BLOGG #123 LEONARD COHEN-ART-AND SANITY

• This past week-no,this past month-actually these past eighteen months have been a roller coaster ride for all of us as we watched two titans fighting for power in the most influential country today. It reached the point for me that I avoided all news-papers, radio and TV. The whole campaign seemed to escalate into insanity as we watched helplessly and when the outcome finally came most of us were plunged into stunned disbelieve and shock. This shock reverberated around the world. I too was reeling until I said to myself "get a grip Laurie-this is politics not the end of the world."I also said this to my long suffering friends in a most irritating way I am sure. My own fear was that this reverberating shock circling the world at high speed would spin  the Earth out of orbit and plunge us into darkness too- that is my excuse for trying to placate myself and others and I apologize. Life,as we all know, tends to follow events and so naturally this past week of mine was also jammed full of appointments and not only the world was spinning and reeling but I too, in frenzy, tried to keep up and make sense of my own crazy life. Friday morning I woke up late after a ten hour sleep and immediately checked my schedule- it was blank! sheer bliss. So I stretched deliciously and decided to stay in my sleep gear all day or at least a good part of it.  The first thing I did was to finally turn on the radio to CBC news and heard "Leonard Cohen died last night" Even though I was in shock I still heard the next announcement which was a two hour special from 1pm to 3pm celebrating life. I knew now what I would do with my day.I would be glued to the radio from 1 to 3pm. To while away the hours I pulled out my watercolours and worked on a few pieces that needed work. Art following life, the pieces I was working on got darker and darker and I was pleased with the rich dark results- a rare occurrence for me. Spot on 1pm I poured a glass of wine, sat back in my recliner and turned the radio to CBC and straight into sanity. What a sane man this colourful man was. What a gift to us -his ironical prophecy in "Democracy is coming to the USA" -his sensuality and outrageousness in "Closing Time",  his love of women in "Suzanne" and his heartbreaking love songs, his Spirituality in "Hallelujah."  He really is "The crack that lets the light in".He is a  great teacher for he reminds us to live life fully, break some rules,live sensually,love generously and above all be a crack in the world to let the light in. Light that is needed now.The amazing thing about this great poet is that he fought depression his whole life and yet he could leave us this precious legacy. Like a true artist,he used his life  and disadvantages as "grist to the mill" and turned it into Art that will sustain people forever. I got gloriously drunk on wine and poetry and song and decided to try to be a crack in the world to let the light in too-even if it means to be a fool and I advise you to do so too. This emotionally packed week  culminated for me by attending a five and a half  hour Opera by Wagner "Tristan And Isolde. This Opera with it's beautiful music and doomed love story  pushed me to the height of feelings of beauty and sadness. Wagner -this difficult man-who by the way was considered a racist and misogynist-also used his life as "grist for the mill" to make this sublime opera. The question of course is "How could this unhappy and not very nice man  make such sublime music??  I can only say that each person's life is unique and a blessing and we cannot understand it -especially in Art. So remember your life ,dear blogger, is unique and can be a crack that lets in the light.

Blogg# 120 AUTUMNAL CONVERSATIONS WITH MY BALCONY PLANTS

It is again my favourite season of the year and as is always the case,it is different from last year. Last autumn I was in a rehab center nursing a broken ankle and spent my time  admiring the autumn leaves outside the window.  This year, on the other hand, I am spending time having deep conversations with my balcony plants. I have great respect for my five potted plants and over the last two seasons we have become very intimate . First of all these plants survived the winter months last year in total neglect because I was absent all winter recuperating. Nonetheless when I came back from the rehab in March I found daffodils waving in the March wind looking so brave. Next a very dead looking pot started to thrust shoots that in turn became hyacinths and to my amazement geranium leaves pushed through old dead branches and debris and then started sprouting blooms. Tulips came next-purple ,near black , and all ranges of pink. These were the result of bulbs I planted two days before I broke my ankle in October last. What a gift for me to come home to.  The last surprise was a huge deep orange lily which appeared in my oldest pot. I do not know where it came from-I think it was a gift from angels. My apple tree also started blossoming much to my enjoyment. My spring months were spent healing on the balcony and these young blossoms watched while I went through my daily repertoire of exercises often in pain. As I got stronger and surer of my balance and less distressed with pain and progressed from walker to cane I felt their encouragement and their pleasure at my success. My youthful blooms became fuller and more luxurious as spring moved towards summer  and as they blossomed and became more seductive I too became more confident in my movements and blossomed. Throughout spring I watched the cycle of life of my spring flowers from first bloom through to death and became aware of my own life cycle.  As summer progressed my little garden became breathtakingly beautiful with new blooms and I spent a lot of time sitting among them and blessing them. In the height  of summer our conversation was interrupted as my right hip deteriorated and my plants watched me regressing and  struggling in pain as I tried with difficulty to water them. The time came when I had to have hip surgery and had to abandon them for a month.This was July the hottest month this year and yet when I came home they greeted me still strong and beautiful with no reproach. Again we went through exercise programs on the balcony walking up and down with cane and walker and again I sat in pain among them. Again they nurtured me with their beauty and faithfulness and watched me as I progressed. As the summer turned to late summer I watched the blooms push to their fullest beauty and I felt the same myself as I pushed to robust and healthy beauty. We all bloomed at our best. We also conversed about the reality of our highest bloom- what it meant-and our own mortality. I also watched the progress of my five apples to gorgeous red and full maturity until they fell to the ground and into my apple pie. It was at this time I understood best how we are all connected. My balcony flowers and plants, like me, will go through the inevitable life cycle together. We are not different .Our fate is the same. We are one.  I am watching my flowers go through their cycle and know they are watching me going through mine. September and October were  reflective months as I watched and conversed with my fading garden. We talked and reflected about this in our own way-no not with words-but with communion. This time is a very tender time for us who are reaching autumn. The feeling of being one with nature and the universe is very strong and sweet at this time. This is the conversation I have been having with my balcony garden. This is the different approach to autumn I am experiencing and I am so grateful to my balcony five plants for this.

