Old and in the Way?

There are several things I could write about today, things that have happened recently that affected me this way or that.

 

I could write about my sorrow at the passing of the wonderful English comedienne/actress, Victoria Wood - another claimed by the curse that is cancer - or of the shocking, sudden, and currently mysterious death of Prince, as visionary a musician as has ever lived.

 

I could write about the day Prince died, when on my way to work, before that big news broke, I saw two dead North American Robins - one on the sidewalk, another in the road.  They were close to each other, yet neither apparently the victim of an automobile.  It was almost as if they had collided mid-air, and plummeted to the ground together, but I can never know what occurred.  Then a few hundred yards further on, a black and ginger tortoiseshell cat lay dead on a grass verge, with no signs of violence or trauma, as if he'd curled up to sleep there and not woken up.  I've had less morbid walks to work, for sure.

 

Or I could write about my disgust at how Anders Breivik - the Danish, Nazi salute-throwing, far-right maniac who in 2011 murdered 77 (mainly young) people - had the mind-bending temerity to launch a human rights abuse case against his imprisoners, claiming "inhuman treatment," one reason being that he doesn't have a window in his cell.  Astonishingly and revoltingly, he won part of that case.  I hope his lawyer can sleep at night.  And, hey Anders, if you think that is inhuman treatment, you would certainly reassess its definition if I had a chance for a little time in your despicable, subhuman company.

 

However, I'm not going to write about any of these things, but instead will pen a few lines about what it is to be old, in rapid decline, and possibly forgotten about.

 

Since I've worked at the store I've gotten to know and become fond of many regular customers.  One gentleman, who out of respect for him and his situation I will not name, was born and bred in Nanaimo almost 89 years ago.  He is a tiny and frail, yet dapper man, always immaculately turned out, and as polite, pleasant and sweet as anyone I've ever met.  In short he's a total sweetheart whose visits to the store have truly brightened our days.  So, when he experienced some health issues a few months back myself and my colleagues were understandably concerned. 

 

Just a few weeks ago his health took a further dip, leading to him being rushed into a local assisted living facility by one of his sons.  Possessing a massive record collection amassed over some sixty-odd years, he panicked about what to do with it, so contacted the store for help.  He was deeply stressed, very confused and afraid.  We did what we could, emptying his condo of as much of his vinyl as possible, but our huge inventory and subsequent space issues prevented us taking any more than we did.  The store did not need any of his records, as the genres he loves do not sell for us even on CD, but the issue was more to help him than worry about such matters.  Susan and I also went over to his place independently, taking one of his LP racks, a pile of 78s and some of the remaining LPs.

 

When we presumed he would be as settled into his new place as he could be under the stressful circumstances, we went to visit him unannounced.  While he was delighted to see us, he was in a distressing state of confusion, constantly repeating things and mixing up facts, even when referring to them more than once in a single sentence.  He was already tiny, but looked skeletal and gaunt.  It was so very sad to see him this way, seemingly fading from this world, and although we have no personal experience of it, perhaps entering a state of dementia.  While it may not actually be the case, it is clear that the upheaval of his move at such an age, and in rapidly failing health, has sent him on a path that he may not be physically or mentally capable of returning from.  

 

Two nights ago we were at home when the telephone rang.  It was this fellow, our friend, highly confused, and adamant that one of his sons had given him our number as the way to reach him.  He also said that the same son had given him my cell phone number as an alternative contact number.  I tried to explain that I had left him my business card when we visited, but he simply didn't understand, insisting that he was trying to reach this son of his at our number.  Talking him down seemed impossible, but I eventually managed to calm him, saying he should get some rest and try his son's actual number when he felt more refreshed in the morning.  Concerned, we called the facility, but our fears for his welfare were far from allayed when we were informed that, although the facility provides rented accommodation, meals and entertainment - if either of the latter are required - their residents live entirely independently, so interfering with or intervening in personal situations is not facility policy.

 

A while later, he called back, distressed even more, yet a little less confused concerning our phone number, but saying he could not reach his son as the number he had for him was either disconnected or, for whatever reason, just unavailable.  Again, I talked him down as best I could, but did manage to gather some important information along the way.  Although our friend's confused demeanour means it is understandably difficult to discern fact from fiction, it would appear that the son he is attempting to reach is in control of our friend's finances, and he needs access to some money.  When I spoke to the facility's reception they confirmed that they, too, had not been able to reach the son 'for weeks,' when our friend had repeatedly asked them to try.

