misfortune of Fukushima

 Of all the pictures I've seen since the disaster at Fukushima commenced in March of 2011 it was one of a small child being scanned with a Geiger counter that affected me most. This is my version with a photograph of the Number 4 reactor building in the background.

I'm not going to rant about the dangers of nuclear power but to say we never did 'harness the atom'; what we did instead was to catch the biggest tiger we ever met by its slashing tail.

I'll also mention, just in case you haven't heard, that Tepco is planning to try to remove the spent fuel rods from the damaged reactor Number 4 building beginning in November.

It's true that something needs to be done but I'm not confident Tepco can be counted on to get this right. Neither is Crow. 


♡

I promise to return to my usual light-hearted topics next month.

Crow salutes David Suzuki

Just a few days ago our friend David Suzuki gave a speech in Australia at the University of New South Wales in which he charged the new Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, other climate change denying politicians and the ultra rich with 'criminal negligence' for their willful blindness.

"Environmentalism is a way of seeing our place within the biosphere. That’s what the battles were fought over. The barbarians – that is, many of the politicians and corporate executives that environmentalists have been fighting all these years – are driven by a totally different set of values, by the drive for profit, for growth and for power."

Later in an interview he was asked, "David, you've urged, at least twice, that legal ways should be found to jail politicians for denying what you call the science of climate change. David, do you still hold that view?"

Suzuki responded:

"You bet. I think there is a category called willful blindness. Our problem is we have no means of holding our so-called leaders - people we elect to political office to lead us into the future - we have no way to keep them accountable, except booting them out of office. But the reverberations of what they do or do not do today are rippling far beyond the coming years. There will be generational impacts. Now, if you have people who stand up to take positions of leadership and they deliberately suppress or ignore information vital to making an informed decision, I think that's willful blindness, and willful blindness, I understand, is a legal entity that you can sue people for."

Suzuki added, "I think it’s a crazy, dangerous situation if we’re going to marginalize science in favor of political priorities. I think that’s very, very dangerous."

Crow and I agree on behalf of all of those who will inherit this fine planet.
♡

Crow and the Druid

September being a changeable month in these parts, Crow and I were spending an afternoon reviewing his archives while a drenching rain spattered the tall arched windows that overlook his terrace. Just as I was about to pour the tea he thrust an old picture between me and the Royal Albert saying, 'Aha! I've been meaning to show you a picture of Gaith, my old Druid friend, and here is one of both of us scratched upon this piece of bark. Amazing how well this stuff keeps, isn't it?'

I've long stopped being surprised at the immensity of Crow's historical social circle, but he'd never mentioned Druids before. I made myself comfortable in my favorite of his wing back chairs, took a sip of Oolong and sat back to listen:

'It probably won't surprise you to hear that even in the dim, dark past there were crazy, power hungry male persons who made a general nuisance of themselves by making up excuses to kill their neighbors and take their land. The first thing they always did was to demand that the young men in their kingdoms supply themselves with pointed sticks or whatever, swords being both rare and expensive, and join in the battles. Some young men who weren't pleased with this mad idea ran away to the forest.

'The forests of Europe and old England were very large indeed. Still, it wasn't easy to get by on your own and certainly there were no modern conveniences like waterproof shoes and tents - never mind nicely packaged emergency food supplies.

'On this particular fine morning, Gaith and I had been strolling along a path overhung by the branches of sacred oak trees when we came upon a weary looking but handsome youth sitting by a brook. After mutual greetings we sat and shared some food and listened to his reasons for preferring a life of peace. Rather than going to war he had run away to a place where he hoped to enjoy life and creation, learn its wonders and strive for answers to the big questions. My friend Gaith, being a Druid, one of those rumored to have strange powers, invited him to join his band as a junior member. 

