‘unlived’ one.

It’s how I’m feeling and thinking about  ‘turtles’ at the moment. It’s not enough to SEE them on t.v. or even the net. Better to GET OUT THERE and SEE them where they live, breathe, mate, birth and die, no? Even if it’s in a ‘zoo’. … SEE it ALIVE with your OWN EYES.

In the interim, here’s another photograph of DIFFERENT turtles. By the looks of it, a family of turtles, though I have no clue if that ‘big’ one is male or female. And whether or not the ‘partner’ is near-by, or even involved with the continued life of the ‘little ones’. These ones live up in Georgian Bay. I KNOW they are different from the first image shown above. I know they must be able to swim great distances, though I don’t know how that is possible. Maybe it’s because of the natural bouyance of their shells, or maybe they breathe in large air pockets, or maybe they swim underwater – gee, I wonder for how long. 5 minutes? 50 minutes? 5 hours? Are they ‘mud’ turtles? or do they ‘prefer’ dry land? And how is their diet DIFFERENT from the first turtle? If these two KINDS of turtles met, would they mate? and if so, which habitat would they evolve best in? Land or Lake?And look at those snouts – it’s so different from the  first.

Here’s is another shot I ‘clipped’ from a YouTube video of a turtle farm in Indonesia, on Gili Meno. Look how different their appendages are from the ‘feet’ of the former in Georgian Bay.  These are salt-water turtles. They are bred in captivity, and sold to ‘food markets’. I have no idea for how much. I’ve never had turtle soup, or stew. Have you? Could these survive in fresh water? I don’t know. Do you?

Here’s another ‘turtle’ or more rightly, tortoise. (What differentiates a turtle from a tortoise by the way – SIZE alone? The habitat of FRESH versus SALT? Location? WHY can’t I call the FIRST image of this post a tortoise? Maybe it IS a tortoise …

I know, shades of ‘Finding Nemo’ in this shot, but remember, this is a FOR REAL ‘turtle’. Living, breathing, mating, dying somewhere ‘OUT THERE‘.

Tell me your turtle story. I’m suddenly very very interested. Aren’t you?

When & Why Writers DON’T Write …

I’ve been thinking about this for awhile now. Traditionally, it’s called ‘writer’s block’, but I don’t think that adequately addresses ‘the problem’. It’s not as though I don’t have plenty to write about. I think, rather, it’s got more to do with writing something worthy of my readers. I mean, it is just so easy to babble on about nothing. Blogs abound.

I’ve been reading recently about ‘umwelt‘ – a German word that means literally ‘the environment’ or ‘the world around’. Carol Kaesuk Yoon suggests, in her recent tome ‘Naming Nature: The Clash Between Instinct and Science’, that this term, when used by scientists, signifies the perceived world, ” the world perceived by an animal, a view idiosyncratic to each species, fueled by its particular sensory and cognitive powers and limited by its deficits.”  Dogs, she goes on to explain, don’t live in a coloured universe, rather they smell. It is that acuity of smell that DEFINES their world. In much the same way, bees, using their multi-faceted eyes,  are able to detect a spectrum of light invisible to the human eye. Their ‘reality’ guides them to ultraviolet markings on flora. As such, their ‘reality’ too is different then our own. This  is THEIR ‘umwelt’ – a idiosyncratic sensory ‘picture’ – particular to them. Human’s ‘umwelt’ – our shared perceived world – gives us as well our own uniquely stereotypical hard-wired way of perceiving the natural order of living things.

Ultimately this ‘umwelt’ of ours, as it is to any species, is directly related to our perception of what we eat and what eats us. In other words, it defines our perception of the ‘living world’.  I have been trying to articulate this ’sense’ recently when trying to describe the ‘thoughts & feeling’ I get when I am ‘outdoors’. There is a sense of KNOWING that supercedes the gift of language, and the instruction of education. It is innate KNOWING about the natural order of living things.

We all have this innate KNOWING – though, to be sure, it is near BURIED under devices of our own making. ‘Media’ increasingly isolates, then reflects back to us a ‘reality’ that is neither living nor natural. And yet, this innate KNOWING persists. We recognize it when we step away from the screens to watch birds fly in flocks, when we see squirrels run up trees, when we watch as dogs chase each other, when we see a hawk swoop down on a mouse. There are patterns to these behaviours that assist us to find our own place on the planet. Without them we are lost.

