Well, I am not sure and I don’t think many have noticed anyway but we just might be in the beginning stages of a revolution.  Maybe.

Hard to tell.

First off, it isn’t a violent one.  So not noticing is OK.  No parliament buildings are going to be blown up.  No riots (I hope).  Generally speaking it is a soft revolution gently underway and barely visible (which I think is the strategy) but a revolution it is nevertheless.  I think.

Could be me.  You know, projecting?   Let me explain…………

First off, a lot of people everywhere are disgruntled about all-things-government, institutional, the economy, politicians and especially automated phones (just to name a few irritants in this, our modern life).  Rejection of some of this – at the very least – is inevitable.  Witness the run to organic foods.  Witness the growth of alternative medicine, alternative energy and even alternative media (Twitter, etc).  We are rejecting or opting out of a lot of stuff.   

Witness those highly respected members of society especially beloved and respected by thousands hightailing it off to live in the woods!

But, more to the point: witness the millions of people not paying taxes!

It is passive resistance, to be sure, but it is rampant.  Hell, in Greece, it seems, no one has ever paid taxes! (we Canadians still do but balked at the HST.  It is a start).

Add to that the growing number of people who can’t pay taxes!  They’ve lost their homes in the last recession.  Their jobs in the previous decades.  And their pensions and investments to banks, Bernie Maddoffs and bureaucratic bungling over the last few years (locally see BC Hydro, BC Ferries,  BC Rail and the stupid, bloody Olympics!).  There are now more and more bankruptcies every year.  The homeless are all over.  And the only institutions growing unchecked are food banks. 

NOW we have disgruntlement plus disappointment. 

Add to the mix those who were previously doing just fine but find themselves barely able to ‘keep it together’ even when earning as much as $100 K a year.  This is a frustrated group. 

Disgruntlement, disappointment and frustration.  That is the stuff that fertilizes dissent. 

And where it was much worse, we actually had some visible dissent.  We had the Arab Spring – Arabs twittering their anger to the point of actual revolution!  It is happening in the USA, too.  In Bolivia.  Iceland.  Ireland.  Battle in Seattle.  Riot at the Hyatt.  See the ‘Occupiers-of-Wall Street’ and the labour unions join hands.  For that matter, the labour unions and the Greens have joined hands on some issues.  Wow!  See the Salmon Wars!  Hard hats and hippies on the same side!  And the pipeline-Tar Sands battles are coming soon to a theatre near you. 

Or your beaches.   

And get this: China is going through it as well.  China has over 100,000 protests a year and basically sweeps most of them under the carpet.  But, with their version of Twitter, they can’t do that anymore.  Chinese crowds are gathering over just about everything from poorly run hospitals to buildings that fall down to poison in the food.

Corporate-think and Institutional-think are just not garnering the following they used to enjoy previously – albeit, mostly by benign ignorance on the part of the public.  In fact, the RCMP are no longer much respected (tasering) at all.  Not by anyone.  Neither are the courts (years and years of lawyering that get no where and government protected crooks getting away Scott-free with their legal fees paid! Royal Commissions that cost millions and do nothing.  Gordon Campbell being nominated for the Order of BC). 

What is there to respect?

But let’s go back to passive – for a minute, anyway.  Local people are eating local, driving less.  Fewer people fly.  Fewer people are RVing, as well.  And hardly anyone goes boating up this way anymore (unless the yachts are huge).  Not compared to yesteryear, anyway.  Passive resistance, in this case, is taking the form of staying home.  Alternative energy is growing.  And swap and shops and garage sales are proliferating.  So are ‘free stores’.  The people are opting out where they can.  They are voluntarily choosing to find ways around the corporate beast.  And they are succeeding to a point.
  
(Man, being a conventional retailer these days must be hell.  Rampant shop-lifting, Costco on the right of you, a free store on the left, a drug pusher out front and a garage sale in the alley behind you.  No wonder main streets all over are empty!)

I know, I know.   You think that this is just a self-interest movement more than a political one but I suspect that all revolutions are that way.  So something revolutionary just may be afoot.    