'Whether they were called Yogis, Magi, Lamas, Monks or Druids, all of them strove to learn. They developed techniques and applications; they dreamed dreams and studied nature intensively. As it took a very long time to become a Master Druid, perhaps twenty years or more, they arranged their membership into sections (like colleges) that depended upon knowledge and individual attainments. They also developed a brilliant plan designed to lessen the violence of the crazy men. What was it? First, you have to understand they already had much to offer by their abilities with Astrology and calendars; they knew much about plants and the healing arts. They also knew how to manipulate materials and some, like my friend Gaith, were experts in speaking the Language of the Birds. That's how we first became friends (he told some excellent people jokes). What the Druids offered freely to the crazy men who ruled at that time were the members of their lowest college, the Bards.

'Our new young friend who was called Oisin would be trained as one of them, a singer of history. From what I heard later he did well and even stopped a war or two by singing Sagas of previous encounters between the combatants. Of course, the other king also had a Bard and the two likely collaborated to mold a peace. This was the foundation of Diplomacy vs mindless War.'

Rocking back on his perch, Crow snagged a piece of fruitcake, arched his brow and remarked, 'Aren't you glad to know there are still Druids in the world today?'

Yes, yes I am, but we could always use a few more. The rain having stopped by then, we went for a walk by the sea.

♡

doing what becomes us

A formerly thriving monastery is down to its last three monks, and the place has lost all of its spiritual influence. The Abbot walks down the long stairs to consult with a passing well-known wise man who tells him, “I don’t know how to solve the problems of your monastery, but I do know that one of the three of you that remain there is actually the Messiah.”

The Abbot returns and repeats this to the other two monks. Each of them considers inwardly, “Well I know it’s not me, so it must be one of these other two.” Thus they all start treating each other with the greatest of reverence, kindness, respect and love, thinking they might be in the presence of the Messiah. The positive energy that this generates begins to infuse and radiate out from the monastery, and as new visitors pass through, they are infected by it and choose to stay on as monks, and within a short time, the monastery is once again a vibrant and thriving institution.


It's a pretty cool story and one whose premise is inarguable (if you don't believe me, ask Jesus or the Buddha), but I'll have to agree with whomever first mentions that things don't often work out that way among most of us humans. There are so many potential tragedies in process right now that I almost have to wonder how we've lasted as long as we have. Perhaps it's because Progress as we know it now wasn't invented until about 300 years ago. Before that people mostly did what they'd always done, even if that did involve grabbing grandfather's sword or pike and heading off to battle every so often. At least then the battles were generally right on one's doorstep and there was no question of punishing strangers who lived thousands of miles away. Okay, there were the Crusades that were motivated by religious mania and greedy land grabbing in the Americas etc., but my point is that things didn't start getting really crazy until fossil fueled industrialization became endemic.

There's a very old legend among the mystical teachings of several religions that there's always a small group of hidden saints who are 'holding up the world' but who live out their lives as ordinary people. We can never know for sure that the clerk at the market or the bus driver who greets us with a smile isn't one of them. Since we can't know who is or who isn't an Enlightened human being, why not treat everyone as though they are? I rather like the concept that there's no such thing as Enlightenment as that term indicates a changeless state (and there's no such thing in Reality), but what's possible for all of us is Enlightening as a verb, or Becoming if you prefer.

The book the monk story is from (and now own as my very first digital copy) is called 'Why I Am Not Enlightened' and was written by a very wise and funny Western spiritual teacher called Elias Sobel. I recommend it to you.

As Crow says, 'Even if you people can't be perfect, you can at least be nice to one another'. 
♡
ps: I didn't get a Kindle but have downloaded a free Adobe E-reader.

constructive Crow

Greetings from distant places, dear susan,

As usual, travel has broadened my perspective but, more and more often lately, I must shake my head in amazement at the vagaries of humankind. Weary-winged after my flight across the Mediterranean, I'd  barely alit on the bow of a passing sloop when what should I see but yet another monstrous edifice blighting this enchanting shore. What you see in this picture quickly snapped by one of the fishermen is the 47 stories tall Intempo Tower that rises head, shoulders, torso and thighs above its neighbors in what formerly was the tiny fishing village of Benidorn, Spain. What makes it eye-rollingly outlandish is that in their haste to construct dwellings more lavish than others nearby, the builders neglected to emplace elevators suitable for carrying people and their furnishings to floors above the twentieth. Yes, the developers decided to add twenty-seven floors to the original design without considering this seemingly essential issue for those born without wings.  Their response is a plan to add exterior lifts, but I can't help but wonder how the tenants will react to strangers passing through their bedrooms on their way to their own apartments.