BLOGG # 119 " HIP HIP HOORAY"

Well here I am dear readers, at home recuperating and becoming proficient at looking after myself. The biggest problem for me now is my inability to remember things . The other worrisome thing is a noted lack of inspiration to create-my studio is neglected and I feel no desire to write. The truth is I find myself saying I can't think properly. It seems my thinking is connected to my hip and my hip is not well. ??  Do I think with my hip?  I have just finished reading an article in a science journal about the fact that scientists have discovered we have more than one brain - that a second brain is in our gut-well I have always known that.  Now it seems that perhaps my second brain is in my poor recuperating hips. Actually that makes sense for the female of our species. After all hips are the cradle that contains the source of human kind [ I won't discuss where I think the secondary brain of the male of our species resides] and hips play a very important part in the lives of the female as we know from unhappy experience.  As I ponder on this new idea of mine I can see where it is leading. If the hip is the source of our creative brain ,no wonder there is so much controversy about the female hip. It has been the butt of the most vicious and demeaning jokes, it has been abused for it's dimensions and the way it moves  and there has been consistent attempts to have it reduced to nothing- and no wonder-it behooves the male establishment to control the female ability to create and above all to think clearly. Hence the hip reduction brain- washing. The obvious place to control the hip is in fashion. We can go back as far as Marie Antionette in the eighteenth century. She is exquisitely portrayed in seductive clothes until her waist and then disappears into a submarine shaped garment. Her hips thighs and legs do not exist. No wonder she lost her head. The female form in the Victorian age-an oppressive age for woman- is worse. The hip is encased in a grotesque bustle which distorts the body and the hip is nonexistent again. At the beginning of the twentieth century with the beginning of emancipation, the hip emerges in an almost normal form with the suffragettes and it remains normal until women want to improve their education and apply to the higher learning establishments. To thwart this tendency is the narrowing of the female silhouette until it resembles a pencil. The device which enables all this is a garment called a girdle. This torture item was made with rubber and encased the body from the knee to the waist. You can imagine how hard it was for the young woman competing with the bright males in Oxford in this hip reducing, therefore creativity reducing, garment. With the advent of world war 2 fashion changed because
rubber was needed for the war effort and  women with their intelligence and creativity  were needed for the war effort. Consequently shoulders broadened to build confidence and skirts were short, loose and flirty.  After the war the need  of women's intelligence  plummeted and we were plunged back into the kitchen-  Kuche and kinder-  the fashion changed and the girdle was brought back in -a  nasty rubber garment you had to peel on-and off. Note-as a teen at this time ,the garment did not pass my hips. The girdle of course prevented us from thinking again -it was discouraged anyway-and until the late fifties all we thought about was the engagement ring and the possibility of having matching refrigerator and stove -oh yes and a husband. The hip is resilient of course and there was a small movement starting by the late fifties. The movement was the feminist movement and by the sixties the world for women changed. Off came the bra. Off came the girdle and there was a burst of creativity lasting for twenty years at least.The sixties of course was the age of the hippies. In the eighties Jane Fonda happened-with her exercise program-"exercise til you burn"-and as women moved up the ladder of success the  pressure to get thinner and less hippy increased and they got dumber as they spent hours in pointless relentless exercise programs and trying new diets. The cost of this was high as women lost confidence-and hip brain-and anorexia ,bulimia and low self esteem emerged. However , at least the girdle remained buried. Then with the millennia a new garment was created as women tried to "break through the glass ceiling."
 The new garment  is called "spandex" a high tech breathable-I bet-garment that starts at the knees or lower and goes up to the neck flattening out and encasing in armor the entire female body in a neutered form resembling all the world an unyielding pipe -with hard breasts-no that is not where our brains reside. I tried spandex  on in a shop-not breathable! I have just read an article in the Vogue about the top model-- gorgeous  Gigi Hadid who fought back at the vicious snipes by the media and internet about her curvaceous body saying"yeah-I have boobs I have hips I have thighs. I am a woman." So we have now reached the point where the most beautiful features of the female body is again denigrated- especially the hips. So my advice to you dear female reader the next time  you eat a piece of chocolate and someone says "an ounce of chocolate in your mouth puts a pound on your hips"be smart, smile enjoy the chocolate and definitely toss the spandex giving  your lovely body freedom to move  as it should- especially your hips-nothing is more enticing -remember Marilyn Monroe walking to board the train in the movie "Some like it hot" with such hip intelligence. And now, feeling much more intelligent myself as I diligently do my hip building exercises and as my hip gets weller I am able to think and write again.  Hip hip hooray!