Is this a revolution?  Not yet.  Sheeple don’t revolt until they they are actually hungry.  They take a beating and keep on bleating.  Plus they need to know the time and date of the revolution so that it can be scheduled in (it is just so embarrassing to show up for the revolution in a red bandana and heavy boots just to find out that you are a week early!). 
But, in the meantime, this passive resistance thing is good.  This alternative economy is good.  This eating and shopping local thing is good.  And this growing desire to stop feeding the beast is really good.  We could use a few more occupations of Wall Street.  Especially in Canada. That is for sure. 

I recommend starting in BC.

For a real revolution we need another Ghandi but absent that kind of charismatic leader, we can at least passively support alternatives, think differently and perhaps support some of those who are sticking their neck out. 

Alex Morton is one who comes to mind. 

I have a dead tree looming over my wood shed. It’s old, ugly, brittle and ready to fall down at any time. I am sympathetic.

I have an old neighbour. He, too, is old, ugly, brittle and, by living up here, is also vulnerable to – and often in the position of – falling down. I am empathetic.

I introduced the two of them.

“That puppy has to come down!”, he declared. “It is dead and will fall right on your shed! I’ll get my stuff and come over on a sunny day and we’ll take ér down.”

“Well, I agree with everything you said but for the ‘we’ part, Kemosabe. What makes you think I am going to let an old coot like you get in harm’s way?”


“Well, I was a logger when I was young. You weren’t. You don’t know how to do this. I do. I am going to climb up that other tree nearby and swing like a pendulum until I can grab the old, dead one and then I am gonna strap myself in on it and take it down in pieces.”

Yeah, right!

When he left I went about roping that old tree to other trees nearby. I basically ‘hamstrung’ the dead, gnarly widow-maker and put tension on the lines so that, when I cut it, it would fall and swing away from the shed. Seemed like a good plan.

And then I left it for other things.

Yesterday, ‘old coot’ comes by while I was napping and, before I can get up, climbs the tree beside the dead one and drags a bit of equipment with him. I show up to see him thirty feet up a tree tangled in ropes.

” Is that how loggers do it?”

“Loggers don’t do this! In the forest the trees are not near sheds, you big doofus. Here you have to get creative! Now stop being so useless and send me up my equipment!”

Turns out the first thing I sent up was his climbing harness! He’s already up the tree and now I am sending up the climbing harness?! The tree he is on is pretty hard to climb. I have poor eyesight but I assumed that he had on small climbing spurs but I was surprised to see that the harness and girdling rope was being sent up after the fact.

We eventually got a third rope around the dead tree (higher up for better leverage) and he came down. As I watched, I realized that he did not have spurs. This old guy had climbed the tree in sneakers!

C’mon! That is impressive. I don’t care who you are (except a coconut picker in Jamaica, perhaps). An old guy over 65 and stiff enough to have trouble tying his shoes goes up a straight, minimally-limbed tree 30 plus feet without aids of any kind!

Who are these people!?

“Well, thanks for that. I was going to offer you a beer but perhaps you’d prefer a coconut or a bunch o’ bananas?”

I have been researching. Looking for a place to ‘get away’ to this winter. We will need to go south. By February, we will simply need some light! The weather here is good enough. Most of the time. So, it is not the weather.

And we don’t have to go south every year. But the sunlight is minimal here in winter and, as we get on, we seem to need a bit of sunshine more and more. At least every other year we need to ‘get out’ and see the sun. Two years out of three is good enough.

But it is not that simple. We may need it more but we want to go get it less.

Let me explain:

The hassle factor is growing larger and larger by the year. Of course I used the internet. It is the default way to plan nowadays. But it is simply not good enough. Not for flights, anyway. Eventually went to an agent. Sat there for two hours while she used the internet! Bottom line: Flying ain’t cheap nor is it convenient and I hate it anyway. But tickets got booked.

And I did book a VRBO over the net. We are going to Guatemala. Should be fun. Beautiful country.