This egregiously bizarre architectural anomaly only goes to prove my long held opinion that people are better off living closer to the ground. High-rises have become endemic in modern cities mostly as a result of the cheap and unimaginative mass production logic of big business. Just as there are famous brand name food purveyors on the corners most everywhere in the western world and beyond, so too are high-rise apartment and office buildings making your cities indistinguishable from one another. True, some of the buildings are entertaining to look at (mostly at night), but they are invariably inhuman in size and scope. Furthermore, there are problems inherent in skyscraping habitations that may not be apparent on first glance but, as energy prices continue to rise, we may yet see the renaissance of human scale architecture - the kind that still exists mostly in old Europe whose central cities are themselves untouchable monuments, but whose outskirts too have often been redeveloped - up.

Here's a charming view of Venice painted by my old friend Canaletto in the days when nothing was taller than a church steeple.

Anyway, let me make a couple of points about why modern high-rises might not be the entirely correct solution to the way people live:

1. Wind speed increases with height. This isn't a problem for birds who may wish to migrate, but you might want to consider that if you open windows for some cross ventilation on the forty-second floor you may want to place bricks on any loose paper.

2. If your windows don't open, especially in a building with glass curtain walls, then on a hot day without power provided by cheap fossil fuels the temperature inside will rise to baking levels.

3. Water pressure to all but the lowest floors of a building will disappear during a power outage.

4. In a period of unaffordable energy costs, people would only be able to occupy floors as high as they could physically climb. For most people, that limit is four or five flights of stairs and may be less if you're carrying buckets of water.

In the long run I imagine skyscrapers might make excellent aviaries. Goodness knows, we birds could do with a break.

Salutations to you and all your compatriots. Please remember to keep the brandy warm and the fruitcake old and dry. I shall return soon.

Devotedly yours,
Crow

my first hurricane

In October of 1954, a hurricane called Hazel hit Southern Ontario pretty hard. By that time my mother and father both had jobs in Toronto, 25 miles away from our tiny lakeside cottage and, as a determinedly solitary child (one who hadn't taken well to being babysat), I was a latchkey kid. Every morning at 6:30 they'd get in the car for the long drive to the city and would return at 6:30 in the evening. That was the routine.

As I recall it was late afternoon on a Friday that the storm began. Truth to tell I didn't pay much attention when the rain first started pelting the windows, nor did I notice the winds doing anything unusual. I'd done my few chores - dish washing, making my bed and peeling potatoes for dinner -  before looking at the clock to see it was almost 6:30. It was already too late in the year for seeing much outside the windows by that time of the evening but I squinted into the darkness anyway hoping to see the lights of the little Ford Prefect coming up the road. Nothing. Well, not quite nothing since wet leaves had already glued themselves to the glass at the front of the house.

An hour or more went by with me alternately looking at the clock and going back to the windows, more and more nervous with each passing minute. So I did what any normal almost eight year old would do and turned on the television to watch Topper - a family favorite show. If you remember that program it was about an elderly gentleman (Leo G. Carroll) who was visited by the amusing and sophisticated ghosts of the couple who had originally owned his house. Since they'd died in an avalanche, an alcoholic St. Bernard who'd expired trying to rescue the Kirby's also provided some fun by lapping up any martinis he found. As it was only Topper who could see these characters he was always left to explain the strange happenings. Maybe you had to be there.

