Barry McCarthy: Paint and Poetry

Periodically, the Burlington Art Council invites local poets to write about the works of a featured artist. Then, at a reception for the artist, the poets read their work aloud. Generally, much to the delight of the artist. The three entries below are poems I wrote on the artwork of Barry McCarthy. I have referenced a website selling his work under my fave links.
About his work, The Cot. I related strongly to this piece, because my grandfather slept on such a cot in his basement, and I imagined as the occupant in the study.

Pink House

Call the children home.
Come here, come here!
Set the tables, ride the rocking chairs!
We’ll drink lemonade,
Eat sugar cookies,
Play ring-around-the-rosy
Until we fall down.
Dizzy dandelions
Butter our chins.
Watch the painted ponies win.
Could we begin again?
Aged roof sags with a sigh.

The Cot

Grandpa’s view
Made his poor cot a paradise,
His mouldy room a palace.
Fresh salt of the sea,
Wave murmurs of the womb.
One day he returned.

Museum Monument

Yearning
for release.
Open sky beckons,
Hot sun surrounds.
One tug, one thrust,
Then, discharge,
Burst into flight.
Liberation.

More on Christmas Wrap

This is my last word on this subject. Promise.
Did you know Friends of the Earth says six per cent of all annual paper waste is wrapping paper from Christmas?
I took a picture of my living tree bark paper from Ten Thousand Villages. UNICEF also sells it.
Environmentally friendly, socially conscious, and quite pretty, I think.

I Hate Turkey

What is it with holidays and turkey? Does anyone really like turkey meat? C’mon, the rest of the year when you go out for a fancy dinner, what do you order? Turkey? I think not. You order prime rib, or steak, or some other beef dish. Maybe you order lobster or even pork tenderloin. But you do not order turkey. Restaurants don't even stock turkey except at Christmas and Thanksgiving. There's a reason for that: nobody likes it.
I'm not being a grinch here. I love Christmas. I love the parties, being with family and friends, going to church at midnight, exchanging gifts . . . I even enjoy turkey dinners. The gravy, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes--real, not from a box--the cranberry sauce, and all the rest are wonderful. But I can only swallow the meat if it’s drowned in gravy. Lots and lots and lots of gravy. I generally take a very smalls slice of meat, place it prominently in my plate, and exclaim over how wonderful it is so no one’s offended by my lack of desire to actually eat any of this foul bird. Pun intended. Then I carve into the good stuff--the mincemeat pie with hard sauce. Especially hard sauce. Mmm . . . hard sauce. I can hear Homer drooling in the background even as I write.
Nobody wants the leftovers. My mother now trashes the rest of the bird because it’s a waste of effort--a lot of effort--to try and save it. And who likes turkey soup, turkey sandwiches, turkey casserole, and leftover dishes that drag on for days? Anyone? I mean it; if you do, tell me.
Not to mention turkey products valiantly sold in grocery stores the rest of the year. Turkey lunchmeat, hot dogs, etc.--meat substitutes that are supposedly more heart healthy than beef. Give me a break. Beef is leaner these day. Enjoy it.
So why do we celebrate our most special occasions with this horrid bird? Is it because we all need the excuse to serve gravy and stuffing?
So lets serve gravy and stuffing and mash and forgot the roast beast.
While we’re at it, lets forgo mince pie underneath the hard sauce. And dip without the ships. Less calories that way.
Have a merry Christmas. I’ll toast you with my rosé wine.

The Season

December dark,
Broken by
Electric Candlelight.
Snow and ice,
Melted by
Warmth of gas fires.
Fear and longing,
Displaced by
Gifts, food, & presents.
Stress and busyness
Halted in their tracks
By family and song.
Barren trees outside,
Draped trees inside.
The gloom dispelled by
Ultimate love,
Forever love,
God’s love.

Alternatives to Christmas wrap:

Seems my earlier blog on the evils of wrapping paper has led people to ask me a well-deserved question: how do I wrap my Christmas presents?
I choose reusable bags. Yes, these are made with the evil dyed paper, but I reuse a bag an average of twenty times before it falls apart, which is much more often than a piece of wrapping paper can be reused. I also reuse the tissue paper, which lasts an average of five bags.
Cloth bags are an even better choice. Hemp is preferable to cotton, since most cotton fields are heavy pesticide users, and cotton is generally bleached. However, organic cotton bags with natural dyes are a good alternative. Silk makes for an especially lovely bag. Cloth bags can be decorated with bows and arranged in such a way that there is still the anticipation of opening them, and can be quite pretty. Also, given their shape and flexibility, they can be used to mislead the recipient as to their contents.
Then there are the more environmentally friendly forms of wrapping paper. There is a type of paper made from the living bark of a tropical tree that is sold by Ten Thousand Villages that is a beautiful, colorful, thick paper. This tree readily regrows its bark, so the paper is a renewable resource. Also, by shopping at Ten Thousand Villages, the money spent goes directly into the hands of third world artisans, and not to evil corporations. (I like that word, evil.) Another paper choice is of course recycled paper, made with peroxide instead of chlorine bleach, and organic dyes.
Another choice is homemade paper. Twenty years ago, we bought a $7 roll of unbleached newsprint paper, the kind that goes into the presses. We use it for kid’s art projects. We still have over half the roll left. A very good buy. Sometimes for Christmas, we paint the paper in Christmas images and patterns, and use that for wrap. Then we are not only giving a gift, but also a work of art (depending on your definition of art).
I hope that supplies enough ideas on how to make your Christmas presents pretty and fun to open without polluting and deforesting our planet.

On Mars The Cats Are Crazy

Chapter One:
On Mars, the cats are crazy.
Maybe it’s because of the smell.
I had never experienced anything like it before. Being from the Moon, where the oxygen rechargers remove odors, I admit I have a limited aroma vocabulary, but I had been to Earth, and Earth sure hadn't smelled like this.
A penetrating sort of tangy, sort of urine-like, sort of spicy cinnamon-and-lemon kind of scent that got into your nostrils and stayed there, so deep you could taste it.
I worried that it might drive me crazy, and wondered how were we going to live here.
“Henry, what is that?” Mom had her hankie out again, covering her nose and mouth. She looked at my father as if he had just handed her a dead skunk.
“Sorry, dear, must be something I ate.” Dad tried to smile, but it came out more like he was eating dog turds.
Mom shot him a look.
“How should I know? Have I ever been here before?” He grabbed her elbow and started guiding her towards the spaceport lounge, a low flat building that looked like any strip mall on Earth. Mars so far was a huge disappointment. “Let’s get inside and see if we can find out.”
I tagged along behind, my fingers pinched firmly over my nostrils, not sure if that helped or not. The smell was so thick it crawled down my throat and threatened to make me puke.
Davis nudged me. “Maybe you need to take a bath.”
I ignored him.

Wrapping Paper is Evil

Every year my church does Christmas wrapping at the mall as a fundraiser. All local charities are invited to participate. The mall provides the paper and supplies, and the shoppers can donate money to the charity for the wrap if they want. Every year I am asked if I will participate in this project, and every year I decline. I explain that I won’t participate because I consider wrapping paper to be evil, and to do it in Jesus’ name a sacrilege. People are usually taken aback by this declaration.
I think of wrapping paper as evil because first, trees are cut down to produce it. Trees, among their other fine qualities, are our biggest protection against global warming. Most forestry industries do not replace trees at anything close to a rate comparable to their taking.
Once the trees are cut and milled, chlorine is used to bleach the paper, adding a multitude of toxic chemicals, the organochlorines, to our waterways. Then, colored dyes are added, creating more toxins such as mercury and arsenics.
After all this wanton environmental destruction and waste of natural resources, what do we do with this precious product? We tear it up and toss it away. Most people don’t even bother to recycle. And, to further add to the disrespect for this wonderful world we’ve been given, we do all this in God’s name. God must spend her son’s birthday crying.
The worst part is, whenever I explain this to someone, they laugh and call me a scrooge.
Bah humbug.

Cats and the Power of Positive Thinking

My cat Sassafras, who was neutered at five months old but still thinks he's a tom, got into a fight the other day and came home with a torn ear. I decided to keep him in the house for a few days until he healed.
Being a cat, and therefore stubborn, he now spends a lot of time standing in front of the door, waiting for it to open. It’s as though he’s chanting an affirmation in hopes that the door will open if he focuses enough.
My family spent the dinner hour last night laughing at him, and indirectly at the concept that being positive about a goal can make it happen. No amount of “sending it out to the universe” is going to make a door open, we thought.
But then, right after dinner, I wandered into the kitchen, saw the cat by the door, and quite by habit, opened it and let him out. Then I swore as I remembered I wasn’t supposed to do that. Of course, the cat was gone, and I felt the idiot.
Cats catch mice by waiting beside the mouse hole for so long the mouse forgets about their presence and ventures out. Bam! End of mouse. I’d fallen for the same trick.
The episode made me wonder about the concept of positive thinking. Perhaps that’s how it works. However ludicrous the concept may seem, wait by a door long enough, and someone will open it.

