BLOGG # CHIVALRY IS NOT DEAD

The week before Christmas, having nothing to do, I decided to go to Vancouver to visit my good friend and companion in Burnaby.  I have reached the delightful age where I no longer am obliged to: bake artery clogging festive goodies,decorate seven foot trees,wrap in  Martha Steward influenced manner, useless gifts or stuff  over sized birds.  Instead I was free to take long walks in Burnaby Central park among snow laden forests or wander through the metrotown mall looking in awe at the decorations and admiring the fashionably dressed shoppers. We both spend Christmas day with our own children and darling grandchildren and not with each other-knowing full well that the darling grandchildren are darling only in our own eyes.  However because it was so Christmassy, we decided to have a pre-pre-Christmas dinner just for ourselves and decided to go to a restaurant with a lovely view of the inlet and mountains. It was indeed a lovely view, cold brisk with new fallen snow on the mountains. We chose to sit in the covered patio beside a roaring fireplace and ordered a festive meal. We had coconut covered prawns-as all good writers do, I like to describe good meals in detail, knowing my readers like to live vicariously through the written word, crab dip, and for the main course tuna cooked very rare.and I advise you to order it cooked very rare too when you order it as my companion pointed out. We did not order dessert as it puts on pounds. Indeed it has been known to put on pounds even to the readers. Of course we also had  a bottle of lovely white wine. This blogg however is not about gourmand food, but about chivalry and I must explain: while my companion was seating me at our table, he put me into the chair facing the window saying " Sit here so you can look at the view while you are eating" This was very nice and I suggested he sit next to me so he could look at the view too but he,good man and rightly so, promptly sat opposite me saying" I would rather look at you." I was pleased. I was charmed and I bloomed and became even more vibrant and entertaining than I usually am. So listen to me. Don't despair, don't give up hope, never give in and remember -Chivalry is not dead

Chivalry is not dead

BLOGG# CHIVALRY IS NOT DEAD

BLOGG # 70 AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR

And a Happy New Year! It is a well known fact that -another of my "questionable well known facts" dear readers-believe it if you wish- the way your new year unfolds depends on how well you have celebrated the New-Year Eve. If that would be the case, my life the past seventy odd years should have been passed in Hell. I don't know about you, but I have never been successful with my New Year Eve's choices. My childhood and early teens were spent-having no choice - with my religious family in the only proper way- on my knees in church listening to the twelve strokes of midnight and then listening to the minister praying to absolve us of our sins-in German.- not much fun -and looking back on those years, especially my teen years, the above fact is indeed proven. In my student years I fared not much better. With my usual luck I was often assigned to work the New Year Eve. In fact that is how I lost my then boyfriend, for what boy would tempt fate by not having a date on that most important night thus insuring a sexless year! My early twenties are not remarkable for any outstanding New Year’s Eve bashes. I was married in Greece and every one knows the Greeks start a card -playing frenzy the beginning of December which ends in the biggest longest card playing night on New Year's Eve. And you better believe the Greeks definitely hold with that well known fact, as the financial success for the whole year depends on the success of that night. Once the children arrived, New Year's Eve became a blur of playing monopoly or something in a desperate attempt to help the kids stay awake until about 10.15pm in their hopeful quest to see the New Year in. It was in the heyday of my Divorce Years that I thought my luck would change. Believe me –Not! My wisest choice then was to elect to work the Eve thus, at double time and a half I could at least insure an easier financial year. When I did choose to test the New Year Eve waters, they were disasters. One was while in Toronto, when five of us decided to go to the trendy opening of a “Harbour Front” bash. By a quarter to midnight we had managed to get through the crush and get three glasses of warm champagne served in plastic glasses. We all left before midnight and spent the crucial midnight hour in a Tram. The worst one was in Vancouver when three of us were invited to a house party in trendy Kitsilano, Vancouver. . We arrived at 11pm-the earliest time possible fashionably. The house was suitably dark, with subdued music and packed with aging forty-something people trying to look cool. By 11.30 someone came around with a handful of pills. I recognized the powerful sodium amytal sleeping pill, my friend the pharmacist, recognized them all except one which he took home to analyze. At ten minutes to twelve the whole house was quiet with somnolent half-heartedly amorous pairs coupled- not a pretty sight. We left before midnight- again! The next morning my friend called me at an early hour and said "get up! I refuse to have my Year destroyed because of that lousy New Year’s Eve. We are going out to celebrate with brunch to change the luck." So we did and drank much Champagne and orange juice. Did it make the new year better? I don't remember. So take my advice and choose wisely this New Year's Eve—and a HAPPY NEW YEAR to you -your faithful blogger

BLOGG #70 AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR

BLOGG # 69 DECK THE HALLS..