But, ya know, I realized that I am losing the travel bug. Isn’t that weird? Part of it has to do with the current scare mongering fad that is so all pervasive these days. Scarewashing works! Even tho one might know that the propaganda of fear is lies, if you hear it enough you get, well, scared despite yourself. Hesitant at the very least. I confess that I am more than hesitant to cross the Mexican border right now. Even tho the odds are slim that we would be harmed, I just don’t need the thrill of danger any more, ya know?

Part of it is just plain age. We don’t have the same level of ‘intrepid explorer’ energy we used to have. Nor the curiosity. And I don’t need to see anymore ruins, temples or ancient churches. Been there. Done that. Knees hurt. So, what do I travel for?

Except for the aforementioned sunshine, not sure. I thought I might take my golf clubs. But that’s pathetic. Go to a foreign country and play golf, get a burger and drink scotch at the clubhouse? I don’t think so. Coals to Newcastle.

I guess it is the culture, mostly. Probably. I like to see people living a different way. I find the whole ‘adapting-to-one’s-environment’ thing fascinating.

But, that is not enough to go through airport hell and lose a bundle in the process. I need more than outdoor markets and people with accents. What? I dunno. That is why we are going………….we dunno……………….need some sun…………see some ‘different folks’ and…………well,……….I dunno. We’ll see.

That is the real appeal, I guess. I just don’t know what I’ll be doing. And that, it seems, is a good enough reason for going.

I won’t write much. Don’t have to. Pictures tell the story. This is Y/OUR government. GW Bush for all his shenanigans, isn’t as bad as our ‘roll-over’ idiots who allow this nonsense. Gordon Campbell, Harper, Gail Shea………. read all about Yellow salmon: http://alexandramorton.typepad.com/alexandra_morton/2011/10/open-letter-to-fisheries-and-oceans-canada.html

OMYGAWD! We are back! It is SSSSoooooo good! It is like returning home from a winter storm to a warm fire and hot toddy. Better even because that is what we did sans the winter storm!

Left Victoria at 9:00 am. Arrived Island Paradise: 9:00 pm. Harsh.

OK, it may have been a bit inefficient but not by much. Stopped by to see an eccentric, creative friend of mine who had fixed a complicated device for me and, of course, we then went for breakfast before resuming the trip. Non-highway time: maybe an hour and a half.

Rocketed up the highway until Courtenay where organic dogfood was purchased (60 pounds) along with some other heavy proteins for us. And proceeded north to Campbell River for a blitz of shopping at Save-On and a quick stop at the chainsaw store.

Ate a sandwich while driving. Drank tea from the thermos. Peed on side of road as necessary.

No time to lose.

Caught the 5:30 ferry out of CR and headed up island to our awaiting vessel (kindly placed there the day before by good neighbours). And then the fun began. It is dusk-y at 6:00 already.

We had taken our utility trailer this time because we had a lot of stuff to get back. There was the new TV to accompany the DVD player my daughter had given us as a gift last summer, the 11 or 12 large boxes of books that we deliver to the community library every year (culled from libraries). Luggage. Computers. Groceries. Dog food. Hardware and some building materials. We filled the car and trailer and then the boat to the brim!

Of course it was dark. Waddya thinking?

But it was not raining. It was not storming. The sea was calm and, best of all, the tide was just over halfway up the beach (that bottom half is a treacherous climb). We unloaded the truck and trailer, loaded the boat and headed over slowly. Very slowly.

Then, as the moon witnessed our work from directly overhead, we schlepped the load up the beach and on to the boat house deck. Sal took the boat around as I finished heaving stupidly heavy coolers onto the funicular and then I sent it up. An hour a half later half of everything was put away and we stopped for a bagel and some scotch. Not a bad combination.

Today we go back to the boathouse and bring up the rest. Speaking of which, we intend to throw that in, too. A rest that is.

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My son is my age!  How is that possible?  Last night we celebrated his 29th birthday and that is pretty much the age I think I am.  Give or take a few years.  Of course, I know I am not and I am reminded of that every time I get vertically ambulatory or try to make some physical parts work as they once did but, mentally, I feel much the same age.

“So, I said, to K, his beautiful young partner, “can we talk and be hip together or is everything I say so tainted with age that no matter what is uttered, it sounds old-man geeky?” 