 

Ever felt utterly helpless, not knowing what to do, or how to help someone in trouble?  That's how this feels.  We don't know if what we are being told is true, but the fact that our friend is in such a panicky state could mean that it is.  Susan wonders if he has been 'dumped' at the facility, if his family has washed their hands of him and breathed a sigh of relief that they no longer have to worry about him, or care for his needs.  We just don't know, but the situation just does not feel good.

 

Our first opportunity to visit him again will be tomorrow evening.  I have no idea what state we will find our friend in, and how we might be able to help.  Just to keep him company for a while might make him feel better, but who knows what is really going on behind the scenes.  It is a worry we could do without, but whatever may be occurring - good or bad - we cannot, and will not, abandon him.  He is physically very fragile, and on that evidence alone he may not have long left anyway.  All we can do, I guess, is just offer him support however he might need it, and hope for the best case scenario with the family situation.  We do not know them, have no contact details for them, and even if we did it may be that our friend is perfectly lucid in stating he can't reach them.

 

As you may imagine, all this makes me think about the future.  Unless Susan and I perish together, one of us will ultimately end up alone.  What will become of us when that happens?  

 

Kwinkydinks

All through my life I have been subject to amazing, though sporadic coincidences, but since moving to Vancouver Island they have occurred so regularly that I am beginning to think these weird events are all some kind of cosmic dots that may be destined to ultimately join up one day!

It is the latest of these, which I shall come to in a while, that prompted me to write about them, but I may as well start at the beginning of the Vancouver Island sequence, as there were two coincidences that kicked it all off before we even arrived.  This said, I will only detail a few of the VI coincidences - 'kwinkydinks,' my dear wife sweetly calls them - as there are just so many:

When we knew we were moving here at the tail-end of 2006, as everything had to move quickly we hurriedly set about the task of informing everyone we thought, or knew, would wish to learn of our new chapter.  One of these folks, my friend Eamon, used to write for the same Brighton magazine that I did (though, for the record, is now married to an artist, has two kids, and is living in upstate New York).  When we told him of our imminent departure he said we should connect with his aunty Deb, who lives in Duncan.  Sure enough, without even trying, during our first summer here, via a writing commission I found myself talking to her at the music festival she co-founded.  As we had so much to sort out those first few months I had made no concerted effort to contact Deb, but it is entirely possible that I could have met her without even knowing she was related to Eamon.

When I infomed my buddy Miles we were moving to Canada, he asked where, and when I told him Nanaimo he said, "Oh, my (Canadian) wife's best friend lives there; I'll give you her contact details."  As a consequence we met Adrienne, without whom we would not have met this or that person, or at least not as a direct consequence of meeting her, and so our life could have turned out very different indeed.

More recently, at a party we met new friends in town with whom, it turned out, we shared a lot of common interests.  When they were over to dinner one evening we got to talking about families. 

At this juncture I need to press pause, rewind way back in time to when I was a very young boy, being minded by my dear old nan during the school holidays, as my parents both worked full time.  One (in retrospect, seemingly) fateful day nan took me into Birmingham city centre, where we went to the market, then to the cinema, which was a first for me.  The movie was a rescreening of The Student Prince, starring (the singing voice, but due to a contractual dispute, not the acting of) my nan's all-time favourite singer, the light opera megastar, Mario Lanza.  I seem to recall playing up merry hell in the cinema, to everyone's dismay running up and down the aisles out of boredom, receiving an usher's reprimand, but the image of a giant character's head, voiced by Lanza, singing away on that huge screen, has stayed with me to this day.  After the film, nan - quite the drinker, bless her - took me into a pub, where she loved to play the piano (and good at it she was, too).  I remember standing watching her in awe as her hands moved swiftly up and down the keyboard, and I have often wondered if this was the moment that I first responded to music in an emotional way, setting me off on a lifelong music-oriented career path.

Anyway, nan loved Mario Lanza so much that in her will she requested that his versions of Ave Maria and I'll Walk with God be played at her funeral.  My mom, nan's daughter, requested likewise, and I dutifully obliged when she passed in 1993.  Back to the present, and there we were chatting with our new friends, James and Kris, about families.  For some forgotten reason I recounted the fact that these songs were played at both funerals, and James excitedly piped up, "Mario Lanza?!  That's my granduncle...my mother's uncle!!"  Naturally, I thought he was pulling my plonker, but indeed it is true.  Wow!  Of all the people in this world I could meet, it is a man who is related to my nan's favourite singer, a performer whose music was played at both her and my mother's funerals.  Truly, truly insane!  What on earth must the odds be of that happening?