Anyway, five minutes into the show the lights went out in the house. Not only had the storm not blown over as they usually did, but it had got worse. While I was still waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark I heard very loud banging at the kitchen door followed by the entrance of Patricia, a twelve year old neighbor who said I had to come to her house. I really didn't want to leave but she said she'd drag me if I refused. The back door that slammed into the outside wall when we went outside took both of us to close. Then it turned out I couldn't stand up in the wind so had to crawl the hundred feet or so to her house while branches and everything else that wasn't nailed down blasted past us. After Pat tripped over a rolling log she stayed down and crawled the rest of the way with me.

At least there were candles lit at the neighbor's house but I couldn't eat what was offered. A pair of clean pyjamas exchanged for my wet clothes made me more comfortable, but I refused a shared spot in bed with the girls and instead, went to sit by the kitchen window to watch for car lights. By then I was badly frightened that I'd never see my parents again and wondered what would become of me. England and the aunts, uncles and grandparents who lived there were very far away and not well remembered. A few miles away was the Loyal True Blue and Orange Home, an orphanage for children whose parents had been killed in the war, or so I'd been told. I didn't think I'd like it there.

So passed a long and lonely night. Although I didn't cry because I didn't want anyone to hug me, I did feel sick and bereft. I must have fallen asleep on the chair because when I looked outside again it was a clear, calm morning. Before anyone else awoke I was out the door running home. Even now remembering the joy and relief I felt seeing that little black car parked next to my house brings a lump to my throat.

It had been a terrible storm that saw bridges washed out, trees falling to block roads and rivers overflowing their banks, but my father drove the high riding Ford Prefect through farmer's fields and along graveled back roads to make it home by dawn. We had breakfast together, Mam, Dad and me, and then I went out to play with my friends in the lake that had crested at the bottom of our road. I think my parents went to sleep.

♡

round and round

Having had to keep the curtains and windows closed on weekdays for the first  two months of summer has pretty much stopped me doing much drawing (the paints and brushes remain packed away).

Not to be one to do nothing when I'm kept from the drawing table, I've been spending some of the downtime making little beaded bits again. Whether I'll apply for a small space at the local Christmas craft fair in December is still to be decided, but having nothing at all to show would make the idea a moot one.

Up to now I've made fifteen beaded pendants and a couple of new bracelets. What's been trickier, though, has been trying to take three or four decent pictures of each one - yes, it's a juried show. Once I have access to my workspace and daylight again on a regular basis I guess I'll figure it out.

Nevertheless, making things is much more fun for me than photographing them. Out of more than a hundred images taken one late afternoon a few days ago, these are the best ones so far. Thank goodness for digital cameras, eh?

The good news is that our windows and the balcony door will be replaced on Tuesday - the last place on this side of the building. Besides having to move the furniture away from the front of the apartment (!) we've already noticed it takes the crew the better part of twelve hours to complete a switchover so I guess we'll be taking a trip that day. Know of any good movies showing this summer?

♡

ps: I wouldn't have cared about this work if anything had been noticeably wrong with the old windows, but there wasn't. I wonder why is everything always about appearances these days.

picturebook problems

"Why are there no other drawings in this book as impressive as the drawing of baobabs? The answer is quite simple: I have tried but with the others have not had the slightest success. When I drew the baobabs, I was driven by a feeling of urgency."

This passage from The Little Prince caught my attention for the simple reason that I've been working on (intermittently, depending on this, that and Crow's portrait schedule) illustrations for a story for more months than I expected the whole project to take. The as yet unfinished one above is the second in a series of what I expect will be either 8, 9 or possibly, 10 pictures altogether - in other words, however few I can get away with drawing, inking and painting. As of now I have 7 drawings underway in various stages and the problem I've run into is some of them are much better than others. This series will eventually get done but it's no surprise I've never become a storybook illustrator. I too only rarely feel that sense of urgency.