K smiled and said, “Pretty much everything.  You’re old.  Face it!” 

You’d think that would stop me.  It didn’t.  I cracked jokes, flirted benignly and did my best Andy Rooney impression.  You know?  Without trying?  Rampant eyebrow growth tends to make that Andy syndrome happen, I think.

K laughed at the first joke.  It was genuine, I think.  She smiled generously at the second and even managed to respond graciously to my pathetic little old man’s flirt but I caught her eyes looking for an appropriate exit.  That’s OK.  I have come to recognize those desperate, furtive glances of ‘trapped prey’ looking for a way out and I generally make it easier for them.  “Hey, K, I know what it’s like.  It’s god-awful.  Being trapped in a conversation that no amount of previous sin would warrant.  I get it.  You are free, my child.  Fly!”  

“Huh?!  No!  Like………….no………….well……..uh, thanks……………uh….see you later…”

And I am pretty sure she likes me!

The other day, we were at a do and everyone was OK, I guess.  One guy stood out visually as a resounding snot (only missing the ascot) and I had to verify my assessment-at-first-glance by going over and introducing myself.  I offered my hand and he took it with what was quite obviously a dead fish that had been grafted in place of his own hand.  Must be some sort of neurological disorder, I thought.  Maybe not.  He was gay.  He was Eastern, American, a Jewish intellectual and he was also a lawyer.

There is nothing wrong with that.  None of it.  No, really!  But, let’s be honest: that is a combination that can go wrong; so horribly wrong.  And M was horrible in the extreme.  Somehow he managed to look down his nose at me and we are of equal height!? 

He also barely deigned to acknowledge me despite my pleasing manner.  And kept gently backing away while openly looking for an escape route.  I provided his exit permit early.   

“Hey, M, I can see you have something else to do and it is pressing if not an emergency!  Please don’t let me hold you up.  Go, man!  Get out while you can.  It will only get worse!”

He grimaced a smile and was gone.  I watched him head over to the other side of the room where he stood alone adopting a statue of Liberty-like pose but with his arm down.  He was only wanting for the draped gown and a crown.  But I have to admit, the lighting was better there.  He was magnificently posed.  Good merchandising if nothing else. 

I turned to his partner, “Geez, man.  Did I say something?  Is it my breath?  You need to escape, too?” 

“Nah, I’m good.  Don’t worry about M, he’s paranoid.  In this day and age when everyone has hidden voice recorders and the cell phones take pictures, he’s afraid to say anything.  He works in the US government, you know.  Doesn’t trust anyone.  Especially strangers  Not even here in Canada.”

“But this is a party!  I have never met the guy!  Does he get the ‘par-tay’ concept?  He’s just a lawyer.  He is no Justin Timberlake, I can assure you!  ”

Partner just laughed.  We cracked a few jokes.  I resisted flirting (it wasn’t difficult).  After a few minutes he left.  All was right with the universe again.

I dunno.  I sure didn’t feel the love.  Maybe I am just not cut out for modern era socializing after all.   But I am definitely tempted to get a small voice recorder I can squirrel up my sleeve.  
 

I’ve been pretty hard on the urban life lately.  I say bad things.  Sorry.  It is just that I, well, mean them.  You know, like “……the city sucks!”  And stuff like that.  I really should be ashamed of myself but, well, I am not!  It still sucks!

Having firmly established my position on that, I have to ‘eat a bit of crow’,  recant, reverse myself, mea culpa kinda.  You know….it is really not all bad.

Worse, I also hafta apologize to all those who talk about weddings and that sort of thing.  I hate that sort of thing as a rule.  Moreover, I usually hate weddings.  I love the people, so I go.  But I hate the pomp and ceremony.  I am pretty bad.  Sally keeps me under control, barely.

But we went to S and C’s wedding yesterday.  We’ve known S for some time and Sal has been friends with her mom for twenty odd years.  Emphasis on ‘odd’.  Mom is a quirky duck who loves Sal and tolerates my existence.  She has had a lifetime of men and their ‘things’ and well, I am a man and I have things and so her tolerance levels are strained.  She likes me.  Kinda.  Not much.  It is not personal.  It is a ‘gender’ thing.  She has her things, too.

