Not So Super. Get Used To It.

This has been a summer of movie superheroes. We’ve been introduced to ultra-rich and ultra-clever Ironman, and reunited with dark and mysterious Batman. Yeah, there’s been a do-over for that enormous green guy as well. Sure, they’re human, but also endowed with such power, such talent that they can’t help but serve the world. It’s entertaining, but also somewhat disappointing. Nowhere in the bunch (except for maybe the uber-crusty Hancock), are there super-losers, individuals with flaws that can save humanity from itself. If like cures like, and the best way to fight fire is with fire, shouldn’t we be brandishing bad habits as weapons? Wouldn’t it be more productive (not to mention convenient) to use our all-too-ready weaknesses? If to err is human, then wouldn’t a complete screw-up be the best candidate for superhuman status?

Surely, there has to be room in the pantheon for poor saps who can’t parallel park. Might two left feet count as deadly weapons? When will human kind make proper use of the tone deaf, the stinky and those who can’t seem to find matching socks? We’re sitting on a veritable goldmine of super-human capital here, and we’re looking to well-sculpted aliens in tights to save us.

I’m currently cultivating my own superhero identity, based solely on my shortcomings. Henceforth, I shall be known as “The Nerve”, capable of channelling the nervous vigour that makes me bite my nails and check the stove three times, into more productive activities. I will spend my sleepless nights monitoring the weak and vulnerable. Instead of reorganizing my Tupperware when I have ants in my pants, I will incapacitate evil-doers with my mile-high stack of “to do” lists. My anxious giggle will serve as a primal call to others of my ilk. I will be clumsy and forgetful and decidedly human, and that will be more than enough to save the planet.

But I won’t wear tights. Seriously.

How to Make Food with Your Back Porch

It ain’t no hanging garden of Babylon. It’s a few cheapo rectangular planters, a couple of bags of dirt, and a handful of spindly, but determined little plants. In a few weeks, if the weather cooperates, and the gods smile kindly on me, it will yield enough fancy-schmancy tomatoes to feed two people for a few weeks. Maybe there will be enough basil to make a few tablespoons of pesto. Maybe we’ll get a handful of apples and grapes before the birds and the bugs decide to chow down.

This shouldn’t excite me this much, but it does. Learning that your house is not only good for shelter, warmth and the occasional video game, but can also be used to grow food is a revelation. A few years ago, while the real estate agent nodded and smiled, and the previous owner spoke of the recently-replaced water heater, I stared out of the back window and envisioned my own personal produce aisle. There would be fresh herbs, edible flowers and a respectable crop of wild strawberries amongst the shrubs. I would float out the sliding door, like Donna Reed in yoga pants, and gather bundles of fragrant fauna in my arms. All of this from a kid who grew up in the country, and whose parents were “green thumbs”…it’s almost enough to make a gal break into verses of “This Land is Your Land”.

This unruly cornucopia is my pride and joy. Perhaps I’m not yet ready for a chicken coop, or my own chevre-producing goat, but peeking out at the tiny wannabe vegetables makes me feel like a regular Jenny Appleseed. E-I-E-I-O!

For George

As a kid, I used to sit up late on Sunday night and listen to comedy skits on the radio (yes, kiddies, I used a radio, and my pet dinosaur loved it too). When I was supposed to be finishing my homework or, God forbid, sleeping, I was filling my head with the words of modern philosophers, off-coloured sages who saw society with a critical eye and a sharp tongue. Of course George Carlin was among them (no self-respecting DJ would leave him out). I think, even twenty years later, if someone played George’s “Wonderful WINO” bit for me, I could probably still sing along. With his boundless energy, his general appreciation for silliness, and his beard, I think he reminded me a little of my dad…if my dad was the type to rant and swear in front of millions.

George’s wisdom followed me into my adulthood. I can remember watching his piece on acquiring “Stuff” while unpacking in a new house. I applauded when he appeared in Kevin Smith films, as an overly-ambitious Cardinal, then a hitchhiker with a plan, and then a grandfather willing to do even surrealist theatre for the love of his family. George’s mantra “I’m just looking for a little consistency, that’s all” stuck in my head as I tried to teach students about logical fallacies and forming decent arguments. Like most people, I still think of his list of things you can’t say in the media, and wonder why we’re so hung up on mere words. After spending a great deal of my life studying some of the greatest thinkers in the world, an old man with a grade nine education and a potty mouth seems to have proven what I’ve always thought- that good ideas and the ability to pull things apart don’t come with a fancy piece of paper. They come through a genuine desire to see things as they are, and what they could be.

And so, I raise a glass (or perhaps a middle finger) to George. Here’s hoping there’s such a thing as reincarnation.