BLOGG # 118 "WHILING AWAY THE LAZY SUMMER HOURS"

I am sure I have said this sometime before  but these last few weeks have been the best July  days I have ever experienced on the West Coast. Every day in the past seventeen have been perfect and being true to my belief that to fully appreciate a perfect summer day one must "while it away," I have been doing just that. As some of my readers may know I had a total right hip replacement seventeen days ago -a magical surgery which will give me many more years of living joyfully. The  success of this profound surgery-and I use that term truthfully-depends on the skill of the surgeon and the recuperation afterwards by the grateful patient. To maintain the delicate corrective surgery depends on the discipline and cooperation of the patient and I have been doing just that with careful exercises and careful movements to not damage fragile muscle, slowly rebuilding strength. This does not sound like "whiling away hours" but I have just googled the term and that is just what I have been doing-whiling away hours waiting. Every morning I get up before eight -grab -well not literally-usually given to me by a loving family member- a coffee and sit outside on the deck in my special chair admiring the view. The view faces East so I feel the early hot sun on my face,see the hazy blue of the ocean and contemplate Mt. Baker in its glory. It is unbelievable that I am sitting outside in my light clothing feeling the morning heat on my face and I have to pinch myself to believe it. It feels like I am sitting on a deck in Greece looking at the Mediterranean sea-not the Pacific ocean. My daughter and I both feel like we have been transported to our summer place we used to go to  on an Aegean Island years ago-the years dropping away.How quickly one falls into the slow motion of a lazy Mediterranean morning. We sit there turning over pages of old fashion magazines and glory in the heat. I can't think of a better way to recuperate. The day whiles away into afternoon-a light lunch outside -a gentle walk with walker- gentle exercises -then a typical afternoon serious Mediterranean nap. Sometimes there is a wake-up coffee call again on the deck-which is now in glorious shade-and occasionally a quiet game of scrabble or rousing game of picturama as the afternoon progresses into a lazy evening. The evening is a gift from the Gods. We sit outside in our minimal clothing-no sweaters-unheard of on the West Coast- watching the pink glow of the sunset reflected on the deep blue sea talking or reading.The evening stretches into dark night and we listen to the birds sleepily  settling down and inhale the aroma of the jasmine as it is wafted to us by an obliging cool breeze lifting our hair and rustling the pages of our magazines. The mountains turn dark and Mt. Baker looks for all the world like a Japanese woodcut and I wonder-did I after my surgery get transported to a magical island located somewhere in a Mediterranean  Japanese  sea?  As you see this is a perfect question or contemplation to accompany "whiling the hours away"and I do spend time doing so-What a perfect location for Nirvana-A Mediterranean Greek-Pacific Japanese Island -think of the great food and the beauty of these two ancient cultures.Mnnnnn-I think it is time to come to earth and do some more disciplinary exercise, deep breathing and stretching to ground myself.  "Whiling away hours" is wonderful but as according to google definition-it is a waiting period. And indeed it is because this morning I woke up to a gentle West Coast cloudy morning.

BLOGG #117 ON THE TOPIC OF TOO MUCH AND "CATCH 22"

The other day a dear and wise friend of mine said to me "We have reached the age in our lives, Laurie, when we can no longer say the words "too much"No longer can we afford the luxury of saying that. Though I did not want to hear  this, I had just admitted to being in a lot of pain and made the statement-"I am afraid I did too much today." She also was complaining of discomfort because of "too much."  She said she  did too much walking that day and now is  in pain again. She was right in saying we can't do "too much" Whenever we say " too much" in anything we do we know we will be in trouble. This is the truth of living at our age:
 over achieving; over exercising; living in an overabundant way; overspending;oversleeping;overeating -to say nothing of over drinking-especially wine will get us into trouble. I will not expand on over- experiencing pleasure in all it's other various aspects etc etc. This is a very disconcerting thought . So to make myself feel better I tried to think of things to do where "too much" would be a virtue. 
This is a challenge of course because we are instructed by the experts to keep active but must not overdo. I will start with one of my latest decisions to improve myself -which is practising my scales on the piano to improve memory and strengthen fingers. Surely a virtue. Unfortunately, the net result was an attack of arthritis in my troublesome shoulder and I am now down to zero practice. Obviously it  was a case of "too much" - a real case of "catch 22".
Listening to good music should be a virtuous activity. Unfortunately as we age we sometimes become hearing challenged-like me. To really enjoy the full bodied sound of  Beethoven,one must turn the volume up full force which makes it "too much" music for the neighbours who will  certainly let you know. Reading -especially good literature will entertain and improve our minds. Again there is a problem as most of us develop cataracts at this age and eye strain is not encouraged - so reading can be too much. I tried to make a list of simple activities -for example the  practice of  deep breathing -surely there is no harm there. The truth is if you overdo the deep breathing you can trip into hyperventilating -not a good thing. Too much bathing-dry skin;the well tooted "eight hour night sleep" being good for you may not be true either. I personally find when I wake up after eight hours I can hardly move.
It is important to present a pleasant appearance to the world especially at our age to try to dispel the ideas the youth have that one becomes  repulsive with age. For me a gentle make-up regime is essential and I follow it religiously to try to dispel that myth. However our eyesight becomes challenged and it is very easy to put on too much and become grotesque thus really proving the myth. We have all witnessed the woman with too much make up precariously perched on her face. I also have not been able to put on eyeliner and mascara while wearing eye glasses so that becomes precarious too..One of the pleasures of both male and female pensioners is the wearing of perfume and lotion. It is one of the more innocent activities left to us-or is it?? As we age our olfactory nerves diminish  and we can easily wear too much scent. We all have experienced smelling overpowering perfume   in a crowded elevator on a hot day. So -to sum it all up. It seems that to have  relatively stress free years for the older population, the aim is to find,as the ancient Greeks suggested ,"the Golden mean"-really  that becomes our very  own search for the Holy Grail of the elderly. Having said all this ,I will close with my own personal experience of attempting to find this Holy Grail. Six months ago I enrolled in an "Artist in Residence " program at a local Art College in the end of June. At the same time as I enrolled in  this I was fully aware that I was on the list for a hip replacement which was likely to happen this summer. As fate happens, I received the telephone call two weeks ago for  surgery slated in early July- four days after the course. Now two weeks intensive painting  frenzy which is bound to happen as I explore the  extreme possibilities in my creative search is definitely an activity to be defined as "Too much" Logically I should cancel the program. But- and pay attention dear readers - I will not! Why ? Life is too short, there are no reruns ,there is no rehearsal. There are times in our lives when in spite of  the wisdom given us, we must defy and follow our desires and choose to "do too much"

