In the woods, alone.

For a moment there, a couple of years back, I ridiculously found myself believing that the accounting (I'm actually not allowed to characterize it that way, so let me insert instead, corporate) scandals would mark the end of the so blatant and all encompassing dominance of corporate interests. For a wee second I thought the "invisible hand" might just get smacked into servitude, knocked from its despotic throne. You know, schools might actually be about educating and hospitals about healing rather than determining their profitability potentialities. (Always a shame when patients just won't get sick the way the spreadsheet hoped they would.) You know when citizenship meant more than asking for value or a good return on one's taxes.

Kinda silly when a fellow writes it down, ain't it!

Today I saw a headline saying that 52% of Canadians support private health care. But, of course they do. After a long and dedicated campaign to systematically pull the testicles from the health care system we are left with health care that can't serve us effectively. So we remove funding in alarming amounts. The system beings to fail remarkably as 3 nurses do the jobs of 10, people can't find doctors, hospitals close at a ridiculous pace (to serve us better, of course), people begin to bitch and moan. Suddenly (surprise), if you you've got the cash you can get excellent care in Buffalo or Seattle. Fuck, in Plentywood, Montana. So, guess what? The solution is private care. See over on that side of the fence the scalpels are sharp, the aspirin fresh and the nurses have had a holiday this year.

All of this is manifest in WHO we elect to lead us, sorry, manage us. I ain't no babe in the woods. I understand the ruling class has always been the business class -- and there is nothing wrong with the business class, except when the interests of that group becomes THE only agenda. The only agenda. The only one. Name a single visionary goal a Prime Minister has articulated and sincerely gone after in the past couple of decades. As a nation we have been chasing fiscal responsibility. It is what will make us great again -- our credit rating is AAA, we lead other nations in debt reduction, deficit spending is banished. We sit in dark rooms rubbing our hard surpluses. How sad. Reaching for the stars, striving for humanity, well the ROI just doesn't support... but hey, interest rates are down.

At least the electing of CEOs instead of PMs is entertaining. When nostalgia and the demands of PR call for action or rhetoric on issues not frameable by a powerpoint presentation to some suits, it's great to watch 'em squirm.

Case in point. Another headline today heralds the cancellation by our CEO Paul Martin of his attendance in Europe to mark the 60th anniversary of V-E Day. Sure, he wants to protect his political ass back home, but imagine him canceling a G-8 meeting in Rome on the same dates. Exactly. (By the way, as perfect contrast to the business dicks who get elected these days compared to the business dicks who got elected in the past -- the former with no sense of public duty whatsoever, the latter more often statesmen -- I give you Paul Martin Srn., who clearly had the interests of business in his heart, but never lost sight of nation building either. He must be rolling in his grave.)

Here's a letter I sent the living Paul Martin this morning:


Dear Mr. Prime Minister,

Can I ask you for one minute to stop being a CEO and to begin to act like the Prime Minister of Canada (which last I checked, you still are, thankfully).

Go to Europe for the V-E Day observations, for God's sake! Screw politics, screw Bay Street for just a few days and go represent our country on a milestone anniversary of a world event in which Canada played such an important role (when you're in Holland, ask anybody about that).

Oh and if the sloped foreheads in the Conservative or BQ parties are stupid enough to take advantage of your absence, the electorate will not be amused.

Go to Europe, be Prime Minister. You can come back and view everything through the eyes of the banks and investment houses soon enough. Our history, the sacrifices this nation made in world war, is one thing Bay Street has not completely assigned zero worth, quite yet.

With respect, yours truly,


Steven Heipel

Drinking the water from Grand River

I always wanted to be the Easter Bunny

[My brother is becoming a whiz with photoshop, can you tell?]

Algorithms, irony and members of the class: Asteroidea

I'm not completely sure what an algorithm is, although it's about rules for solving a problem or something. It's mathematics is what it is and thus shall I remain in the complete and utterly damp darkness of ignorance. But if it is about problem solving then Apple's mathematics loving engineers have fucked up 'cause they've caused a big problem in terms of customer appreciation.

Each day I curse iPod and by extension, Apple (although I love my G5 iMac).

The "shuffle" feature of the iPod is, I'm told, algorithmically driven (ooooh, that turned me on that phrase did). Random selection. Well, it sucks. Today I got three songs from the very same album. In a row. I got two other songs from another album, not in a row. There are entire albums of songs iPod has NEVER played on song shuffle and I have 6 Gordon Lightfoot CDs on my iPod and over the past few months it has played (many times) the same 4 songs from him and that is ALL. I'm giving up on shuffle.