When I was a child and lived in the country I was BETTER able to perceive and KNOW this. In truth, I had a greater affinity for it then I do now. There was an empathy and a kind of intuitive understanding that I too often FORGET today.  This KNOWING was the connecting ‘link’ that enabled me to engage with the living world in a way that I sense we are now increasingly and incrementally losing altogether.  This loss worries me.  This loss seems somehow connected to the ‘bigger issues’ of the day – like the economic collapse of North America, the ‘abstractions of financial markets’, the continued degradation of the planet,  and our blinding disregard for OTHER living species – including our own – on the brink of extinction.

In an earlier post in this blog I wrote about ‘patterns in nature’ – something that Marshall McLuhan yabbered on about towards the end of his most illustrious career as a media observer. It seems that as humans we MUST order our perceptions as a means of survival.  Our ‘umwelt’ – our perception of reality – depends on it. Increasingly though, the constant drone of media assaults our attention. It is overwhelming our capacity to SEE the patterns beyond the screens and billboards to a ‘real living vibrant and vital nature‘.  Instead, we stand at railings while interpreters tell us what we are looking at. We cower nervously in FEAR as we gaze upon the living things we no longer KNOW. (Joni was right, ‘We’ve paved paradise and put up a parking lot’.) We no longer love the planet, we just use it. Our ‘dis-connect‘ to the actual ‘living world‘ has become more pronounced. We are floundering, and we are failing. Badly.

My DESIRE to write is connected to this pressing problem. And yet, I cannot find the right combination to DELIVER.

Why? Because the trouble with language today is that most often it is used in the service of those who are hell-bent on selling us something that is seldom necessary for survival.  Thus, we increasingly CONSUME but don’t really LISTEN. Equally,  we SPEAK TOO MUCH without really having anything to say. Likewise, I am AWARE that writing a short story or a poem, or even embarking on a screenplay or novel, is increasingly unlikely to have ANY  impact in a world where so many voices/noises now vying for our limited attention.  The 24/7 media mantra is: “Boot up! Plug in! Tune in – NOW is HAPPENING EVERYWHERE!! “  And collectively, we have jumped on the internet, LOOKING and SEEKING this gratifying promise of IMMEDIATE CONNECTION to ‘NOW’ness.

But what are we actually looking and seeking FOR? Could it be that what we REALLY hunger after is that very  CONNECTION that we want and FEEL when engaging with the natural order of living things?   (When was the last time you actually LISTENED to night outside of the city – listened to the hum of the planet? Just listened? )

In truth, the net is not delivering,  it is diverting. We are, quite simply, deluding ourselves with this never-ending avalanche of  pretty pictures, simulated noises and the on-going seductions of ‘google’. Conclusion? This artifically created ‘NOW is HAPPENING EVERYWHERE‘ blitz is  totally false and completely misleading. it is the ‘double speak’ that Orwell wrote about….

So, you see, this is not, as such, a traditional ‘writer’s block’. Rather, it is a period of observance, a kind of re-grouping, and even a bit of a quiet vigil. I believe we, especially in North America, are losing something vital to our mental health and well-being. We are losing our ‘umwelt‘. It is a worry.

Sharing the stories that RE-CONNECT us to the living world are needed more then ever.

I am giving it thought.  And will return shortly.

On the other hand, I may just throw in the towel, and go farm somewhere.

What was the BEST BOOK of the DECADE?

One book sticks out from the past decade by a COUNTRY MILE,

I have bought several copies &  given it to a number of people.

Chris Patten’s, ‘What Next? Suriving the 21st Century’.

Here are a number of reviews of same to wet your appetite …

From The Independent, link here.

From The Guardian, link here.

From The Spectator, link here.

From London School of Economics, link here.

Overall, an EXCELLENT and PROVOCATIVE read.  Get it.

Happy New Year Canadada Readers.

What book did it for YOU over the past 10 years?

Name it, fiction or non-fiction.