"We wish you a Merry Xmas” versus "Silent Night Holy Night" Here it is the week before Christmas and I am in the Christmas mood again as all right living people should be. This means of course, blatant commercial activities with no guilt attached and here I am tripping gaily off to the malls with unfortunately not a full pocket but with a generous spirit. So far I have been malling- love that word- in Victoria’s  two major malls and have even visited the two major ones in the great metropolis of Vancouver—the sophisticated Downtown exclusive Eaton’s mall where you can buy $600 shoes-I asked- and the super crass Metrotown for an orgy of wishful vicarious shopping in the fast lane. During all these indulgent hours I have been serenaded by the latest “Christmas music” piped in via loudspeakers at the highest volume. Now I happen to love Christmas Carols –the true ones- and don’t really mind the shrill newer ones either, but it is a pity that I can not remember when I last heard “Silent Night” in a Canadian mall. I suppose it has become politically incorrect to play these songs in commercial spaces but I miss hearing them. The pros and cons of political correctness regarding the playing of carols is not what this is about -not at all- it is about the “topsdurvyness of the cultural customs of our present planet. Years ago when I lived in Greece the Christmas festivities were strictly religious and subdued and only the New Year was celebrated with gifts. The western Christmas with great spending was unknown.  Four years ago I was in Athens, Greece for Christmas and we did a lot of “Malling”. There are many new huge malls in Athens since entering the E.U. and Christmas really underlines this new way of living. The malls in Athens and suburbs were an hyperbole of over the top commercialization—the Santas were bigger, the reindeer cuter, the tinsel more vulgar than any I had ever seen, and all the time –interlaced with the excited shouting of eager Greek consumers, I could hear the sounds of the original sacred Christmas music of old so banned in North American malls.  Here at last I got my fill of my favourite Christmas music - nary a note of “We wish you a merry Christmas” or “I am dreaming of a White Christmas” or “Deck the Halls” instead the sounds of the beautiful old carols and especially “Silent Night” filled the air. Why was it that here in Greece I could hear all my old favourites?  Of course, the Greek people, happily shopping, had no concept of the significance of these sacred pieces, nor did they listen to the words.  No, they shopped to their hearts’ content imbued with the materialistic Western Christmas Spirit inspired by these foreign and beautiful songs unaware of political correctness or sacrilege. When I left Greece I was satisfied and satiated because I finally had had my fill of favourite Christmas Music. However last week I had to walk down Fisgard street in the centre of Victoria’s Chinatown on an errand and again I heard the old ones loudly blaring on the street and my heart lifted.  I love our present cultural “topsydurvyness” in our great planet where you can find the unexpected adoption of  music of others in the oddest places and advise you, dear readers, to embrace it also and have a wonderful shopping- indulged Xmas.

BLOGG # 69 AT LAST I GOT TO SEE "TOSCA"

For years now I have been wanting to attend the great tragic opera-"Tosca" and last Saturday, finally , there I was at Silver City Cinema listening to and watching this great production  by the wonderful Metropolitan opera of New York. Tosca by Puccini is one of the great tragedies in opera. The music is wonderful, the singing glorious and the plot as usual in opera somewhat trite, but there is nothing trite about the glorious heroine Tosca- she is dynamite. There is great love, jealousy, betrayal and murder. The murderer is Tosca,a sensitive artiste and singer in love with a painter, pushed to jealousy by the arch villain Scarpia and- wouldn't you know it- the chief of police and a barrel of a baritone- who drives her to jealousy and betrayel of her lover's hiding place. Poor Tosca is torn between listening to her lover being tortured and yielding to this dastardly-and ugly- villian's lust. The drama  is pitched very high, the music and voices ascending to passionate heights ending in Tosca, hampered by a voluminous very decollete gown, stabbing  Scarpia.  I have watched many a violent movie, stabbing being a rather tame method in our high definition movies, but never have I felt such horror. Tosca, her voice soaring, repeatedly stabbed him using both arms in violent thrusts, her hatred overflowing along with the bloody stabbing action as she kills this powerful despot. Immediately after she collapses,shocked at what she has done, her voice dropping at least three haunting registers with  her despair as she sings"and all Rome feared him." I found this very moving because as she sang she acknowledged the horror of murder-so unlike modern movies,where the murderer rushes off blithely to other mayhem. Up to the moment of the stabbing Tosca acted as victim responding to things out of her control, but Tosca is a modern woman, a famous singer in charge of her life, and when she grabs that knife she rejects the victim role and takes charge of her life. Unfortunately , this is a tragic opera, and she is one of Opera's major tragedians.  She does not conquer all-again just like a modern woman who can't "have it all"- and finds that Scarpia betrayed her even in death and her lover is shot anyway. Trying to escape her tyrant's lackey she plunges to her death-and that is the story of the Great Tosca- a modern woman.  I know the story is indeed trite but take my advice dear readers,and try to attend" Tosca" at least once in your life and be thrilled to the marrow of your bones.