UCW Limerick - a group effort

Some light refreshment for a grey November day:

There once was a place named Five Oaks
That was filled with laughter and jokes.
Elizabeth was there,
With her clashing red hair,
While Cathy Eves danced for the folks.
The bats came to view
The hats on review;
Pink, red, and black
To mention a few.
Several stories were told
Of the brave and the bold
As we partied to ward off the cold.

Why does Beowulf upset me?

For some reason the new movie release of Beowulf upsets me. I guess it's because I’m tired of seeing Hollywood remake European films. The Beowulf that came out a couple of years ago was made by people whose ancestry is from the part of the world where the story is told, and for whom the story therefore has some tribal or cultural meaning. That meaning became imbedded in the film and made it interesting even to those of us who do not share that background. I think we all enjoy hearing each others ancient stories--there’s a resonance to them that we can all relate to.
But when a major studio gets hold of one of these gems, they digitize it and sex it up and put in all those great two-bit quote lines, thus distorting the origins of the story and ruining the resonance.
This doesn't happen when Hollywood sticks to what it knows best and tells an American folk tale, such as The Patriot or Alamo. In these films the tone and style ring true, the substance reflects the story, and we get caught up in that American patriotism that can be so stirring even to non-Americans.Why not find a Native American story to tell instead of rehashing a distant myth? After the acclaimed reception of Canada’s Attanarjuat a few years ago, I’d like to see more North American tribal tales retold on screen. I bet I’m not alone.

Labyrinth Prayer

I look to the South, oh God, and feel the light and warmth of your healing sprit.
I look to the East, oh God, and feel your dawning inspiration, your joyful creation.
I look to the West, oh God, feel your exultant companionship, and wish to dance.
I look to the North, oh God, feel your gentle comfort, and peacefully take my rest.
I stand in the centre, ground myself in your spirit, and feel you take root in mine.

More on Suffering

I’ve been attending a seminar at my church lately, The Foundations Of Spiritual Companionship. It’s to help pastoral care providers offer more compassionate care, especially when visiting the ill. We were asked to think about our theology of suffering, and to reflect on the book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, by Rabbi Kushner.
As I think more on this issue, I realize I have not adequately explained what I mean by bad things happening randomly. I am referring to what I see in nature. Lightning does not choose the tree it strikes. Tornadoes do not choose where to set down. Hurricanes do not choose where they will touch land. Forest fires do not choose what they will burn. There is no place in the word where one sort of natural disaster or another will not occur at some point. God does not will these natural events, nor choose the victims. In the same way, I do not think God chooses who will get cancer, or who will be in a plane crash. Rabbi Kushner say that when disaster strikes, we should not ask, why did this happen to me, but, now that his had happened to me, what am I going to do about it?I think this is a healthy approach.

My Theology of Suffering

My theology of suffering has evolved over the years, in a way almost coming full circle. When I was younger, I didn’t question; I took an animalistic view that suffering is simply a part of life, happening randomly, with compassion being the only appropriate response. Then I became deeply involved in prayer, especially in intercessory prayer, joining the prayer circles at the churches that I belonged to. Through this process, I became amazed by the miracles that God often works through prayer, and gradually became convinced that prayer could cure all ills, if only we prayed hard enough, or if only the recipient of the prayers was receptive enough. Thus, although I still felt the initial suffering was randomly placed, I believed that the response to the suffering was under human control through openness to prayer.
I learned the naiveté of that belief when a friend's young son died of brain cancer last year. Man, was that boy prayed for. No one could have received more heartfelt prayers than he. And he was most receptive to prayer, being a very loving and spiritual child. Yet he died anyway. I was devastated, not only but the loss, but also by the shattering of my beliefs. How could God have let me down so? How could God have allowed this child to die? Why hadn't God worked one of his miracles for Matthew?
In the midst of my raging, I went to a one-day spiritual retreat, where I had the brief enlightenment that God does not view death the same way we do. God after all is eternal, and looks at the human condition from that point of view. Although she feels our suffering, she also knows about our afterlife, and this vision, a curtain briefly lifted for me, so that I could almost grasp the eternal message, allowed me to see that there is so much more to the picture than I could ever grasp.
So now, although I have not abandoned my habit of prayer, I have come to understand that suffering happens randomly, and healing cannot be guaranteed, and our only viable response is compassion.