Religion: Hindu, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Pagan or Jew – this post is for you.

One of the most moving expressions of  ‘religion’ ever written: -

“The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. It was the experience of mystery– even if mixed with fear — that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our minds — it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity; in this sense, and in this alone, I am a deeply religious man.”

Albert Einstein, 1870 – 1955

When Brothers Love … (another short story)

He had said, early on, that one can only perceive what one can see. She, naturally, did not agree with him. This had been their way.

When they had last met, they had tried yet again for reconciliation. He had given her a small, hard-carved argillite pendant. As he had given it to her, she had accidentally dropped it and the top edge had chipped off. He gruffly remarked that she was certainly cavalier. She brusquely replied that she was sorry: it was an accident. She slipped the broken rock into her pocket. Soon, however, their escalating bitter words pushed them even further apart, until, finally, they abruptly broke off from each other. Later, alone, separate and thoughtful, they wondered just how they had become so estranged. What was really going on between them?

Meanwhile, she continued to sit for his brother. He had been working on her portrait now for several long months. And while she sat, framed, as she was, by the early morning light from the east-facing window, they would talk, his brother and she, about the ways of seeing.

He was painting her as an angel.   She knew this was stupid. But she said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the flow of his fantasy.  She just sat, hoping he would be finished soon.   It was only a matter of time, in her mind, before he redesigned the glistening wings, darkened the golden aura to some mud sepia, removed the cherry glow from her cheeks. Just a matter of time. Perception, she knew, changes. The wind blows. It is as simple as that. And yet, she sat.   Still, quiet.  Mindful of his intent gaze.   For that reason the portrait was taking an indeterminable amount of time.

She preferred it best just before they began. When they went into the studio barn together they would idle about making tea, or coffee, listening to the weather hiss through the wooden walls.  He might lightly touch her elbow as he gently guided her to the stool. She would tease him about his ever scruffy shoes. She would flow with his motion like she used to flow with his brother’s motion. Within that motion intimacy was the knowing – ‘you belong to my brother’ , ‘I belong to your brother’.  Never spoken of course. But there – in the air. For this reason too, the portrait was taking an indeterminable amount of time.

The final reason that things were taking longer than usual was that he, the painter brother, was falling in love with her.  And as any painter knows, this is not what a painter should do.  It disrupts one’s Work.   It interrupts one’s Ambitions.  But there he was, sable brushing gold fleck around this pretty angel’s face.

This problem was compounded by the simple fact that he was married to a good woman who he loved. He had had two children with her. He loved making love to her, and he loved her making love to him. Yet, here was this angel, sitting quietly, waiting patiently, perched on a stool, bathed in warm sunlight. He knew what a splendid gift his brother had indirectly given him. To fall in love with her seemed the most natural way of saying thank you.  But it was a problem. He knew he could only ever really touch her through his painting.  Her portrait was interrupting all his other work.  He had spoken of it with his wife.  She knew what was happening to him. And she, being the good wife that she was, would always make sure that there was enough tea or coffee in the studio barn before they began their painting sessions.

And so the portrait continued: -

“What do you think, Jack, about painting me in the moonlight?”

He paused. His brush lifted from the painting.

“Nude?”

She turned her head slightly. Looking at him.

“Sure. Why not?”

They held eyes for an instant. Then he looked back to the canvas.

“It would be something.”

“I guess it all depends on when we finish this one,” she said.

He put his brush into the thalo blue.  Pushing it around the oil, thinning it.  She resumed her pose. Exactly.

From her vantage point, she could see out the window. She was able to watch the training arena with its broad white blank railings. The wind was starting to blow. She noticed a bent post. She quickly licked her lips.

“Did you see the moon last night Jack? It was so beautiful. Full.”

Jack paused. Lifting the brush again from the painting.

“Yes. We walked home.”

“I envy you that.  I can see it now, strolling down some river path, past the lake, beneath the willow trees. I can see it.”

He touched his brush into the yellow, sliding the tip into the olive green.

“Any news from your brother?” she asked.

He lifted his brush. Pausing. They listened to the air.

“No. Not recently.”

She held her gaze out the window. Not flinching.