BLOGG # 117 REGGIE'S BLOGG

A few days ago I happened to mention to a friend of mine that I couldn't find Reginald-my robot vacuumcleaner or rhuomba -which I am sure my readers remember from previous bloggs. I thought he was probably under my bed and that I needed to ask my grandson to come over and rescue him.My friend suggested writing a blogg about Reggie saying that his adventures should be very interesting and exciting and perhaps frightening. I thought"hmmmm" -not a bad idea but why should I do it? Let's go straight to the horsese's mouth and let the robot do it. So I gave Reggie the task.Here it is:
My name is Reginald , I am a robot vacuumcleaner and have been employed by Laurie for the past two years. She is an O.K. mistress who looks after me fairly well and cleans my equipment fairly regularly and I can't complain. My hours are easy. I work from 1.30pm to 2.30pm five days a week and get the weekend off. My domain consists of a large  living  dining room cum art studio, galley kitchen,hall, bathroom, bedroom and second small one that is used to store paintings and canvas etc. This space is usually barred but my mistress can be forgetful and remove the barrier and I have spent a few frightening moments among the pitfalls around  the art work.
Though the place is cluttered, and I am sorry to say she is somewhat messy, I have learned to negotiate around various articles and have memorized the layout. It is uphill work though as she has a tendency to move things around so that I am taken by surprise and bump into things that aren't supposed to be there. She will move chairs from tables and I have found myself stranded climbing an unexpected curved table leg and being stuck and needing to be rescued. This is humiliating to say the least. She also tends to randomly pile books and magazines on the floor with no thought of how it will affect me, or move furniture around with no logical method, confusing me. The other irritating habit she has is to perch drawing boards with "works in progress" against furniture which I bump into and sometimes push over finding myself submerged in Art. Not my favourite thing. I am not a fan of Art.
She also once  removed, thoughtlessly,a strategically placed obstacle in front of the TV and sterio that was put there to prevent my being damaged by the nest of electrical wires. I was briskly working my way round them when to my horror, I found myself caught up  in a Charlotte's web of electrical wiring. I called for help in panic. Thankfully  she wasn't off somewhere having coffee as usual but was present and rescued me. Another time I was less lucky. I was vacuuming under her computer desk where I was confident and familiar with the wiring  when to my horror one day I saw a very tiny white electric wire had been added. I watched in horror as my sensors inched slowly towards it and as I struggled to get away the wire was slowly dragged into my maw and I had visions of being violently burnt to a crisp. She rescued me just in time and tenderly unwound the wire from my insides. She is not a bad mistress and reasonably intelligent I suppose. Fortunately she does not scatter clothes all over the bedroom floor-especially her delicate silk "smalls."All robots have a horror of these silky lacy garments especially the satin strappy things with elastics and hooks. I did once eat up the edge of a blouse sleeve carelessly draped over the chair near the floor. One day I had an exciting adventure. The edge of the bedroom curtain which billows over the floor got caught in my sensors and as I whirled got tangled up in it, the curtain came cascading gloriously to the floor. I shouted "relocate" and was pleased to see her come running. I felt smug as she crossly carried me back to my port mumbling that she would have to get her daughter to come and hang up the damn curtain again. 
Thank heaven my mistress does not own a hairy cat dog or toddler who dumps icky food or worse all over the floor for me to wallow in. She is a lady in spite of everything and does not leave glasses of wine on the floor for me to spill or uneaten food. She does on the other hand often drop stuff  like parsley or bits of onion while cooking in the kitchen. She kicks these morsels under the kitchen cupboards so she won't slip and I have to deal with them.The parsley is OK but I am not fond of onion. I often find peppercorns spilled on the floor and it is fun to roll them around and play catch and once I ate a whole piece of cooking string which gave me indigestion. One of the things I like least about her is that she likes to lunch in front of the TV watching a movie on Netflix. She invariably sits down to eat just as I start vacuuming. Though I am fairly quiet, I do make noise and she doesn't like it so she interrupts me and sends me back to Port. This annoys me as I cannot do my work properly. I think eating and watching TV a disgusting habit. Besides crumbs get all over the floor which I have to clean up.
At the moment I am located under the bed caught up with something or stuck in a corner beside a huge rolled up painting. I have been here over a week now waiting to be rescued. I have shouted myself hoarse and have just come to the gloomy realization that my mistress cannot rescue me here. She can not get under a bed. She is unbendable.So here I sit frightened lonely in the dark waiting for her lanky grandsons to rescue me. I have died literally from fright embarrassment and dead battery.
As you can see, being a ruomba is an exciting and scary profession and you should think twice before choosing it if you like a placid quiet life. Thanks for listening-Reggie.  