Anyway, we went to the ceremony and it was mercifully short.  Thirty minutes tops.  For that alone, it was a good wedding.  Then we walked a few blocks from the church to the Diva restaurant at the Met on Howe street.  The bar was open, the speeches mercifully short and the dinner fantastic!  The staff provided the best service and the best meal I have had in Vancouver and I have lived there a long time.  They really did it right.

And then we got to leave.  It really does not get much better than that.  And, because of that, I have to say, the city has a lot of drawbacks and we are not even aware of many of them.  But, of course, it has some things going for it and, I guess, when you get in to a routine, you fail to appreciate them.  I was definitely in a routine when we left the cul de sac.  I think I got a bit jaded.  You know, been there, done that.  Several if not dozens of times? 

I guess what I am saying is that I may have been a bit wrong in my blanket condemnation of the city I once called home.  It’s not all bad.    

I haven’t had such a pleasant, generous, sincerely happy group-in-public experience in a long time.  Not with that kind of service and food.  It was a real treat.  For a few minutes I actually appreciated the ‘sophistication’ of a well-run restaurant.  I was humbled a bit by the simple pleasures of something done very well.

Kudos on the whole event.  It was a very nice way of putting me right. 

Awakened early this morning by the roar of a fresh-off-the-tarmac aeronautic behemoth trying to get airborne over the roof of our cheap Richmond hotel.  Ahh……..welcome to Vancouver.  Hear me roar!

Should be noisy at the very least.

Last night was spent visiting old friends.  Really nice in that comfortable-old-sock kinda way that old friends have.  We slipped into ‘our ways’ pretty quick.  Reminisced.  Caught up on family.  Shared deteriorating health stories and had a bit of dinner and wine.  Basically, all very good.

And yet, not so good.  We’re all seven years older and, although everyone walks with a bit of a stoop, they have always been five years older again than us.  Their stoop is a bit stoopier.  But we’re all a bit slower.  Mentally and physically.  None of us are drinking much.  A couple of small glasses of wine.  F looked a bit tired after two hours and so we left soon after.  But I was tired, too.  Back to the hotel by 9:30.  In bed by 10:00.  There is no doubt about it, we are gettin’ old.

It is not just our age, tho, that I noticed.  We just aren’t as interesting for them as we once were.  Most of our au courant ‘chit chat’ would be about logs, dogs, ravens and local characters, engines, oceans and projects on the go, logistics, visiting guests and the looming challenge of winter.   We didn’t pursue any of that.  None of it holds much interest for the other side of the room. 

We are now hicks, basically.  Rubes.  Hillbillies.  We don’t know the latest TV series, sitcoms or, for that matter, the latest ‘good movies’ (our friends have impeccable taste in movies so there was always a gap there).  Hell, we don’t even know all the latest news stories.  We are just simply ‘out of it’.  S spent a bit of time showing us exactly what an Ipod was and almost convinced me that I needed one.  I was convinced I wanted one as soon as I saw the ‘finger-sweep’ control but I still can’t rationalize needing one.  Not yet, anyway.  Give me time.

It would have been a waste of time to explain all the virtues of the Honda Eu 6500 genset or the value in Surette batteries versus others.  PV panels don’t have much commonality, either.  Sally growing herbs, tomatoes and ‘salad’ fixin’s wouldn’t have held much interest beyond a polite smile and a nod.  And when Sal described paddling around one of the local islands and getting caught by a turning tide, their eyes glazed over.  We are not always on the same wavelength now.

We aren’t on the same page politically, either.  That was a shock.  They believe 9/11 happened as reported.  I don’t.  So, BIG politics as a topic ended there.  I didn’t dare raise issues of BC Hydro and privatizing our rivers nor would I have found empathy in our loathing of the way BC Ferries has gone.  No sense in talking that trash.  We just follow different issues now, I guess.  