He placed the brush near her eye. The tip touched the wet canvas.

“I could give him a call tonight, and find out what’s up. Any message?”

“No. Thanks. We will speak when we will.”

She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. He noticed her face fell.

“Any horses in the arena today?” he asked.

She focused. “No. But there is a post bent over by the gate.”

“What’s happened?”

“Looks like one of the mares has been rubbing it. Probably that dappled gray.”

“What makes you think it’s her?”

She laughed. “Haven’t you seen her Jack? The way she runs around? She’s just a frisky filly forever taunting that tired old stallion.”

He smiled, changing his brush. Wiping his hands on his smock.

She looked out the window again. She noticed the trees were budding. She had been watching them throughout the winter, wondering at just what point they would finally brave the cold. It always happened so suddenly. This new discovery was like a beacon. Her body hummed to it. Even through the window. The trees beckoned, inviting her to come closer. But she was stuck, immobile, enraptured at a distance. ‘Be still’, she said to herself, ‘be still.’

He was painting around her thigh.

“If there is one thing I would like to do, Jack, it would be to paint you in the nude.”

Startled, he lifted his brush. He saw she was smiling.

He smiled too. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll paint you nude painting me nude. Deal?”

She chuckled.

“Spring has sprung. Me thinks,” he said.

She sighed, glancing down at her hands. “Yup. Guess so.” She looked out the window again.

Jack’s wife was coming down the path with a plate of cookies.

The barn door opened.

“Hi. Jack, your brother is on the phone. He wants to know if we would go up to his place for brunch. I told him you were painting.”

The stool squeaked.

“I need another hour. I’ll call him back when I’m done.”

“O.K. How’s the coffee? I’ve brought some cookies.”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Well, I won’t disturb you. Nice to see you.”

The girls nodded at each other. And the door closed.

“Are you good for another hour?” he asked.

“Sure. Then I’ve got to get going.”

“All right.”

They resumed their positions. He continued painting for a time.

“I’ll have to fix that post I guess,” he mumbled.

She suddenly jumped up from the stool.

“Jack! Jack! Here she comes!”

He rushed to join her at the window to see and as he did his brush blazed a bright orange trail right across the centre of the canvas.

Meanwhile, after Luke put down the receiver, he returned to the calf skin sofa, and lay down. The room was filled with books. Architectural drawings were stacked upon the marble floor. He placed his right arm over his eyes and tried to sleep.

…

Her taut thighs, calves, ankles and bare feet curled around the silky body of the steaming stallion as she thundered on towards the birch grove.

Asleep, Luke’s hand slid to the floor. His immaculately cleaned baby finger nail touched the glistening white marble.

Her mud-caked gripping fingers clung to the coarse wild mane. Her red auburn hair blew wild. Warm blood flushed through her cherry cheeks, and her lips glistened with saliva and early morning dew.

Luke turned his head.

As she slid from the broad backside, the large equine head turned and nuzzled her matted tussled hair. She left him with a gentle pat, and began the slow walk up the rocky promontory.

Luke opened his eyes.

She stood very still. Her aching body absorbed the vastness of the extending horizon. The wide lake far below shimmered bronze and gold as it stretched further east and west. Skeletal feathered trees rose from the water’s edge. Mauve mist hugged the shoreline. Birds soared slowly to and fro high above her head.

She took hold of the rough stone in her pocket. Pulling it out, she rubbed her thumb along the broken edge. Holding it up to the rising sun, she cried,

“So, just what is it EXACTLY that you want me to do?”

Luke rubbed his eyes with his left hand. He sat up. As he turned his feet to the floor, he noticed, through the window, that the mist off the lake was filling the rising air with a soft golden hue. The skeletal trees fanned the shoreline in gradations of rose and mauve. He could see a brisk breeze blow across the lake. The wind was coming up. In the distance, storm clouds were rapidly forming. Strange, he thought. He looked down at his watch. Damn, they’ll be coming soon. Will she come too?

She accidentally dropped the stone to the ground. It landed with a thud. Rain began to fall upon her tangled hair. As she bent to pick up the argillite pendant, she exclaimed over her shoulder -”You want me to do WHAT?”