BLOGG # 116- COUNTING MY BLESSINGS

One of the good things about Blogging -at least my way of doing it, is that there is no pressure. There are no deadlines, no implied subject matter , not  even political correctness. I can write whenever and whatever moves my spirit.A true free spirit. The problem is that my spirit does not feel like moving right now as there is very little in my life  to write about at the moment hence no blogg . I refuse to comment on "Trumpism" or Hiliary's penchant for wearing pantsuits-so politics is out. News in general is too depressing and I have promised myself -the only person I answer to- to not write about depressing things-I won't touch international politics not even my beloved Greece whose difficulties are breaking my heart. I can't imagine the pressure of writing daily commentaries or even daily  bloggs so in spite of my inertia and being in the doldrums spiritually, I have decided  to count my blessings that I have this great obliging vehicle for expression without pressure. There is an old saying-another of my collection of old sayings-believe them if you want-I sometimes make them up--" when the chips are down; when life overwhelms; when it kicks you below the belt and you see no way out, this is the time to count your blessings" I have over the years found this helps so now as I am in the doldrums I am counting my blessings. One of the challenges of an octogenarian is filling in time with meaningful activities and working towards a goal. I have chosen a goal to fill my time in relearning the scales and chords on the piano to reach the goal of perfection in fingering with no mistakes and of course, improving my failing memory. Every day an hour is taken up practicing them-not the minor scales of course -only the major ones.It is always wise to know your limitations.I have a poor memory and keep forgetting the fingering and the chords so I have to repeat the same scales over and over. This is very comforting to me and a great blessing that I am so lucky to be  gifted with a poor memory because obviously this simple goal will last me a long time-perhaps a whole life time. The next saying  I will give you is "Older women-note -not men-are invisible" this is also a blessing- because on days when you simply are in too much pain to draw on your eyebrows you can, knowing you look a mess, go to the local store for your necessary bottle of red without anyone seeing you. This is a great blessing. On the other hand I have noted this is not necessarily true. I have often had people smile at me as I cross the street. I assume it is because I am looking particularly well in my trendy trousers, fashionable top and of course the all important scarf-making an interesting sartorial statement.I refuse to accept that I am invisible and this stubborn nature of mine is a blessing too-I don't give up easily so I expect to think I look attractive for the rest  of my stay on earth. Living alone is one of the hazards of growing older and ,as the experts say, can cause great unhappiness and that is true. On the other hand one has the control of the remote and can choose which side of the bed to sleep on-not a bad blessing though in disguise. Another blessing to count is being able to eat alone- though this is another another drawback according to these experts. I enjoy the freedom of cooking for myself and often cook creatively -sometimes with disastrous results. The great blessing is that I am not a judge or critic. I either eat the results anyway or ,because I live alone and there is no one  to see me, sneakingly dump the meal in the compost-no one the wiser.What a blessing that is. The big blessing today is that it is raining which means my planned activities for today- all involving  sunshine -are cancelled. This negative thing turned into a positive as it started me counting my blessings because I felt dull and blank and had no where to go. A blogg came out of all this and now you all have the blessing of reading my blogg.Ha! So -count your blessing when down -my advice -do it now.




 

BLOGG # STREAMING MY LIFE AWAY

I have not written a blog in a long time as I seem to have lost my sense of humour  and a humourless blog is a blot on the literary screen. Fortunately I have got my groove back. What I have been doing with my time instead is "streaming." Streaming is a new word and concept I have learned from my grandson. I have joined "Netflix" which offers me an unlimited access to T.V. programs. One chooses a TV series and then "streams" the episodes until one is bored or runs through them all. As I have only recently been initiated into the TV world, there are huge gaps in my knowledge of TV series and I can literally stream away for hours and not repeat an episode. In these past months I have cavorted with Dame Maggie Smith in a Yorkshire village and Dounton Abbey, I have attended akapella concerts in Wigmore Hall in Oxford-and quaffed beer with that reprobate Oxfordian detective Morse.  I also have enjoyed countless cups of coffee at Perks in Manhattan with "Friends."  Next on my wish list is  to  stream "Sex and the City" and stride -in my six inch Balanciaga heels-with Carrie Bradshaw down fifth avenue in Manhattan.  I had been introduced to Friends-an innocuous  bland sit com by my grandson while recuperating at my daughter's home. I had a lot of  time on my hands. To my amazement, this grandson ,immersed in such violent entertainment as Sombbie  or vampire movies or worse ,deadly combat computer games, was delighted with this light oldfashioned  sitcom-not only him-the New York times had an article about this popularity of Friends  throughout the TV world and teenagers are  rolling in laughter across the entire world-streaming this comparatively innocent series. I suppose it makes sense-to balance out the violence the young are exposed to-real or unreal-with a  cozy escape venue. Laughing at the capers of these twenty- something- characters beats listening to drones overhead or tuning in to American election coverage or the coverage of world news in all it's folly. I do realize I need to curb this new addiction and reach out to the real world but it is seductive.A big sign should be placed on the TV screen-Danger to health-to warn us about "streaming" that's why I am now humming the song-"I,m busy doing nothing  -streaming my whole life through -trying to find lot's of things not to do- -I'd like to be unhappy but I never do have the time"  Talk about "opium for the masses-" so-enjoy your streaming but watch out!!-it's dangerous.