Which is OK.  We love ém still.  We have lots of history and we can keep ourselves engaged just up dating family, health and future vacation spots.  But the ‘new stuff’ each is up to is no longer of much mutual interest.  We have lost the magic of being ‘in sync’ on the latest stuff.  Inevitable, I suppose.  The price of having moved away seven years ago.

It was worth it.  But the price is a bit higher than I anticipated.  I kinda miss the old ‘give and take’ we used to have on current events.  We weren’t always in agreement but we were always dancing to the same song and keeping good time.  Now, not so much.          

Yesterday was just a travel day.  But it turned out to be magic.

We are (still, as I write this) headed to Vancouver by way of Victoria for a wedding and delivering our W’fer, Lina, to her new digs at the local hostel in downtown Vic.   I had scheduled an appointment in Campbell River to attend to on my way out.   Time: 12:30.  Everything was timed to the half-hour and, as we had successfully caught the intended ferry, we were right on schedule for what was going to be a very long day.  And I showed up at exactly 12:30.

The receptionist looked at me and I asked for the fellow.  “Sorry”, she said, “he’s not here.  Did you have an appointment?” 

“Yes.  For 12:30.  Booked a week ago.  Confirmed two days ago.  E-mailed confirmation again yesterday.” 

“Oh!  I’ll call him.” She did and reported that he would make it in about half an hour. 

I glowered.  I was not happy.  But, as this was a favour for a friend, I said, “I’ll wait.” 

“I know you!”


“I don’t think so”, I said.  “I live on a remote island”.


“Did you use to live in Vancouver?” 


“Yes.  Grew up on the Eastside.” 


“I used to hang out on the Eastside.  I was on skid row for a couple of years.  I was a pretty strung-out heroin addict in my twenties.” 


“I used to run the Downtown Clinic on Cordova Street when I was in my twenties.  How old are you?” 


“61.  And I remember you.  I remember your face from the clinic.  I used to go there a lot.  Sometimes two or three times a week.  I was pretty skinny and sick back then.” 

I was staring at a woman my age, well dressed, nice hair, pleasant smile.  She had a matronly figure and she was looking at me like she knew me.  I didn’t have a clue as to who she was.  Not a flicker of recognition.  I didn’t know what to say.

But the phone rang and she answered it and I used the interruption to go outside.  And I tried to remember.  Names came up.  Scenes reappeared.  The general feel and smell of the place all returned.  It was a mixed feeling.

The Downtown Clinic was in the heart of skid row.  It was a very busy place.  Think: field hospital very near the front line in a battle still heavily engaged.  But it wasn’t large.  I had 34 staff in about 3000 square feet of space.  We saw as many as 400 people a day.  Names, faces and dates were blurry even at the time.  We were working in constant daily chaos.  It was ugly.     

And it burned me out after just a smidge over four years.

When I decided to leave, I didn’t linger long over the decision.  The last few months there were lived ‘on edge’.  I was exhausted.  A bit angry.  More than a little depressed.  I hated it.  I felt as if I had wasted my time there for the most part.   What was different?  What was the point?   I had no answers.  Even though there were a few survivors amongst the slaughter, I had no feelings for the place by then and even less for the poor souls who frequented it.  Bombing skid row seemed like the only alternative to the mass of disease and misery that overwhelmed us every day.  It was so bloody hopeless.

I didn’t even try to remember it.   

But there she was.  Happy, healthy and, clearly, she remembered me.  Maybe we had made some sort of difference, after all. 

All of a sudden I felt like going back in to the office.  I was no longer ticked off that the guy was late.  I had been given a chance to look into my past a bit and it looked a little better than I had remembered it.  I walked back in.

She got out from behind her desk and came towards me smiling and holding out her hand.  I instinctively held out my arms.  She and I hugged for at least a minute.

Yes, there were a few tears.

We spoke some more.  Remembered a few mutual ‘acquaintances’.  Talked a bit about life.  My appointment came in and I went to my meeting.  Before she left for her lunch, she interrupted us and said, “Sorry.  I just had to tell David  to come again.  He made my day!” 

We held hands for a second, “You made mine.”