…

As Jack closed his paint box he could hear the rain hit hard on the roof and the wooden walls. He thought, I’ll ask him to help me with that post tomorrow, before she comes.  She’ll like that.  He slowly turned back to look at the spoiled canvas and then lowered his eyes.

His wife burst through the door, her hand pushing back her rain hood.

“Ready Jack?”

The Frozen Goose: A Christmas Story …

(This story was composed last year … and has now gone thru another edit.  Originally conceived as a tale ‘in the style of’ Alistair MacLeod, the intention was to touch on recurring ’structural memes’ that Mcleod  uses to solicit ’sentimental empathy’ …  )

The black ice was treacherous and they were lost. Annabelle clung to Lachlin’s little hand and tried to reassure him, “Don’t worry Lory, we’ll be home soon”. The wind howled and the snow was blinding. Lachlin’s tear-soaked face was contorted with fear and Annabelle knew that if they didn’t find land soon they would be goners for sure. The howling drew nearer. She pushed on against that wretched wind dragging her little brother behind her.

She had been wrong, she would now admit, though at the time she was convinced that she had been right. Her step-father had entered the kitchen with his butcher knife. Her mother was beside the stove. He had said that there was no work in town and that it was time to cut their losses and move on. He put the knife down on the table and went towards the fire. Her mother was silent as she continued to stir the soup. Finally she turned to him and said, “You know we can’t go, Daniel. The children are settled, and we must make a life for them here. To go again would only make things worse.” He pulled off his wet boots and then his wet socks. His bare wrinkled feet were turned towards the hearth. “There is nothing here Helen. Nothing that a man can do, nothing that a man can become. I’m finished.” She sighed and came over to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “We will manage. You will find something.” He took her hand in his and said, “You are a good wife, but it’s not enough. I just can’t do it anymore. I’m just too tired.” She slowly returned to the stove, “Here, have some soup, you’ll feel better.” As she lay out the soup bowls she turned to Annabelle, “Go get your brother, Bella, we’ll eat now.” Annabelle left that sorry rustic kitchen and went up the back stairs to Lachlin’s room.

He was sprawled across the bed reading a book about wolves.

“Listen to this, Annabelle, ‘a wolf can smell fear from another animal up to a mile away’. Imagine that!”

“Come on Lory, supper’s ready. Daniel is in a bad mood, so be careful what you say.” Lachlin made a face and slid off the bed in his floppy socks. He shimmied across the wood floor to the closet and pulled out his worn slippers. “What are we having tonight? Soup and bread again?”

“Sshh. Don’t say that. You know there is no money. We have to eat what we can get.”

“I should work. I could deliver the Flamborough Review again. I fixed the flat on my bicycle.”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s the middle of winter. How could you manage snowdrifts and ice on your dumb bike?”

“Well, I could do it. I could be the man of this house.”

“Lory, don’t worry, I will work. I will go to Uncle Charlie’s store and see if I can do the check-out.”

“How are you going to get there? Do you want to use my bike?”

“I’ll walk. Come on silly, let’s go eat.”

During the meal Annabelle kept looking at her mother.  The older woman was worn out and listless. The air in the kitchen was filled with foreboding and despair. Annabelle knew she had to get the job. She was convinced that she was right about that.

The next morning she told her mother she would walk to Uncle Charlie’s store to get some work. Her mother looked at her long and hard, then said, “It’s too far in this weather to walk. Over 5 miles. It’s too far.” Annabelle said she could manage. She put on her toque and scarf and wrapped her warm overcoat around her. Her boots were dry and warm. Her hands well-covered and cozy. “See? Snug as a bug in a rug.” Her mother said, “I will come with you.” Annabelle shook her head, comforting her, “I’ll be there in no time, you’ll just slow me down. I’ll be back before dusk.” With that, Bella opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the mid-morning frozen day.