BLOGG # 64 A GHOSTLY EXPERIENCE

A ghostly experience.  Today, as it was a brisk autumn day, I decided to take my car out for a drive and chose the coastal route along Dallas road to Ogden Point. Even though it was almost noon there were remnants of fog still in the air. Autumn on the west Coast and especially in Victoria is the harbinger of fog. It starts on clear days in late afternoons and deepens giving us lovely melancholic evenings to satisfy the most romantic of souls and often lingers until late the next morning before it starts to burn off. So if you are flying into or out of Victoria during this time, dear readers, keep that in mind as planes are often grounded because of it. But I digress. This morning was typical and as I meandered along the Dallas road the fog was just lifting. I parked at the quay and got out. As I shut the door I looked up and there she was out in the harbour –a two mast tall ship in full sail - a ghost ship in the fog.  I was immediately plunged into a Robert Louis Stevenson world with London docks, rogues and pirates swearing and cursing and rollicking crowds of sailors, the air exotically pungent with the aroma of spices, coffee, refuse and rats. Then the fog lifted and I could see her standing there in all her glory. The sea was silver and serene, the sky was silver and serene and she was silver and serene - a majestic sight. I stood there enthralled. Suddenly the still ocean was pierced by a determined head and a long wake. A seal was coming to shore. The spell was broken. I was pulled rudely back to my time, the rogues and pirates, aromas and smells disappearing and I was again on my familiar marine coast along with ordinary seals, screaming gulls and egrets. Was I sorry to be back? Of course I was. Who wouldn’t rather be in a Robert Louis Stevenson world? On the other hand, though I know I can fit into the most challenging situations with élan, I am not so very sure about rogues, pirates and rats so I  happily walked along the quay greeting my fellow walkers with a cheery good morning just as all good Victorians do.  

BLOGG # 63 "WHAT A DEAL

Yesterday I was leafing through a fashion magazine while at my doctors office when I came upon an article titled “Designer items at reduced prices” The price of one of the items they quoted was a second hand Jane Birkin lizard Crystal bag at thirty two thousand dollars. Jane Birkin, as my savvy bloggers know was a model, fashion muse, an icon of the seventies for her fashion sense and the coolest girl in Paris.  Hermes fashioned the ultimate leather woman’s hand bag at that time under her specific instructions and called it the Jane Birkin Bag.  It still is the most coveted piece of accessory today. However, thirty thousand for a second hand purse seems a bit steep and I wonder what the original price was.  To try to wrap my mind around the thirty thousand dollar price tag, I attempted to put it in my world to understand it. Thirty thousand is the yearly income of a low income family in Canada- the minimum hourly rate here is ,I believe, ten dollars an hour-eighty dollars a day, and if in luck, that amounts to four hundred per week, or sixteen hundred a month- Goodness- the math! This amounts to twenty thousand a year. Worse- A single mother with two children on welfare has to make do with about a thousand a month or twelve thousand a year and we consider her a drain on our economy. We certainly haven’t come a long way baby, in the past five hundred years or so, have we? The French king Louis XVI  was beheaded because he spent more on one meal than a peasant in an entire year and his silly jewel -encrusted satin breaches and mile high powdered wigs broke the bank. Of course we still have an occasional despot who insists on gold toilet seats even in these enlightened times- but a thirty thousand dollar Birkin bag?  Somehow this disgusts me more than the crazy French king and his mile high powdered wigs or the present day despot’s toilet seat.  It makes me wonder where we are going- especially when I think there are large populations living under the poverty line starving with  Drones at a horrendous cost, flying over their heads with intent to bomb, using the excuse of “terrorist hunting”- I really begin to wonder!   I am an optimist and have faith in the integrity of the human spirit, but this Birkin Bag has shaken it. Hopefully ,dear readers, not for long as we need much optimism right now.--   Having read my newly posted blog again, I decided I had better come off my self rightious perch and admit to liking the original Jane Birkin Bag; love reading the Vogue magazine knowing it is a self-indulgent act; enjoy fashion in all it's variations and tremble to think I am becoming a soapbox shouting agitator, so please read  my blogg with a large grain of salt.--- Your  non-agitating, peace-loving auntie blogger   Laurie