Power of the Pigtails

When I was five, they were crooked. My poor mother would straighten and adjust them, wetting my hair, tightening the elastics, but they stubbornly refused to be symmetrical. I would learn, years later, that my head was actually crooked. No matter. Balanced or not, I loved having them. I loved the array of plastic do-dads one could stick on them. I loved the way they swung and jiggled of their own volition. I loved the way my head had suddenly become a little more interesting, as if some wee landscaper had carved topiaries or stuck in a water feature. The pigtails had power.

I’m not sure when or where I lost them. Probably around the same time the word “cool” took on the same heavy significance as words like “entropy” or “fiscal responsibility”. Probably around the same time as I shot up six inches in six months, and felt like enough of a sideshow freak without things sticking out of my lumpy cranium, pointing to my mismatched body parts like flashing arrows. They made a brief appearance here and there, usually as a more sophisticated pony tail in the back, the same one my now-husband used to flick with a pencil in grade 11 math (flirting was so much simpler then). For the most part, I let them sag around my shoulders, a limp reflection of my teenage angst.

The final nail in the coffin came after my first year of university, when it was time to join the sensible ranks of the adults. Uncelebrated for years, they met their fate on the linoleum floor of a salon, and to avoid feeling guilty, I kept telling people to cut shorter and shorter. I traded my bobbled elastics for something as bleak as “hair product”.

A few weeks ago, ignoring my advanced age, they reappeared. They took advantage of my new, “Why not?” approach to my hair. It was mostly intended to get them out of my face while I worked, to make sure they didn’t wind up in someone’s dinner. There was a familiar pull, a feeling of lightness as they were lifted off my neck and into small rubber bands. I’m not sure if it was the cool breeze on my exposed skin, or perhaps the increased blood flow to my scalp, but the effect was euphoric. They were much shorter than they had been 30 years ago, and despite the help of modern cosmetic chemistry, there were a few wiry, silver ones mixed in. Nonetheless, we recognized each other immediately. They still bounced when I walked, and pointed to my face. Happily, they were still a little crooked too.

Chicks Rule: Then and Now

Well, Hillary’s conceded defeat (for now), there are still fewer women PhDs than men, and the ruling female class in Hollywood seem to prefer pink cell phones and bite-sized doggies to the ability to speak polysyllabically. Some weeks, things just don’t look good for the X chromosome. When I feel myself sinking into despair, I do several things. First, I engage in a rousing round of Wii boxing. Then, I find excuses to use power tools. Finally, I look into the annals of history and dig for women who knew how to fling their weight around long before it became fashionable (and then apparently became unfashionable again).

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Wu Zetian, otherwise known as Empress Wu. She walked, or rather shoved her way onto the scene during China’s Tang dynasty (618-906 AD), during which women were not required to bind their feet, or be entirely submissive, but were nonetheless far from achieving any sort of equality. Confucianism, the religion of choice at the time, deemed it unnatural and unthinkable for women to assume positions of power. One may envy of her reputation as a “good catch”, achieved by the tender age of thirteen. One may sympathize with the loss of her first husband, the emperor, and puzzle over her agreement to enter a convent following his passing. What really grabs the attention, however, are the events that followed. With her knowledge of music, literature and art, she charmed her late husband’s son, the new emperor, and began an ambitious ascent to power that would rival any cut-throat corporate takeover. Wu was a concubine at first, but managed to claw her way to first wife, a feat that involved framing the current empress for the murder of a child that Wu herself had orchestrated. Finding that she had outlived and outlasted both father and son, she boosted herself to the top of the imperial ladder, outranking even her own children, the direct heirs to the throne. Her most impressive act as empress was to change the national religion from Confucianism to Buddhism, a daunting task, but for obvious reasons, a wise and necessary one. Wu’s special brand of tough love yielded years of cultural growth, military success and economic prosperity. With only will, determination, and a generous helping of cold-blooded nastiness, Wu transformed herself from just another poor little rich girl into the ruler of one of the most powerful and paternalistic cultures of its time.

Whew. Now I feel better.

Taking One for the Team: How Starving Artists Support the Economy

Bashing the “artsy” set is nothing new. More than two thousand years ago, Plato took a swing, accusing art in general of being distracting, deceptive, and responsible for encouraging would-be philosopher kings to engage their lower passions. In the eras that followed, those armed with pen, paintbrush or pipes continued to be kicked in the proverbial stones, deemed pariahs during their lifetimes, dying penniless, and then having friends and family make millions from their work thereafter. Hundreds of years after that, there lived a certain student of the Humanities who was unfortunate enough to have her “Intro to Shakespeare” class in the engineering building. A semester was spent trying to make a twenty-pound anthology look inconspicuous as she tried to fly through the halls unnoticed.