The air was crisp and bright. Not a cloud in the sky. She began the long crunchy march down the country lane towards the store. She hadn’t gone more than half a mile when she heard Lachlin yelling from behind. “Annabelle, Annabelle, Wait for me, I’m coming too. Daniel said it’s okay.” She stopped and turned around. Lachlin was storming up to her with his scarf flying behind, his mitts dangling from their strings. His head was uncovered and his coat was unzipped. “We aren’t going anywhere with you dressed like that. Come here and let me straighten you out.” Annabelle slipped off her mittens, tucked his scarf around his neck and gingerly zipped up his coat. She pulled up the hood of his jacket. “There, now maybe you’ll make it.” He slipped his hand into hers, “Let’s go this way! I know a short cut!” He pulled her towards the marked trail on the side of the road, “If we cross McCormick’s Pond we’ll be closer to Uncle Charlie’s.” “No, Lachlin,” she pulled her hand away from his. “Not the pond. It’s too big and I don’t know my way around in the woods.” “I do, it’s easy, follow me.” “No, Lachlin, we’re going by the road.” So, on they went.

It took them just over two hours to get there. By the time they entered the store premises, their ears were near frostbit and their noses were dribbling goop into their mouths. Their eyes too were streaming from the bitter cold. The wind had started to come up. Uncle Charlie gave them cups of hot chocolate and listened quietly to Annabelle’s plea for work. When she had finished, he stood and went into the back room, returning with a large twelve pound frozen goose. “Here, Bella, take this home to your mother. Say it is a Christmas present from me. And you can start work here in the New Year.” Annabelle hugged her uncle while Lachlin jumped with joy at the prospect of real food on their table. Uncle Charlie said, “Now off you go. Get yourselves home before this wind really starts blowing. The wolves are out and we don’t want to lose one of you to the pack!” Lachlin howled for fun and then barked like a dog. Annabelle cuffed him playfully on the back of the head as Uncle Charlie put the frozen goose into a burlap bag. He handed it to Annabelle. “Can you manage this Annabelle? It’s not too heavy?” Annabelle took the sack, “I can manage.”

The children left the store around noon.

They had only walked about two miles down the road when the wind whipped up out of nowhere. At the first gust poor Lachlin was almost hurled to the other side of the road. He quickly rebounded and clung to the side of Annabelle’s flapping coat , “It’s too much, we should get out of the wind into the woods,” he said. Annabelle looked down at his torn jacket, the zipper had broken open. “Oh alright, but stick with me, no playing around.”

They stepped down from the road and cut into the sparse woods in the direction of the pond. The wind played tricks with the snow. First it was coming from this direction then from that. Annabelle had trouble seeing her way ahead. Lachlin started whining, “My feet are cold.” She put the burlap bag in the crook of her other arm and took his hand again, “Come on Lory, we’ll be home soon.” They had reached the pond’s edge.

Annabelle knew that if they kept bearing towards the old willow on the far shore they would be close enough to the house. The old willow kept appearing and disappearing between the snow squalls. She had to keep a straight line. They started the march across.

And that’s when they heard them. At first she thought it was only the wind, but there was no mistaking the murderous yap-yap of the on-coming pack. They were close and closing. Annabelle frantically yanked Lachlin’s hand, “Come On!” They began crossing at a run and were two thirds of the way across when the ice cracked, trembled, then banged, like a gun shot. The surface split open two inches to reveal the freezing black water beneath. They skidded to a stop and tried to listen to the ice through the whistling of the wind and the swirling of the snow. Lachlin began to cry. “I heard the wolves. They’re coming. They’re going to eat us!” Annabelle snapped at him, “Stop it. They aren’t interested in us. They want the goose. Just follow me.” She took a step over the large crack and then another step forward and waited. She could see the old willow ahead on the far shore. She took another step. Then waited. And another. She listened to the ice. Lachlin stepped gingerly into her windswept boot prints. They made another twenty yards in this way when the ice shot and cracked again. Annabelle froze in fear. Lachlin whimpered behind her, “Hurry up! They’re coming! They’re coming!” She dropped down onto her hands and knees and pushed the goose sack out far in front of her. “Follow me, Lachlin.” She crawled towards the sack. She shoved the sack ahead again across the patchy black ice, then crawled towards it. “Lachlin, do what I do! Do exactly what I do!” She shoved the sack and crawled slowly forward. She could feel Lachlin push into her boot from behind. The snow blinded her vision. She pushed on. She shoved the sack again then crawled towards it. She put her hand out again to shove. But the sack was gone. Gone. She inched forward slowly sweeping the ice with her damp mitten. The ice was wet. She groped at the air. The sack was gone. Tears filled her eyes.