BLOGG # 62 THE GREAT DELUGE

Well it is finally here- the Great Autumn Deluge! Two days ago, I was sitting on the patio of my favourite coffee shop basking in the sun for two hours in my brief summer top, and today it is raining. I use ,deliberately, this West Coast understatement to describe today's weather. I watched the deluge from the window for some time, the rain slashing down sweeping sideways in the strong wind and forming lake- like puddles on the pavement, then impulsively decided it was time to go out for a walk in it. There followed a flurry of hunting for boots, rain jackets, scarves and umbrellas.Suitably clad, I ventured forth in the deluge and immediately my umbrella inverted and broke. So there I was sloshing through the puddles under my broken umbrella, my waterproof jacket, sweatpants and sturdy boots soaked through. Was I unhappy? Was I miserable? not on your life!  A true West Coaster, I happily slogged along, reminiscing about other walks in seasonal rains- Spring rains in Melancholy Barcelona two years ago,walking ghostlike through the abandoned narrow streets heavy with atmosphere - a black and white forties' war movie- and ending with a coffee in a Tapas Bar- a pensive very long walk I did on a late winter evening in Vancouver as a young woman with a broken heart, in a cold foggy rain, ending up in a coffee shop for a warm-up coffee and talking to a stranger for comfort- and the best of all running barefoot through a sudden summer storm on the farm in Alberta as a child, arms flung wide, head tilted back and mouth wide open to catch the refreshing raindrops.  After all this reminiscing in this very wet walk I came home happy, soaked and satisfied. Autumn is here!  There is nothing so exhilerating as seasonal changes. So take my advice-again- dear readers, don't fall into the trap of autumn- rain depression, but gird yourself in all your rain gear and brave the wonderful elements that nature in her abundance gives us.

BLOGG# 61 LIVING SPHERICALLY

As you no doubt know, constant readers, I have not written in my blogg for many months. The reason is that my life has been rather complicated and many layered and to survive in my usual smoothly unperturbed sophisticated way, I decided to take that wise Italian film maker- Fellini's advice- ( I am now watching again the old iconic LA Dolce Vita and Julliet of the spirits" his great movies) and live spherically- which I have done.What does this mean? To me, it means to live enthusiastically at all levels in a globally embracing way without judging events, embracing all  in open arms even these events that are unpleasant or hurtful. This takes energy and concentration and this Blogger needed it all to live spherically. I can now say this way of living works and my life is smooth. But now I see you need an example. Last winter due to having to eat a restrictive diet for health reasons, I delightfully lost weight. This,as all women know, means new clothes and lots of shopping and I applied myself enthusiastically. I am sure you all read my favourite magazine- Vogue- and are aware that the new spring pant was a pencil thin and delightfully colourful one so I embraced this pant happily and spent the summer months smugly sporting this new look and it was good. An enjoyable summer. Unfortunately as the summer advanced to Autumn, so did my waistline and these lovely pants, even though made of stretch material, could not expand at the same rate. I realized the pants must go- the same way my too big pants went last spring-to my favourite second hand store known as "My sister's closet". Living spherically, I bundled  them up and with tears in my eyes took them to the shop so some slim Sylph -like creature could enjoy them, and perhaps, if lucky, repurchase my once "too big" pants. I was in luck- the shop owed me fifty dollars from the sale of the big ones and I could now buy "new" ones in my new size. You see now dear bloggers how well living spherically works and I advise you to do the same. You couldn't do better than listen to Fellini.