 

Then there's another crazy kwindydink that again bridges my life in Brighton with here.  Over the course of the last few years, having bumped into them at several parties thrown by mutual friends, we got to know and love Liberty and Mark.  At a party of their own, we met Steve and Julie, originally from Brighton.  Liberty and Mark announced plans to go travelling this spring and summer, included a couple of weeks in the UK.  Both Susan and I and Steve and Julie highly recommended they visit Brighton.  Subsequently we invited all four friends to dinner, at which Julie pulled some photos of Brighton from her bag, taken on their last trip back to England several years ago, and intended to arouse further interest in the town for Liberty and Mark.  Julie passed the photos around and upon viewing one my hair stood on end.  "Is that...?" I wondered, quickly running into the kitchen to look at the snap in better light.  "Holy crap, it is!!" I blurted out, as there in a general shot of the North Laine area of Brighton, standing in a cluster of chatting guys, was my old record store colleague, Alex!  I looked and looked at the photo, actually trying to dissuade myself that it was Alex, simply disbelieving the odds that it was him, but as clear as day, there he was, unmistakeable unless he has an absolute clone in the same English seaside town.  Crazy, crazy, CRAZY!

 

Finally, and the catalyst for this post, one concerning our new neighbours, Brendan and Celia.  We have known Brendan for a while, and when we learned last year that he and his girlfriend were looking to purchase a fixer-upper house, we told him there was one for sale two doors from us.  Adding to this amazing mix, the house was coincidentally formerly owned by work associates of Susan, though well before we moved into the street.  The next thing we know, young Brendan and Celia have bought the house.

 

Again, I need to press pause on a story, rewinding to last summer when we attended a one-day indie music festival in Chemainus.  On one of the two stages we saw a performance by a good, rootsy singer-songwriter named Ben Ziakin.  Fast forward to a few weeks ago, we were at the Queen's Hotel for the Elliott Brood show, and saw a guy in the crowd whose face was familiar.  Remembering that he was that performer from Chemainus, as he was sitting with other acquaintances of ours I went over to introduce myself and tell him we had enjoyed his set at the festival.

 

A couple of weeks later, Brendan and Celia told us they were taking in a mortgage-helping roommate, whom we met just the day after, in the alley behind our houses: it was Ben Ziakin!  We chatted for a few minutes, welcoming him to the 'hood, but were astonished when he said, "I was told you were lovely people, and I was told right!" "Huh?" we responded.  Unbelievably, and the latest remarkable kwinkydink in our life here, Ben works with Alyse...who grew up in our house!!

 

There are more stories like this.  Many more.  Stories such as the one about the guy that now cuts my hair being a former English Ice Hockey League legend I saw play many times, and was in awe of as a goal-scoring machine,  when I watched hockey in England back in my twenties.

 

What does it all mean?  Does it, or can it mean anything at all, or are these all simply astonishing coincidences, yet by some twist of fate  we are simply subject to considerably more of them than the average people?  If yes, then why?  Their regularity and extraordinary, random unlikeliness - especially the Mario Lanza story - make this feel more than just coincidence, and even if there is some spooky cosmic design behind these amazing alignments, how would I ever know?  It is all part of life's rich pageant, I guess, and that's just fine.  Long may the stars continue to line up and amaze us at how small the world really can be!      

      

And so it Began...

Twenty years ago tomorrow - February 24th, 1996 - having wanted to get here since childhood, I landed on Canadian soil for the very first time.  It was the first day of a year-long trip around the world, begun (as it ended) on my late mother's birthday.  I arrived to a bitterly cold Montreal, excited as to what the next twelve months might bring and, long story short - spanning Canada, the US, Fiji, Australia, Singapore, Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia and, as you do, Finland - it was an astonishing year of adventure, amazing memories, and not a little stress to boot.  (Funny how I chose to begin and end the year in sub-zero temperatures, though...I wonder if that says something about me?!)

Yet who could have known back on that day two decades ago that my subsequent life's journey would today find me having lived in Canada, a country that had always fascinated me, for the last nine-odd years? 

Despite the considerable expense it added to my round-the-world air ticket, I chose to start my epic trip in Canada simply because I had to.  I had always been drawn to this vast land for reasons that to this day remain hidden deep in my subconscious, but now I am here it all kind of makes sense.  Perhaps I was Canadian in a former life, or else born in the wrong place?  I can never know, but the fact is I feel prouder as a Canadian than I ever did as a Brit, have never felt happier living anywhere than I do here, and everything about my situation in this exact location feels utterly natural and as it should be.  I have given up trying to work it all out, as in fact there is no need to:  I am here, I am happy, and that's that.