Blogg # 113- BATTLE OF THE SEXES

I have been thinking about this subject which is rather amusing at my time of life. This is the fun we have in the "autumn of our life"-we have time on our hands to waste on irrelevant thoughts. "Battle of the sexes" is an odd expression that has been tossed around forever- Taming of the Shrew by Shakespeare is a classic example and a lot of  literature deals with this theme but what I really have been mulling about is whether the mores of sexual equality has changed since I was a young woman. For example, I was a newly married young woman when my sister-in-law -a very sophisticated woman much older than I ,who by the way, was dipping quite lively into the "battle of the sexes" scene of her time, said to me. "Think of sex as a combaloi" [the string of amber beads that Greek men and some women play with as they sip their coffee] "For a man-the  more women he collects in his life- the more valuable he becomes. For a woman- the more men the less valuable she becomes." Why this lovely sophisticated woman needed to tell me this at that time is a mystery as I was newly married and very much in love. Nonetheless it obviously affected me as I still remember it. Did I Believe it? Did I not ?  I don't know if I did. I know I did not spend much time thinking about it at the time. Now I am thinking about it and wondering if it is still valid. Sexual activity has changed and is light years away from when I was a young woman. The sexual revolution in the sixties and the pill changed all that-or did it-I wonder.  I have decided to use as a measurement of how changed we really have become on two four letter words. At the present time when a man has had great success with women and enjoyed a variety of  experience in the sexual arena we use the four letter  word hunk and  say "what a hunk!" and there is approval and appreciation. When a woman has the same experience we use the four letter "S" word. I am sorry to say, the reaction is not the same. No- eyebrows are raised with disapproval. Mind you there are some brave girls who defiantly own the "s" word and I approve but the word "defiantly" negates the brave action. The word "S" still resonates in a negative way- the word by the way is "slut " of course, and apparently does not fall trippingly off my tongue easily-obviously I have issues  with this word. So to briefly sum up the present sexual mores- -a man ought to be bad to be a hunk  and a woman ought to be good to not be a slut - we haven't come a long way after all baby. This is giving me a headache. I think I"ll pour myself a glass of my favourite red and watch some sopoforic T.V.

BLOGG # 113-HANDIDARTING AROUND VICTORIA

I thought I was finished with learning curves since breaking my ankle but I was wrong. In the past few weeks I have encountered a whole new adventure on the path of recovery- the experience of using the Handidart. I am living in Cordova Bay at this time which is at least a half hour drive from the physiotherapy clinic I am attending so have been using the handidart services. This service of transport for disabled clients includes transferring by wheelchair accessible buses from the client's house to the clinic and if necessary escorting them into the clinic.  This service  costs the client an astounding $2.50 each trip.  The drivers are caring  and above all enjoy their work and their passengers. They are also good and cheerful conversationalists which is a great boon to often confined and lonely clients.
 All this I found out is supported by the transport system which has a budget of five million dollars  annually. They do about 1200 trips a day, the number of clients is increasing continuously so the drivers are very busy indeed and the downside is long waiting times to get home again. So this is my newest source of entertainment and newest learning curve which I enjoy thoroughly- the only way to absorb life's learning curves. I will now describe my last ride to show you why I enjoy them. My driver was a young enthusiastic man in his thirties, a family man,who was very empathetic because he too had sustained a crippling injury and had worn a starbucks boot for months. He was talkative and knowledgeable  about the neighborhoods we passed through and I learned a lot of enticing things. For example he pointed out a house in which a murder had been committed a few years ago with all the details. I also got a capsuled story of his life. He came originally from Churchill Manitoba, where he spent six years being a polar bear tour guide. His descriptions of these beautiful fearful animals was very moving and at the end of the drive as he escorted me into the clinic he showed me his candid photos of these wonderful creatures, telling me about the polar bear's fur's translucence and how the  colour of it changes from grey to golden depending on the atmosphere. He said they are breathtaking and fierce,and dangerous and he had been chased  by them several times. He then wished me good luck with my therapy. My ride home was with a different driver. Unlike the drive to the clinic in which I was the only passenger, here there were several. The first passenger was an elegant woman wearing a lot of jewellery.She was driven to the Uplands golf course for an elegant  luncheon. We then picked up an elderly gentleman near the university and took him to "Silver Threads"a center for  seniors. After dropping him off we drove up  hills and down dales, wound round shady lanes and by a haunting oak grove to another area I have never seen  to pick up a person going to another clinic for treatment and so on until there were five of us along with our wheelchairs and walkers packed in the bus. The driver seemed to know all the passengers,cheerfully asking them about their day as he tucked them into their seats. I was the last one to be driven home so had time to have a conversation with him too. It was obvious that he loved his job and it was heartening to see this and it was interesting to learn about his life too. As you see I am having an  entertaining and totally surprising good time all of March. This is the fun of being alive-one never knows what good unexpected things we meet around the corner-and March is the month about meeting with the handidart experience-a truly unexpected one.