BLOG# 60 UNPREDICTABLE PAST

From on the unpredictable, suspect, probably false, nostalgic path. As you dear readers are very aware, one of my favourite pastimes is walking down the paths of nostalgia- my own life or anyone else-be it in old black and white movies, in life magazines of the 1930 to 1950 issues dreamingly browsing through the photos and ruminating on such iconic images as the famous photo of the homecoming sailor from the wars kissing the lovely blonde girl in white with her stocking seams straight and her body bent back almost double in ecstasy- an image that encapsulates all that needs to be said about the rapture felt at the end of that horrible and deprived time-, or the images of emaciated models in 1920 Vogue fashion magazines. However, in the past few weeks while getting ready to leave home on an exciting and strenuous trip to Turkey- yes- your wandering blog gist is on the move again- I have been unaccountably living in a nostalgic blur of my past life- my childhood and youth, but especially my childhood-perhaps a sign of a deteriorating mind- and have been noticing a highly suspicious tendency to improve and change my memories as I wander through this nostalgic path. This tendency is insidiously changing my own version of my past which I mistakenly thought of as "Cast in stone" This is very disconcerting. I am busily trying to change my viewpoint on all my hard won justifications of past neurosis and failures, a favourite viewpoint where I, with the help of my psychologist ,busily blame all these negatives on my parents, teachers, the environment or what have you. I now am trying to rearrange my nostalgic past again to make me appear in a satisfactory light. All this busyness in remanufacturing my past to meet my approval has kept me very preoccupied and away from my beloved typewriter and this blog is a gentle reminder to all of you from your Auntie blogger to be aware of the insidiousness of walking down the seductive nostalgic path as it is unpredictable, and can put you in the same place I am in, which is doubting my own remembered past-a precarious place to be. I will now close this rambling blog and will hopefully continue in a more interesting environment-Turkey- for the next one

BLOG # 59 YUMMMM TAX TIME

Yummm- My favourite- Tax time! Yes, dear readers, it has happened again- my favourite time of the year- as sure as taxes itself- Tax Time. As you can imagine, I have a long and loving relationship with the taxation department- probably the most consistent relationship of my life. It started in my early twenties. I believe the first time I filed one was when I was working in Montreal in the fifties. Yes, taxation existed even in that ancient time-I must have done the filing on my own-it is all rather in the dim past- but the reason I remember is that I was planning a long extended trip to Europe and being a good Canadian I filed my taxes before I left. I spent the next six months in carefree bliss hitching hiking around Europe with my friend and when the money was depleted returned to London to work. I then picked up my mail from the American express- that is what we did in those “olden times” dear readers- no emails, no computers. With the mail were several letters from the Quebec provincial taxation office complete with a court order to show up. The amount was $1.89. I had made a mistake- a habit I have continued faithfully to this day whenever I am foolish enough to do my own taxes-and the tax department demanded instant payment. I wrote a long letter of explanation along with a postal note for the amount – I can’t remember what I had to pay for this transaction, but I remember adding up the postage stamps the taxation office spent on their notices and it equaled the amount owing. The next few years I resided in Greece so had no further interaction with this institution and when I returned to Canada I used a professional service- the only irritation I had was I could not claim childcare expenses though having to support my family. When I retired it seemed prudent to do my own again and my dear friend told me the taxation office had a new program one could use by phone which was free! All you had to do was follow instructions and they would walk you through the procedure and so I decided to do it. Well dear readers, there I was, phone in one hand, volumes of tax papers in the other, and T-slips, bills etc falling on the floor. The program was taped- no patient understanding human voice - just a monotone consistent one giving me instructions to put “T-4 slip in the No. 256 blank, then turn to page 65 and copy it again and then refer back to page 22 to confirm” then on to the next step- without- I- kid- you -not taking a breath. “Wait” I shouted “I haven’t found page 65, and I can’t find my T4 slip –it fell on the floor” This had no effect, the voice did not stop. As I grappled on the floor all the other papers followed too –a veritable waterfall of tax forms and the voice still went on in an exorable monotone… I burst into tears at this point and sobbed as I haven’t since my heart was broken in the early fifties. This outburst shocked me very much. That the Taxation Department could have such an extreme effect on me as to create an emotional crisis equal to heartbreak was very disturbing. I finally controlled my sobs, took some aspirin to control my pounding headache, and said to myself “Laurie, there exist infinitely wise people in comfortable offices who will politely do all this for a mere sixty bucks- are you out of your mind?” I did just that and was happy. But just recently another friend gave me access to a computer program to file my own for free. I have had this program for a while now and occasionally glance at it askance and skeptically. Am I going to use it? Ahhh dear readers -that is the million dollar question. I am sorry I will not answer it, but will keep you in suspense ---- Happy Taxation time to you too.