Daniel bent down and lifted them both up from the blinding white-out. He  quickly slid Annabelle around onto his back and clutched little Lachlin tightly in his right arm.  The burlap sack with the frozen goose hung from his other hand. Turning back to the willow tree,  he trudged slowly home – towards the hearth, and Helen.

(To learn more about Alistair MacLeod, link ‘here’ for a NFB film about the author and his life; and from Wikipedia – which in truth, seems to have the best representative coverage on this author at the moment – link  ‘here’.)

‘Class & Exploitation on the Internet’ … … … (a ricochet post)

I am always intrigued by different ‘presentations’ on the web. This ’slide show’ on ‘Slideshow.net’ by Christian Fuchs, (Assistant Professor ‘Unified Theory of Information Group’ at the University of Salzburg, Austria)  struck me as rather novel.  If it works as intended you should be able to ‘click’ on the items INSIDE the slideshow to further pursue a thought and/or topic … and there are LOTS of them to think about … link below:

Class and Exploitation on the Internet

And tangentially, I found this ‘article’ rather interesting …

On the Hyper Architecture of ‘Memex’ and New Babylon

by David Richard Carroll, Assistant Professor Media Design at Parsons: The New School for Design.

(I’m operating from the premise that understanding the beastie improves our relationship with, and to it ... These articles may appear rather ‘dry’ but I DO find them insightful and informative … )  :)

“Artspeak!” – Converse like a Critic!

Fun post.

Was sent this link recently.

It’s just too good not to share  …  click  ‘here’.

…  hee-hee …  enjoy!

Poll: Google’s Street View. Good or Bad?

Please vote in the comment section below.  State why.

Personally, I’m not enamored.

Google Corporation is a business, not a benign ‘humanitarian’ charity carefully curating the ’streets’ of humanity.

For more info, link  here.

Or, for a less engaging but pertinent post, here.

The Philanthropist … (another short story)

(Dear Canadada Readers: here’s another edit of an older ’story’  – would appreciate any feedback…. good, bad, indifferent – Thanks! – c)

I sat in the small audience with twenty-four other representatives from various Foundations at the Adopt-a-Village symposium. We quietly listened to a well-built black man in his early forties talk about starvation, mal-nutrition, malaria, military intervention, the heroic efforts of the Canadian Red Cross and the overall generosity of the Federal Canadian food banks. He talked too of the urgent need for family planning. As a humorous aside he mentioned that his hotel rate in Gobi was “a whopping” $3.00 U.S. per night.

As he spoke his large body flowed with a natural lilting of the head. He gently swayed from side to side like a contented elephant. His hands swept passively through the air and his long brown fingers would slowly unfurl. From time to time he would lazily scratch his head, or place his left hand inside his jacket and press, caress, his chest. His hand would go to his shirt collar and he would absentmindedly tug in discomfort. At one point his palm was turned out to us and I was startled to see how very white it was. His voice was melodious and soft. Low, deep, and sonorous. His entire body energy seemed to reflect a well-tempered contemplative individual. The overall body movement, the overall picture, was, to my watchful eye and curious mind, very appealing, and basically sexual.

I tried to concentrate, and listen. I tried to really listen to this whole black person talk as he moved so gracefully through such confining and restrictive white space. I listened acutely for the half-truths, and the half lies, listening to see, if this sexy massive man knew the difference himself between the politically correct white lies and the simmering elusive black truths.

He spoke well, with a polite firmness, yet with the craft of a well-versed and artful diplomat. As I said, he was good. Very good.

I found I could resist no longer, I had to speak to this big man. Investigate. So I asked one question after another. I wanted to get a sense of our private dialogue, the potential of our own undulating intimate rhythm. I wanted to see how he would answer me, if he would answer me, or just answer the question. He was very good. It was hard to tell exactly. Precisely. Yet, even so, his manly earthy charm was riveting. As he walked by me to answer yet another question from the audience I caught a whiff of his sweet smell body sweat. I lapsed completely from the job at hand and could only think of his black body on top of me. Laying over me. Lying beside me.