Tomorrow would have been my mother's 84th birthday, but she was snatched from this world by cancer aged just 61, not a year retired.  She left me her house, which I sold, and some other dough that I used to take that trip around the globe.  So, as perverse as it is, I would likely not be in Canada, as happy as I am, or have met my amazing wife, or experienced so much else that has occurred in my world, had my mom lived.  That's a bittersweet fact I have to live with, for sure, but I have a beautiful framed photograph of my beloved mom on my desk, so see and talk to her every single day.  She would be very happy to know how things turned out for me, especially considering everything Susan and I have been through to reach this place of true happiness.

By beautiful synchronicity, I will be celebrating this twist of fate tomorrow in a certain Canadian and typical me style, by going to see two great Canadian bands live.  Our old friends Elliott Brood are back in town, with local lovelies Blue Moon Marquee opening.  It promises to be a raucous and beautiful evening, with my wife by my side and many friends around the room.

I am a very, very lucky man.        

The Mortality of Patti Smith

                                                     (Image used without permission.)

Since I can remember, probably back as far as my late teens, I have worshipped at the altar of Patti Smith.  The perfect storm of intoxicating poetry, fiery punk rock spirit, passionate humanism and so much more, in my world Patti is a musical goddess who has spawned many imitators, but there is not one who can hold a candle to her genius.

As well as her (and, not forgetting, her incendiary band's) music, I also love her books.  As soon as it was published in 2010 I bought and gobbled up the beautiful "Just Kids," a memoir focusing mainly on her relationship with the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, but also detailing her early days as a performer in New York City.  It truly is a terrific read, by a wonderful writer.

When I heard that the follow up, "M Train," was to be published last year I looked forward to getting my hands on it like no other book before or since.  I just completed reading it (and the earlier "Woolgathering"), and as Patti had indicated prior to publication, it is a very different affair to its predecessor.  "Just Kids" was apparently approached with definite aims in mind, to capture a time in Patti's life, whereas she wanted to be 'freer' to roam with "M Train."  It is therefore a denser, yet looser work, delightfully peppered with commentary on some of her obsessions: coffee, TV detective shows, the books of Haruki Murakami and Japanese culture.

As David Bowie did (albeit in the knowledge he was dying) in the lyrics of his epic "Blackstar" swansong, on the penultimate page Patti briefly turns her attention to mortality and aging, with a few lines that I find relatable and both calming and sobering at once:

I believe in life, which one day each of us shall lose.  When we are young we think we won't, that we are different.  As a child I thought I would never grow up, that I could will it so.  And then I realized, quite recently, that I had crossed some line, unconsciously cloaked in the truth of my chronology.  How did we get so damn old? I say to my joints, my iron-coloured hair.

I've been thinking about the single inevitability facing us all a great deal lately.  That the lives of many friends and heroes have ended so suddenly or tragically in the last few months is bound to have had a profound effect on someone with my health history.  Approaching each routine health check I get nervous, wondering what unseen horrors might be lurking within me.  Renal cancer presents no symptoms until it is too late, and having had it I take nothing for granted concerning what might ultimately claim me.  While I'm not in the least scared of death per se, the unknown manner of it really does.  We can all only hope for a peaceful end, or one about which we know nothing.  Here one moment, gone the next.           

I Fucking Despair

So, it's a new year and I greet it numb with shock and a great deal of anger.  After losing our beautiful friend Heidi to a drunk driver on November 10th, we start 2016 minus another friend killed in an equally senseless, reckless manner yesterday.  

Our friend Linda was ON A CROSSWALK, when she was ploughed into by a car and killed instantly.  Even from her devastated partner of seventeen years, from whom we just returned home after spending two hours trying to comfort him, details are scant as I type.  But, as this occurred in broad daylight, at around 2:00pm, it would seem that the driver was either plain stupid, drunk, 'distracted' - perhaps by texting or updating his or her fucking Facebook status (which from today should permanently read 'Killer') - or, well, who knows?  It hardly matters, does it, as Linda is dead.  Shot in the head, natural causes, tragic accident or killed by some bastard who evidently should not be on the road, dead is fucking dead.