Speaking of which, you may like this:



♡

the little prince

It's been a long time since I last read The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry but our old copy was close at hand this afternoon so I read it again. A little blond boy leaves his home on Asteroid B-612 and lands in the middle of the Sahara desert, where he meets a stranded pilot desperate to fix his plane. Over the course of eight days, the prince reawakens the aviator's appreciation of the simple treasures in life, while the prince learns that grown-ups aren't always "odd." Saint Exupery's pilot remembers his parents discouraging him from taking up art when he himself was six:

“I showed the grown ups my masterpiece, and I asked them if my drawing scared them. They answered why be scared of a hat? My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant.”

The Little Prince proceeds to tell of his travels from planet to planet until he arrived on Earth and of what he has learned along the way.  The most important thing he reveals is a secret that was taught him by a fox that he tamed:


                         And he went back to meet the fox.
                         "Goodbye" he said.

                         "Goodbye," said the fox.
                         "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret:
                         It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;
                         what is essential is invisible to the eye."

                         "What is essential is invisible to the eye,"
                         the little prince repeated,
                         so that he would be sure to remember.

                         "It is the time you have wasted for your rose
                         that makes your rose so important.

                         "It is the time I have wasted for my rose--
                         "said the little prince
                         so he would be sure to remember.

                         "Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox.
                         "But you must not forget it.
                         You become responsible, forever,
                         for what you have tamed.
                         You are responsible for your rose. . ."

                         "I am responsible for my rose,"
                         the little prince repeated,
                        so that he would be sure to remember.
 
“You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

♡

note: When I looked for a copy of this book to link to I discovered that a new version of it published by Harcourt and translated into 'simpler' English by Richard Howard should be avoided. Katherine Woods translated the original that most of us remember.

kilted Crow

"Thaur waur nae roads in th' highlands tae spick ay until th' industrial revolution. th' few roads 'at existed afair 'en waur th' few military roads constructed by general george wade in th' early 1700s tae connect th' british army’s garrisons. onie travel therefair was by pony ur oan fit. wadin' ben th' damp bracken quickly soaks yer breeks an' withit a regular means ay dryin' yer clase yer health quickly suffers. in th' worst-case scenario, a braw leids tae pneumonia leids tae death. if thes happens afair ye breed th' next generation, it’s called ‘eugenics’ an' academic puff-buttocks write papers abit ye.

"Th' kilt offers a practical alternatife, as th' baur lower leg an' fit quickly dries. th' kilt was therefair a pragmatic solution tae a common problem. th' kilt, however, wisnae worn oan aw occasions. if breeks waur considered mair practical fur a particular activity 'en they waur worn withit hesitation. th' highlanders waur quite content tae “go abit bare-arsed in their shirt-tails” when an' if th' situation permitted!" *

All this and much more did I learn about kilts and Scottish history as Crow sipped a wee dram of an old single malt whisky from the Isles of Islay on a rainy Canada Day. We see a lot of kilts here in Nova Scotia at this time of the year but he was reminiscing about older times than ours. In centuries past he spent a long time in the Highlands with the Glengarry MacDonnell Clan, who still remember him in their crest and motto - The Rock of the Raven. As you well know, Crow still rocks.

It was fascinating to learn that there were no clan tartans as we know them now until the middle and late 1800s. Prior to that they were woven on standing looms of yarns plucked from goats and dyed with whatever natural colors could be found in an area. Only worn by people from the far north of Scotland, who recognized one another by the particulars of weave and color in their tartans, they became popular around the same time that Queen Victoria bought her castle in Balmoral. While her new holiday home was being rebuilt she gifted already rich landowners the crofts and small-holdings of many Highlanders. That's how it happened that so many Scots came to live in North America and the reason why this province has its name.

Anyway, it was too wet the other day to watch a parade so in between fits of laughter at Crow's perfect brogue I started a new picture of him with some friends. With any luck it will eventually become a half decent colored picture. We'll see what develops.

Meanwhile, if I hear this guy is planning a visit to Halifax for next year's parade I will definitely go whether it's raining or not. I think all the pipe bands should have instruments like his:



Happy celebrations wherever you are.
♡

* Thanks to Robert MacDonald, Kiltmaker, Vancouver BC