Garden Cats

My cats like to help me garden. They like to roll in the dirt, and dig holes, and add their own brand of fertilizer for me. They appreciate my plants, choosing favourites for shade, or for hairball remedies, or for hiding under. They especially love the fresh catnip. They have their trails to follow through the garden when chasing each other, and me. Raking leaves is always a cause for feline celebration. My cats race and leap for joy whenever I join them in the garden, unless it’s a hot sunny day, when they merely smile and roll over on the deck. It’s as if they’re saying, “How can you design such a beautiful garden and spend so little time in it? You must sit here all day, every day, in order to truly understand its essence.” Perhaps they’re right.

Ghost Bride

She glides down the aisle,
Her delicate feet seeming to float above
The red carpet.
Her satin-gloved hands
Clasp ethereal flowers,
Glowing in their whiteness.
She reaches her intended,
Turns to face him;
He smiles.
His fingers drift to her veil.
Slowly he lifts it,
Barley able to wait
To catch a glimpse
Of her lovely face.
Her beauty revealed at last,
He faints dead away,
Joining his wife in eternity.
Her skeletal grin mocks the assembled.

Survivor Scares Me

I try to avoid reality shows. Not easy to do, because they suck you in with their crazy gimmicks, and it’s hard not to feel for those poor contestants. After all, there but for the Grace of God . . . and well maybe but for some common sense and a bit of dignity. Also, I like fast-paced game shows like Jeopardy, and enjoy a good documentary, and a reality show does have some elements of both formats.
But the content of many of them scares me. I fear that our society is gradually becoming more Dickensian, not in the sense of being like the good Charles’s ideals, but in the sense of becoming like the Victorian horrors of his day. Dog fights, bull fights, half-naked women beating each other half to death for a pittance of money, men engaging in deadly bare-knuckle boxing for same. Reality shows have that same element of playing the lower classes for fools for a sucker’s chest of coins, while the promoters get wealthy and laugh over how far people will sink for a dime.
And it’s not just the humiliation people are willing to endure. If a full-grown adult wants to debase him or herself in public for a buck, and other adults want to watch, fine. But lately the shows are adding an element of real danger that scares me. For instance, on Survivor, the people come back skeletally thin and covered in cuts and bruises. That can’t be healthy. Not to mention the more serious accidents that plague these shows. I also wonder about the environmental damage wreaked on the host country. People breaking off pieces of coral on the Great Barrier Reef? Are these locales ready to have a group of untrained klutzes traipsing around drecking for food?
This week I couldn’t help but notice the ad for nest week’s episode of Survivor. Since they air every ten minutes on all channels. The people are going to be forced to eat entire baby turtles, and something that looks like a monkey head and arm. Is this legal? Is this sanctified by any kind of board of health? Or committee for the status of endangered animals?
And should children be allowed to watch these shows? What does it say to our children if we consider watching people engage in these disgusting and exploitive behaviors entertainment? Not to mention the reality shows that include children. To me, putting children on a reality show, like Family Fear Factor, should be a violation of child labor laws. They’re not old to enough to consent to such ridicule themselves, and I don't think their parents should have the right to consent for them in such a matter. I think putting your child on a show like that constitutes a form of child abuse.
Where will all this lead? Are we finally going to sicken of it, or are we going to slide further downhill into bare-breasted bare-knuckle boxing and bear fights?

The First World?

I’m tired of hearing North America referred to as the first world. This is a new error that has crept into our language of late, and it stems from an ignorance of the original coinage of the term third world. Here’s the story:
In the beginning, there was one known world, comprised of Europe, Asia, and Africa. Then the new world was “discovered” by Columbus, and so the previously known world become the old world, and North and South America become the new world. There was no distinction as to how rich or poor a country was. Technically speaking then, Europe, Africa, and Asia formed the first world, and North and South America formed the second world.
Then sometime in the middle of the previous century, some wit, I'm not sure who because I didn’t feel like doing the research this, but I bet is the author of Future Shock, came up with the term third world to describe those countries that were being left out of the general economic prosperity the world was then experiencing. Third meaning left out, forgotten, overlooked, as in the third wheel on a date. Thus countries previously part of both the first and second worlds became third world nations, a term describing economic circumstances and not locations on a map.I suppose, then, that describing North America now as the first world in reference to our economic status is not entirely unfitting, but it does lead to some confusion as to what exactly is the second world then, and I just thought people should know.

Paralyzed Kittens

I foster pregnant cats and their kittens for the local Humane society, which means I provide them with a loving home until the kittens are ready to be adopted. Unfortunately, the kind of owner who neglects to have their animal spayed is also the kind of owner who neglects to get their animal vaccinated, and so often the mothers and kittens are ill.
This was the case with my most recent batch of kittens. (I have fostered 8 families for far). The mother seemed healthy, but apparently she had suffered a case of distemper while she was pregnant with the kittens. One of the five died shortly after birth, and of the remaining four, three were paralyzed and could not walk. Although otherwise healthy, they could not look after themselves, and had to be compassionately euthanized. It was quite heartbreaking for me, as they were so loving and fluffy and adorable. (What kitten isn’t?)I'm not sure what my point is with this tale, other than to share my sadness with you, and to chime in with Bob Barker, “have your cat or dog neutered.” Please!