BLOG #50 THE EASTER HUNT IS ON

The Easter Hunt is on! It is spring at last, the grass is acid green, the daffodils nod, and the bunnies are girding their loins for the annual Easter Egg hunt. In reality this means all young mothers are planning on waking up at six A.M. Easter Sunday and hiding sickly gaudy sugar-laden candy eggs in their gardens and all the rooms of their houses-in hopes this will allow them to sleep in longer- parents are always optimistic and delusional. And the dentists, of course, are busy sharpening their instruments and planning future expensive holidays. All this I have done in my own time as a young mother. I can still remember freezing rain-drenched Easter Sunday mornings at 6 A.M. barefoot and nighty-clad frantically hiding these toxic eggs in a sodden garden. I also remember, six months later, finding sticky melted greeny and pinky melted messes in such unlikely places as under the toaster, in the oven, or taped in the toilet tank. I don’t know where my mind was at -those many years ago-to fall into that commercial trap. But that is not my greatest sin-and being Easter it is good to use that word- but I also influenced my daughter too! For there she was, thirty years later, in pajamas in the freezing cold, barefooted, hiding these awful sticky eggs in unlikely places muttering to herself “I can’t believe I am doing this” The sins of the father---etc-etc-and so on it goes. But two days ago I glimpsed a break in these clouds of habitual neuroses- My masseuse was chattering on happily about the pending Easter festivities and the Easter hunt. I had to protest- not another generation under this yoke- this chain had to be broken and so I protested “no , stop. Stop. No more sickly sweet Easter eggs please” and she laughingly corrected me with “Not eggs. We hide and then hunt beer cans- and there is nothing more wonderful than finding the first one and opening it with a snap and guzzling it down. The day just gets happier. And the best of all is finding a forgotten one in the mailbox two months later!” So there is hope for Easter after all. I love the resilience and imagination of the human species. It can always find a way out of the mire and surmount the impossible to reach greater heights and greater enjoyment. Happy Easter dear readers and good hunting.

BLOG #49 "AM I BLUE"

Am I Blue OK I have just opened my files to my essays on a heading with nothing in it, on a subject that obviously I had been inspired to write, in the middle of the night, with full confidence that I would remember my inspiration the next morning. Now I cannot even remember the date, the season, or year that I rushed and wrote these inspiring words, let alone remember what it was I was burning to write. It is at times like these I question my ability as a serious writer and feel that aspiring to be a :blogger' is as high as I can go. All I can think of now when I see these words "am I blue" is the lovely melancholic song popular in the 20's, and that it is in one of my favourite Canadian movies about a small dance band in the prairies during the second world war. I also remember fondly the lovely heroine singing it in a heartrending and amateur way which is always so effective. When I dashed to my computer that long time ago and wrote these words was this meant to be a homage to a movie? Or was I just feeling blue? Or was it because it was that dramatic time- probably three am- when suicidal thoughts overpower victims of depression; or when romantically inclined people-like me-become wistful in their lonely beds; or was I compulsively moved to expose those hidden repressed thoughts that churned through my head at this maligned hour -recounting my misguided actions over these many years of my life ,to say nothing of my missed pleasures? If that is so, thank goodness I did not continue this theme and blocked it out. There is nothing as boring as the whining thoughts of missed pleasures and misguided lives. So if these are all irrelevant subject matters on the theme "am I blue" I would like to drop these conjectures. Instead I will concentrate on the significance of the word 'blue" It is a powerful word- in terms of colour – it is sacred, it is a divine hue- Mary, mother of Jesus, is most often depicted in paintings robed in blue. It is a restful hue- imagine a sky coloured in any other colour than blue! How our hearts leap in joy when we see this blue, it is such a happy colour. Think of the many odes and songs written to beautiful blue eyes, blue skies, blue bluebells- perhaps not blue bells-I made that up-perhaps one of you dear readers with talent could write one. In contrast to all these virtues of "blue" there is the fact that blue is also considered a negative colour- cold, not compassionate, definitely lacking in passion. We are never "Blue with anger." Blue blood depicts all the worst characteristics of the human desire to categorise and isolate into superiority or inferiority. Death is associated with blue- one’s skin becomes bluish.. We become" blue' with cold. Picasso used the colour blue to depict extreme poverty in his “Blue Period” and of course the best of all - the" Era of the Blues" in jazz and the beloved “Blues” period. Oh my, how deep we can go into melancholy while listening to the "blues”. When coupled with the "am I "blue" takes on a whole range of feelings. To say "Am I blue" speaks of chapters of sorrowful feelings. One could write pages on trying to express what these three words cover but I won’t. The truth is, that I started this meandering blog in the beginning of March, following the most depressing of months-February- and as far as I am concerned, this title expresses the appropriate mood of this time- so if you feel blue don’t despair, you are being appropriate which is always a comfort-and perk up- the little rascal with floppy ears is peeking around the corner.