Let’s face it: we live in a culture that defines the value of art by how well it matches the sofa, or how many pairs of sneakers it sells. It’s not a well-funded venture, and in many circles, isn’t even considered a “real job”. But I can’t abide people accusing us of failing to contribute to the fiduciary well-being of the country. What many nay-sayers fail to realize, is the significant contribution that artists of all shapes and sizes make to the economy, despite the lack of steady income (or any income, for that matter). Here are but a few of the many ways in which we shoulder our financial burden:

Caffeine. Creativity does not follow a nine-to-five schedule, and as such, it requires a significant amount of supplementary brain juice. In many cases, artists work both sides of the coffee counter. I once met an architectural designer who could create non-stop for two days at a time (not a wink of sleep), with the aid of a 24 of Red Bull. At two bucks a can, that ain’t chump change. Don’t even get me started on how much chocolate goes into the production of a manuscript.

Supplies. You can’t get someone to buy a pair of jeans that doesn’t make their butt look great. You can’t sell a car that has a reputation for stalling at red lights. You can, however, get a writer to pay ten dollars for a pen that doesn’t give them hand cramps. You can also sell a painter very expensive tubes of goo that might never amount to anything special. You can squeeze a small fortune out of vocalists for sheet music that’s way out of their range. Add in guitar picks, cake make-up, head shots, etc…you do the math. There’s really no such thing as discount ballet slippers or 2-for-1 trombones.

Postage. Sad to say that most of the arts have not yet moved into the internet age. Submissions and communications are usually done the old fashioned way, using trucks, sorting machines, and brave people in uniform. You can run out of deodorant, or ramen noodles, or even laundry detergent, and your life as an artist need not cease. Run out of stamps, however, and you’re screwed. Every time I hear someone say that old-fashioned letters are going the way of the dinosaur, I smile knowingly and inform them that they probably have a ten or twenty year buffer from the publishing industry.

Not bad, for a bunch of people who live off Kraft dinner, and routinely search the couch for spare change. Vive l’economie boheme!

God Is In The Details: Mysticism for the Cosmically Clueless

I’ll admit that spiritually speaking, I’m still groping my way through the universe. My soul may have been around the block a few times, but with respect to its understanding of the how and what and why of my existence, it still has a great deal of homework to do. I’ve always taken comfort in the philosophy of William James, who created a very long laundry list of characteristics for mystical experience, but who also insisted that contact with the divine was not reserved for the high and mighty. In his view, normal, every day folks had equal access to the great hereafter, and being human and curious were sufficient conditions for finding it.

I regard those looking to “prove” all of this with great scepticism. I’m convinced that whatever else is “out there”, It wouldn’t be foolish enough to make Itself detectable through our pathetic Radio Shack gadgets. I’m fairly certain that if orbs and light streaks in photographs prove anything, it’s that the spiritual world likes to pull faces and moon us. If the state of our universe proves anything, it’s that whatever or whoever is in charge has an incredible capacity for humour, and a keen sense of irony.

So I don’t look for the almighty (whoever he/she/they/it may be) in burning bushes, or statues that cry, or in strangely shaped pit stains on my shirt. The cement Buddha in the garden, the likeness of Ganesha in the living room and the Menorah in with the holiday decorations are hopeful declarations of my desire to learn, but they’re not the basis of my faith.

I let myself off the hook and try to see connections to the universe all of the little things over which I stumble on a daily basis. I feel a connection to my ancestors when I bite into a butter tart (my paternal grandmother’s signature dish). I’m sure someone is watching my back whenever “Putting on the Ritz” comes on the radio (another benevolent late relative’s favourite). I smile when the dog stares at nothing in particular on the other side of the room and wags. I read “true” ghost stories with the same vigour with which others grant celebrity tabloids.

I’m not looking for certainty, or tangible evidence, or even profound revelatory experience. What I crave, and what I treasure, are the same things that make-up James’ checklist: small moments of clarity and connection, and the sense that I’m not alone in the universe. I felt this one afternoon in the subway, on my way home from a job I despised, in the midst of a quarter-life crisis. A violinist and keyboard player were filling the station with a respectable rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. It may have been the echo, or the warm summer breeze, or the nagging persistence of twenty-something angst looking to relieve itself, but something happened. I had a fleeting, but very clear sense that this wasn’t it. There was so much more to come, and I wasn’t the only being frustrated by the long search. The most comforting aspect of the experience was that revelation wasn’t beyond me. Order and balance, wherever it came from, would find me eventually. And all I had to do was go about my business.