I fucking DESPAIR of many of the drivers in this town.  Every single day I walk to work, without fail, I witness irresponsible, moronic or dangerous driving that makes my blood boil.  It is usually no more than two minutes after I've left the house that I'll see my first non-signalling asshole, turning in either direction from 2nd onto Pine, or from Pine onto Wentworth, not a care in the world, like they're the only driver on the road.  I'll see tailgaters, speeding vehicles, cars ripping around blind corners as if they're in Fast & Furious, all totally oblivious as to the danger they are potentially putting themselves and others in.

When Susan and I are out in the car, anywhere at all, it is simply astonishing how many examples of idiotic driving we'll witness on even the briefest of journeys.  Susan is a technically excellent, careful, observant and law-abiding driver, while all around us there are imbeciles.  It worries me to bits when Susan goes out on her own; it doesn't matter how good a driver she is with this many maniacs out there.  As we see all this stupidity we try to analyze it, talking through the various potential reasons bad driving is so rife here.  The fact that there is comparatively speaking so little traffic on the roads of Vancouver Island has made a lot of drivers lazy, we feel, and that seems about as plausible an explanation as any.

Whatever it is, two friends of mine are dead because of it.    

Old Man, Take a Look at Your Life...

Today I hit 55 years old.  No big deal in the grand scheme, and I certainly feel far younger than that in my head, but it is apparently an age that comes with hitherto inaccessible privileges in recognition of my advancing years.  For a start off I can now get into Nanaimo Clippers games at a discounted price.  Considering that despite my best intentions for the last several years to attend 5-10 games per season I have managed only one or two - and, ridiculously, none at all so far this season - it is hardly a perk that will alter the course of my life.

Also, at least as far as I am told, the International House of Pancakes will now afford me discount on this or that, but not to my knowledge ever having been in an IHOP, and because there is not one anywhere near where I live, that is of absolutely no use whatsoever.  And there are various hotel chains that now offer me a 'senior's' discount, which is a lot more like it.  With the Best Western Group amongst them, it could come in useful on trips to Vancouver and as yet unknown destinations around the world in the future.

So, thanks to those kind souls that are happy to now give me money off stuff, but I'd rather the general situation in this regard was somewhat more giving.  You know, like 90% discount on all booze purchased at any booze-a-torium anywhere on earth, or a similar rate off food bought in any grocery store and/or restaurant.  And, dear bank, how about acknowledging my newfound status by increasing interest on savings to 50%.  That's not too much to ask, is it?  And what about you guys, Revenue Canada?  How about decreasing my income tax rate to 2%, and while we're at it, all you utilities companies can doff your cap in my newly acquired ancient standing direction by shaving a whole heap off my bills.

And then he woke up.  Oh well, I can but dream, but if the best it gets is two bucks off a Clippers ticket and 10% off a pancake, I'll take it.  Otherwise, frankly, 55 is a sucky age.

Drink the Wild Air

                           "Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air."

On my coffee table at home I have three glass coasters, purchased last year from an excellent glassworks on Gabriola Island.  One of them bears an illustration of a mermaid in pale blue on a white background, the above Ralph Waldo Emerson quote situated to its right, in typewriter font and the same delicate blue.  On and off between floods of tears today, I have been staring at this coaster, numb with the intense pain of grief.

Those words could be one of many ways of summing up the wild and free spirit of one of my dearest friends in this world.  The thing is, she was killed in a car crash last night.  It would appear from the first information available via news sources that her vehicle was hit by a drunk driver.  He fled the scene and was picked up by the RCMP later, subsequently refusing to take a breathalyzer test.  I take that as a clear admission of guilt.  Details are scant as I type, but I guess the scores of people who adored her, those like us in states of emotional turmoil right now, will discover the full awful story soon enough.

We just LOVED this woman and are completely, utterly, totally devastated by her sudden passing.  She was an inspiration with her incredible energy, unswerving optimism, perma-smile and remarkable generosity of spirit.  We are proud that she considered us friends and, despite everything today, we are happy that we were amongst those who had the opportunity to bask in the intense bright light of her irrepressible life force.

Life without her in it is at this moment an inconceivable concept, but it will of course go on.  For now, on this shocking day, all we can think about beyond the voids created in our personal worlds by the departure of this dear soul, is how on earth her partner of over twenty years must be struggling to come to terms with this.  I feel helpless, stranded, unable to reach out to him to give him whatever the hell I can that he might need of me.

This has been one of the toughest days we've experienced since moving to Vancouver Island, and ever.  I have cried more today than when I found out my father had died.  This beautiful woman, so brutally snatched away from us at just 51, was a living embodiment of everything we hold dear here, and as a result of her death a bit of us dies along with her.