BLOGG # 41 I AM NOT A ST. VALENTINE SCROOGE

I am not a St.Valentine scrooge dear readers ,[of course there is a Valentine scrooge sitting in his living room cutting up hearts] however today. I decided to go downtown to buy a warm red hat and something caught my eye. I was walking down the street and saw a heart in a window! Doing a double take,I walked back and sure enough there was that iconic heart shaped chocolate box in Rogers Chocolate shop window! Surely I was mistaken, I was still in my Pre-Christmas, Post Christmas, Boxing Day, January-super-sales mode. For pity’s sake,I still had my Christmas tree up! How could that silly little naked fellow with wings and a bow and arrow be nudging my elbow? I still want to be in my winter cocoon, snuggled up in my arm chair, wine glass in my hand watching the "Casablanca" movie on my TV screen- not seeing red hearts in shop windows. What was February doing so close? I wanted to-like Scrooge- take a big garbage bag and gather up all the hearts,valentines and silly cupids and throw them into the Pacific Ocean off Dallas road;I wanted to hunch with my back up against my calendar and push back February! My goodness, the next thing I know, that horrible event the "Flower Day count" will be here if it hasn’t already been- those crazy eager-beaver flowercounters triumphantly shouting their numbers all across Canada in their smug way. I can almost get a whiff of that nasty pink animal with floppy ears and a tulip in his paw scurrying around a corner! At my time of life,dear young readers with all the time in the world,I want winter to crawl deliciously,slowly towards spring which looms far in the distance,Easter a mere dot on the horizon and blessed summer somewhere out there in the eeeeeeeeeeweigkeit- none of this rushing from celebration to celebration as in commercial spheres. No,I don’t want St.Valentine day yet! WHOA Mr.Time! slow down! Go back to the remembered turtle-pace of my six year old schooldays,and stop with the hearts, flowers and cupids already.

BLOGG #41 A GIGANTIC GREEK TRAGEDY

A Greek tragedy of gigantic proportions This past Saturday I attended the opera- another of my passions almost equal to blogging and was submerged,overwhelmed and almost destroyed by the unremitting tragic passion of “LE TROJANS” by Berlioz. Greek drama I am familiar with and it is close to my heart even when created by a French composer. However five hours later. yes dear readers, five hours later-even I was satiated but not exhausted –oh no- I have great stamina when it comes to opera especially the Metropolitan opera. What really moved me was this tragic epic written thousands of years ago seemed not at all irrelevant and I was amazed how contemporary the theme still is. I totally identified with it- a modern tale of epic proportions. There in the exotic setting only the Met. can create, the misguided Trojans in despair and panic milled around gesticulating dramatically and completely ignoring the voice of reason represented by Cassandra the daughter of the King and a prophetess,as she protested and remonstrated in beautiful poetically phrased dire words of warning in a melodious voice. To no avail she warned the Trojans not to bring the huge statue of the horse into the gates. No one would listen but instead turned their fearful eyes to their betraying Gods who had their own agenda, thus sealing their own fate. Now dear readers, I ask you, does not this sound familiar? In vain poor Cassandra warned them, thus becoming the first to voice the old saw “beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” And sure enough, there were those damn Greeks in their signature helmets, spears and cute little skirts barely covering essentials, raping and pillaging the misguided Trojans. It was enough to make one tear one’s hair and cover oneself with ashes. The epic went on and on involving also the tragic Carpathians and two longish breaks before the opera finally ended in wild applause. As I gathered together my frazzled but exhilarated {the music and singers were incredibly beautiful] self, my drinks, the remains of my picnic lunch, and stumbled out into the mundane world outside the theater, I said to myself “Yes, I recognize the human element and tragedy, it is so familiar in today’s events and no, we have not come a long way baby." And so dear readers. take heed so you don't share the same fate as those blind Trojans,tear your eyes away from the false Gods represented here by T.V. and media and read my wise blogg instead-- Your tongue -in-cheek blogger s