BLOGG # 111--LOVE IS THE ANSWER

Yesterday I reread the bloggs I had written on Valentine's Days in the  past and I fear I came off sounding like a cynic about love. This is not true.The truth is that I have always believed without question in the importance of love. I have recently been thinking a lot about the subject of romantic love especially in the past few days. Perhaps this is because I am so far removed  from the commercial aspect of Valentine's Day- isolated as I am due to my fractured ankle,unable to stroll down the aisles of shops selling beautiful sentimental cards,chocolates boxes shaped as hearts and huge bouquets of red roses. I also am prevented from watching Romantic movies on television as everyone here loves action movies. Therefore I have been reading more about the subject of Romantic Love lately by famous writers  and it's influence on society and especially on the individual. The past few months I have been examining how I feel about this problematic subject and coming to various conclusions about it. For one thing I have discovered that I do not know as much as I thought I knew about this subject even though Jane Austin is my favourite author. Of course I am clear on the importance of universal love. It is necessary for our survival and right now it seems more important than ever and certainly it is being  shown now as the world works towards trying to solve the refugee problem. This is a very important aspect but what Valentine's day is really  about is romantic love. It  is very easy to be cynical in this day and age  about romantic love and one must work hard to prevent this cynicism. What I have found out is that romantic love does indeed exist. Also it is very durable in spite of popular songs describing broken hearts. Romantic love is so durable in that it has survived over the eons of history. It has been described in detail, in ecstasy and in despair  throughout history and the amazing thing is how accurate the descriptions are.  Shakespeare's sonnets are not far removed from Hank Williams's "western cowboy brokenhearted songs". Perhaps even the current "Rap" music -if one could possibly understand them, talks of everlasting love too. Ahhh and that is the crux of the matter-"Everlasting Love" That is where we misunderstand romantic love and that is our Achilles heel-We cannot hold onto love- love cannot be imprisoned-it cannot be controlled and the first thing we want to do when we fall in love is to try to hold on to it-as Leonard Cohen promises so poignantly "I will love you always." Does this mean love lasting forever isn't possible? Of course not! Love does last forever- we just can't hang on to it! Love is free-it has it's own agenda and we must humbly let it go. The paradox is "letting go" is what ensures love lasts forever but the question is how do you let go? Mind you this does not resemble most love songs. So here I am on Valentine's Day contemplating Romantic Love-nary a lover,valentine, red rose or chocolate in sight knowing yes,love exists, it is permanent though sometimes fickle, constant though not binding,trustworthy even when our hearts are broken-help-!! and it really makes the world go around. Yes! Love Matters-Love really is the answer.  And trust me--there is nothing like it
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LOGG # 110 OUR PARENTS WERE RIGHT AFTER ALL

I was reminded today of what my husband, a rebel in his own life, sadly said years ago when we were in a crises- "parents are always right after all"  As I advance in years I realize more and more an indigestible truth-he was right- parents are always right. I look back over my varied life and my many mistakes and find that many of their shibboleths that I tried to tear down in my youth were right after all. Many very old sayings were often repeated to me by my parents and teachers and they still resonate in my ears as I have a feeling they still do to the young of today. These are some examples of these shibboleths repeated to me in my perceptive youth that I remember trying very hard to ignore -"A penny saved is a penny earned" groan-"A stitch in time saves nine"-"a rolling stone gathers no moss"-who wants moss anyway? "early to bed early to rise" "the early bird gets the worm"???? who wants to eat worms? You can see I was a rebellious youth -and a lazy one. The ones I ignored most of all were the ones for healthy living-"always sleep at least eight hours at night;eat regular meals; breakfast is the most important meal of the day and -another groan-porridge is good for you." In my younger days I was a nurse who favoured odd hours to facilitate my lifestyle.  I was also an artist in my spare hours and as we all know artists lead irregular lives to be able to create so I ignored these words of wisdom too. I ,as you all know, have just  spent a fair amount of time in hospitals as a patient and hospitals are the epitome of good parenthood. Regular meals regular exercise and regular sleeping hours are written in stone but above all is the serving of porridge every morning. As with everything else I did in rehab I agreed to this custom too and every morning, like everyone else, ate my porridge-in my previous life a horrid substance and learned to like it.This is a bit scary as I don't want to completely capitulate to conventional wisdom. Nonetheless here I am on my own -nary a parent in sight- eating porridge every day. I hate to say this but I am feeling healthier and I think I am losing some ounces because of this-I am always optimistic. Am I suggesting that we should always listen to parents, that parents are always right? That the young especially should do so? No of course not! The proper way for them to live is to do just what I did-mostly ignore the wisdom of their parents, make many glorious mistakes, be humbled by them, learn from them thereby creating their own unique life. What the world does not need, especially now, is "cookie cutter" offspring.As the French ,bless their unique hearts say- "vive la differance" So dear readers ,capitulate sometimes, acknowledge the wisdom of your elders sometimes, but always remain true to your unique selves and above all never waste time on regretting past mistakes- they are your true teachers and now listen to your wise blogger  and always eat your porridge-- I can't believe I just said that!