As he passed by I noted there was a gentle flabby jiggle at mid-section beneath his khaki coloured shirt. The tip of his tie twitched. And that made me vaguely uneasy. (If his people are starving, then why is he so well-fed and so well-dressed?) But I scoffed at my superficial assessment: he had obviously pruned himself for this important fund-raising presentation, and yet, there was something else, something else.

The man oozed. That was it. He just oozed sensuality. It was sheer and feral. Potent with potential.

I wondered about my white woman lust for this hulking black man. I noticed that he didn’t come too close to me. I flattered myself to think that he too felt our toxic sexual sub-current, our sultry sub-text. No other woman in the audience conversed with him as much as I did, except perhaps that hen-pecking frau in the back who kept after him about proper accountability, zealous Christian missionaries, unpredictable cycles of agriculture and the diminishing cleanliness of the water table. She spoke forcefully with a kind of condescending marmishness. And after her last question, I deliberately softened my inquiring voice, and almost spoke in a whisper. He smiled at me. Several times.

Towards the end of the presentation, he showed a beguiling slide of a sun-baked riverbed with a scraggly patch of cultivated maize growing in the sunken hollow. Beside the maize a bent old man with porcelain white eyes stood in a colourful mustard sarong. He was barefoot and leaning on a wooden stick. He gazed quizzically at the camera. Two small hairless children were freeze-framed as they played happily in the foreground with what appeared to be a tiger cub. A well-shaped and well-groomed mature bejewelled woman sat near them on the ground holding onto a gigantic water gourd, laughing at them. It was a pleasant picture.

I asked the Adopt-a-Village representative where the seeds had come from so that this rock hard farmer could plant his precious maize crop. He started to tell me that the genetically strengthened corn seeds were supplied by the Agricultural Ministry funded by various global bio-pharmaceutical Foundations like ours but then he stopped, and said, “Oh, you mean these people,” as he glanced quickly over his shoulder at the simple family portrait. “The Matsi carry their own seeds, they always have, from generation to generation.” Suddenly his large open friendly face snapped shut, and he did not meet my eye that time as he moved forward to the front of the room clicking rapidly to the next slide.
He had inadvertently slid from the script, and he knew that I knew it.

I instantly understood. The photograph was just a prop. A sophisticated yet ‘primitive’ sales tool for this global charity gambit. None within the photograph had known why their picture had been taken. They had no idea that their simple traditional lifestyle would now be used to raise cash. Their frozen visages were merely an eternal testament of ‘backward’ global poverty. A celluloid image to trade with the First World. It was equally as clear that they would never be the immediate recipients of any kind of global assistance. And by the look of it, they didn’t really seem to need our life-altering charity.

I looked again at the sexy black man as he moved stealthfully along the side of the wall selling his Adopt-a-Village concept to well-heeled, and isolated Canadian philanthropists. And, yes, suddenly I experienced a massive earthquake of doubt. He was not one of those stone faced and timeless self-reliant nomadic people. No, he was far too well-trained, well-educated and totally dependent on our Western commercial ways. Our money, my money, fed him and kept others like him in Gobi hotels at $3 a night U.S.

His effusive black charm instantly vanished, his skilful sonorous voice no longer seduced. He was just like any other polished floor-flusher. As I stood to leave, I did not look back at that handsome smooth talking hustler. How foolish of me to think.

But, I did pick up one of the well-designed four colour glossy brochures strategically placed beside the front door for the Adopt-a-Village programme. It was still an appealing idea, all things considered. Perhaps not all the money, I reasoned to myself as I hopped into the Benz, went to the well-organized administrators and skilled fund-raisers. There had to be some kind of trickle-down effect otherwise the whole scheme was just a fraud. And that couldn’t be true, now could it? I would make the recommendation to my Board, I decided, driving up Yonge Street, that we grant a provisional small endowment of $500,000. According to the brochure, that would be enough to care for 5 villages of 500 inhabitants for 5 years. That should do.

As I sat at the red light the sweet smell of that sexy black salesman lingered on in my nostrils.