On The Moon There Are No Dogs

On the Moon, there are no dogs.
So how did a fresh dog turd get into my closet?
I knew what it was. Most Moon kids wouldn’t, but I’d just returned from a trip to Earth to visit my dad. He moved there after the divorce, and he has a dog, an Irish setter named Molly.
This was not a good way to start my first day back to school. I wanted to see my friends again, and I was eager to start lessons, but I still felt a bit shaky. Like I’d been split between two worlds, the one here on the Moon with Mom, and the one with Dad back on Earth. I did not need to deal with mysterious feces.
I called Mom.
She blamed me for the mess. “Isadora, what have you done?” she shrieked, holding her nose.
“I didn’t!”
“You crapped in your closet!” She didn’t say crap; she said something I’m not allowed to repeat. “Why would a twelve-year-old girl crap in her closet?” Mom stood in my bedroom, all one hundred fifty-nine centimeters and sixty-two kilos of her, with her hands clasped over her mouth. She stared at me like she’d never seen me before. “What is the matter with you, Isadora?”
She didn’t wait for my answer. “It’s your father’s fault. What are they teaching children on Earth?”
Did she think all Earth kids crapped in their closets? I quit listening and went to the kitchen to get a baggie.

Dog Weather

I know a dog named Monte,
Who I take every day to Bronte
Provincial Park,
But not in the dark.
He likes to go for a walk,
While I like to stop and talk,
To the other dog owners,
Some of whom are moaners.
In the summer they say,
“It’s too hot out today.”
In the winter they’re cold,
And complain their bones have grown old.
The dogs never care,
What the weather is out there.
Wind, rain, sleet, or snow,
They’re ready to go.
I think Monte is wise,
Because he never sighs.
He takes joy in each day,
And remembers to play!

Amy Poops and Poops

Amy is a beagle.
She wears a coat when she goes for her walk.
Her coat has an opening for her tail.
Kathy is Amy’s friend. She takes Amy for her walks.
She wears a coat, too.
Her coat does not have an opening, because Kathy does not have a tail.
When Amy goes for her walk, she poops and poops.
Kathy scoops and scoops.
Amy poops in her front yard. Kathy scoops it up.
Amy poops in Mrs. Lemon’s flower bed.
Kathy scoops it up.
Mrs. Lemon frowns at Kathy and Amy.
Kathy frowns back. Amy barks.
Amy poops beside the playground.
The children in the playground laugh.
Kathy laughs too.
The children want to pet Amy.
Kathy lets them. Amy likes children.
Amy poops on the walking path.
Kathy scoops it up.
Amy poops on the walking path again.
Kathy scoops it up again.
Kathy has to bring a lot of scoop bags when she walks Amy.
Amy poops in Molly’s yard. Molly is a black lab.
She sniffs Amy’s poop. Then she poops.
Amy sniffs Molly's poop.
Then Kathy scoops up all the poop.
When Amy is all done pooping, Kathy walks her home.
Kathy throws away all the poop scoop bags.
She takes off Amy’s coat, and gives her a doggy treat.
Then Amy has to poop again.

Pharmacists and OHIP

I live in Ontario, Canada, where we have public health insurance through OHIP. During recent years, our government has cut back on the services covered by OHIP, claiming that the system is short of money. One of the cutbacks included visits to the optometrist. For someone whose entire family is nearsighted that was a big ouch.
However, it then turned out that our government had a surplus budget. What was one of the things they did with this largesse? Provided free half hour consultations with pharmacists, covered by OHIP. That's right. Now we can go to our local pharmacist, and talk to them for free.
I am aghast. I once trained to be pharmacist but quit when I discovered that the job is primarily one of shopkeeper. Around here pharmacists get paid upward of $12 per prescription filled. Plus the money they earn from their stores. And they need more? At taxpayer expense?
As it is, I find it hard to get out of the store with my anti-depressant medication without being assaulted by a chatty pharmacist, brimming with questions such as “Have you used this medication before?” I can’t imagine paying them extra for their time. Isn’t that what the $12 fee already covers, or is counting pills really that difficult?
We have a newly-elected government in Ontario now, and the first thing I’d like to see them do is remove this silliness from the OHIP program, and restore our eye care coverage.