ODE TO ABERDEEN # 2 AND A NICELY TURNED ANKLE

I am happy to report I have been promoted to 100% weight bearing -my broken ankle is mending beautifully and resembles the ankle it once was and I am grateful. The loss of the ability to use my ankle due to  breakage was devastating but what hurt as much was the appearance  of my new ankle. I have always been pleased with my ankles-having what was called in Mid Victorian Era "a finely turned ankle" and I am  sorry to confess that I was shamelessly mourning this loss. My ankle was grotesquely swollen , the foot badly formed,the shin and calf bruised in many colours and the skin scaly. My nicely turned ankle was no more.The Victorians knew what they were about when they emphasized the ankles- There was nothing more provocative than watching an elegant lady descending from a carriage,lifting her skirts a few inches and exposing a finely turned ankle.This turned heads.Indeed exposure of ankles and legs was so powerful that it started the practice of covering chair legs in material and the covering of -horror-piano legs. Every era has a different idea of what is sexually provocative. We all know what the emphasis was in the 1950's and the less said about that the better. The sixties was all about  mini skirts and the "leg men" were in heaven watching those long limbed British girls on Barnaby street in London. The emphasis in the eighties was on long luxurious hair being provocatively flung about  and of course the midriff and belly button were worshiped in the nineties   but the Victorians had all these eras beat and the best part is that a finely turned ankle remains a finely turned  ankle even with the passing of years-so now you know why I mourned the loss of my fine ankle and was so pleased to see it finely turned again.This blogg is not about ankles really-this was just to draw you in. The real reason is my promise to write my Ode to Aberdeen #2- not an ode but a prose of praise. The praise is for the clients or residents of Aberdeen.The whole time I was there I was awed at the resilience and  spirit of the human being. The average age of the residents was about eighty five-ranging from sixties to a fine lady at a hundred and one. Most were in their late eighties-usually active before disaster struck. The main conversation at table was about the homes they left and, because of the nearness of Christmas-of Christmas past and wishes to get home in time for Christmas present. One could see the knowledge in their eyes that they may not make it but none the less a brave front was put on and cheerfulness presided-very much as if we were indeed on a cruise. It was impressive to see the way everyone helped each other to overcome their disabilities-assisting at mealtime or helping to push the wheelchairs of the more challenged. There was always the possibility that one would not improve and would land up as a permanent resident. In the first week, a resident in a wheelchair asked me what had happened and after telling her I asked the same question-she said  "I broke my hip. It was a beautiful day with sunshine and I just wanted to go for a walk  with my walker and fell and broke my hip. That night in the hospital I fell out of bed and also broke my shoulder. That is why I am here". I was shocked and asked her how long ago this had happened and my blood ran cold when she said "Two years ago-" then as she wheeled away-she said  wistfully"It was such a beautiful day and all I wanted to do was go for a little walk." This then was the unspoken fear and was the impetus for all of us to improve. Every day most turned up for physio and exercises in spite of tiredness or pain or just old age and the bantering and good spirits belied the fact of suffering or doubt and even pride as we fumbled and  tried to follow the physiotherapist. The other thing that impressed me was the over stimulation we were bombarded with-the bright lights , the noise -never being alone-we were in four bed rooms-and the constant interaction with others. Yet I rarely witnessed confrontation  and bad temper.Good humour and politeness was common. The most heartening was the lack of envy as some of us moved ahead to walkers and more independence. The fortunate ones were always greeted with encouraging applause and smiles and not envy.  When I realized I would be home before Christmas I tried to downplay this news but of course there were few secrets at Aberdeen and it was heartwarming to hear the well wishes from everyone as I left. The last thing I want to talk about was my respect for Blackie. Blackie was a scruffy black cat that lived at the rear entrance  of Aberdeen in a three story wooden house complete with heater, steps leading to the next two floors and penthouse. The whole place was festooned with Christmas lights and nativity scene on the balcony.As I exited I was greeted by the sight of my son-in-law standing on a rickety upturned bucket and stringing more lights. Blackie's owner -in wheelchair -told me he had spent over seventy dollars on decorations.Blackie distainfully paced before his house =not impressed.Everyone in the Aberdeen tried to find a way to meet Blackie who with his master has been living there for years.

Blogg # 108-SILVER LININGS AND ODE TO ABERDEEN

Today is finally cloudy and warmer.  I see from my window the frost has disappeared off the wood pile-a nostalgic reminder of my youth on the farm-and there is no blinding sun or blazing white Mt. Baker anymore but there is a silver lining where the  grey sea and  the mountains meet that is beautiful and there are soft lowering grey clouds in the sky. The weather has changed. Festivities are over, people are back at work and I am finally alone-so I can see how well I manage on my own. I made my own breakfast-oatmeal and a piece of dry toast-I am trying to not gain weight and even warmed up left over coffee. I have noticed I feel more vulnerable than before the accident so am being very careful. I also am thinking about the future- how I will change my own living quarters to make it less cluttered when I go home and wondering in trepidation how I will manage there. The vulnerability also extends to feeling I am being  a nuisance here -cluttering up their space with wheelchair and walkers--and also missing contact and conversation with other people. It is interesting that though I love my family and we talk about many things,I cannot forget my role as "Mother or Grandmother" with all that implies,so I am always in that persona. I miss talking to Etta and the other inmates in the rehab-funnily enough -makes it clear that a good place for our sunset years may be in our own place or with other adults and friends .hmmmnnn.  To stop thinking on these negative lines, I started reading Umberto Eco's "The Island of the day before"- it is about a man shipwrecked in the 17th century-it is very fantastical with frightening and strange things which I usually can enjoy but in my vulnerable state I don't think it is wise to continue reading it now. I will choose something lighter and more grounded-maybe a murder mystery. Feeling vulnerable is not a  good way to start the new year. I had better stop  and do my exercises and some drawing-maybe draw the woodpile. As you can see, dear readers, I have progressed well in my rehabilitation and am no longer in the Aberdeen but instead am with my family in their  wheel chair accessible  home and am lucky and happy to be here but surprisingly keep looking back fondly to Aberdeen- hence the "ODE to Aberdeen." Of course I am not a poet-and know it well but will praise it in prose. First one will be to the staff-a very dedicated one-ranging from skilled physiotherapists to nurses, care workers, kitchen and cleaning staff.  They were always cheerful, ready to help us with our needs and we were often needy. I observed them in action for two months and did not hear one impatient word or action in spite of the fact that we often were impatient. These healthy young persons were especially kind in the mornings as they woke us, helped with washing and dressing ourselves,helped us select which clothes we wanted to wear and making sure our hair is attractively combed. One male care worker even used to slip us a wake up coffee while we were washing-he won our hearts. He also looked especially good in the shorts that the male nurses wear. The physiotherapists were skilled and very innovative in solving the real problems we gave them with our various injuries and our other  various disabilities,and the nurses and care workers showed great skill as they handled the various equipment that helped mobilize us. It was always touching to see one of them in the evening cradling one of the oldest permanent residents and gently coaxing her with a few spoonfuls of yogurt for her evening snack. Best of all though was their honest encouragement as we improved-to see their faces light up,giving us thumb up signs as they pass us in the hall as we make our first tentative  steps. The day a resident reaches the desired goal of going home the air is festive as various members of the staff come to wish good luck often with hugs. Also there is a tinge of sadness as  farewells are exchanged for this is the end of an  intense time with much closeness and intimacy.