I have no idea if the product development people at Apple used an algorithm to choose the battery supplier for iPod, but they fucked up there too. I get about 1.5 hours max out of my NEW iPod battery. And this is my second iPod. The first was no different. A function of battery technology you say? Hogwash, I say. A colleague at work has sent me a website of a company that sells batteries designed for the iPod. The selling feature? These replacement batteries hold their charge. Wow, what a concept for a portable, electrical device. Batteries that work.

Other things that annoy me about Apple -- their entrenchment against two button mice with scroll wheels. Or the seemingly conspiratorial prohibition against 3rd party suppliers making a radio receiver for the iPod. The mouse thing bugs me 'cause I've got this beautifully designed Apple mouse that I don't use in favour of this ugly, ugly, ugly 3rd party mouse that has a scroll wheel AND, wait for it, two buttons.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I had someone in my life (both when physically present and then as a memory I could not shake) for sometime. He almost had me convinced that irony was bad, despite the fact it has brought me such sheer joy so often in my life. I was thinking of the warm silliness of irony while visiting my mother yesterday. Some examples: 1) My brother to my mother -- "Oh, you're getting better. Damn, now I'm going to have to lie to get more time off work." 2) Me to my mother (my face up close to the side of her head, speaking VERY loudly) -- "Did the stroke affect your hearing Mrs. Heipel?" 3) Me to my mother upon giving her a teddy bear -- "It's very soft Mother, it will help soak up the drool." 4) Another of my brothers to the doctor in the rehab hospital who asked my mother about her memory -- "Oh yah, her memory is just great. Mom, you want an apple?" My mother forgot her bottom denture plate in another hospital.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One of the wonders of having a coral reef aquarium is witnessing the appearance of creatures that just show up. Hitchikers they are called in the hobby. They ride in on the "live rock" or hidden in a coral's branches, or in the wrinkles of a clam's shell. Anyway, I currently have a "bloom" of tiny (measured in mm), spindly, long legged, silver-white starfish. There are perhaps hundreds in the sand now and when the lights go out they make their way up the sides of the glass -- most likely eating the diatom algaes and bacterial mats that collect there as a film before I scrap it off when it gets thick enough to hinder my view. But the starfish are omnivorous and opportunistic feeders as I saw them climb out of the sand and converge on some plankton the fish had missed during a feeding last night. They are almost certainly "brittle stars" given the serpent like characteristics of each of their arms. There is a corner of the tank where the current and flow are low and thus the sandbed likely more energy rich as detrius more readily collects there. At that corner there are so many of these small starfish that with the lights on -- and thus the noctural or shy starfish are hiding, nestled just under the sand -- the sand bed looks like it needs to shave, stubbled with countless ends of tiny starfish arms waving gently with the water movement.

Atherothrombosis and the Ladybug

Once upon a time there was a Scottish Meadow. Although Winter had come to predominate amongst those courting Meadow, the other seasons still visited, especially Spring with her laughter and endless horizons and gifts of heather in the salted air.

Slowly and quietly over the many visits by the seasons to Meadow, two quiet enemies took up residence in the warm flow of Meadow's brooks and streams. There they stayed, quietly doing their insidious work -- blind to all other tasks and even to each other, they dedicated themselves to choking closed the arterial flow of Meadow's thirst quenching and vibrancy giving waters.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My mother had a stroke. It started a week ago this past weekend and culminated with an early, last-week call to 911. This somehow sums up my mother: she refused to go anywhere in the ambulance (or "truck" as the law enforcement types I'm surrounded by in my family like to call them). That was mistake number two. In actual fact my mother had two strokes. The "chills" and feelings like a very sudden cold were coming on... the not having any understanding that it could be a stroke would be the first error. Blunder number one was not my mother's, but that of her doctor as she was not informed by the ancient small-town-medicine doctor of hers that her symptoms were key signs of a stroke, especially in a woman -- and my mother has had at least two small strokes in the past which prompted her doctor to expend what energy, I know not. [We discovered that my mother's daily intake of aspirin -- which the neurosurgeon said was a good idea but stronge drugs that do the same thing would have been a better idea -- was actually not prescribed by my mother's family physican, but at my older brother's suggestion!!!]

The second error came in the aftermath of her waking to pain and finding herself partially blind, a couple of days after the "chills." In refusing to get in the ambulance she effectively ended any chance of getting well proven intervention, but intervention that can only be administered within the first three hours after the onset of the stroke. A stroke protocol hospital is 40 minutes from where she lives. "I didn't want to get up on that big thing, how silly!" The "big thing" being the ambulance gurney. [Apparently she said the same thing to my father on their honeymoon -- but I digress and shall die a hell-bound death for that...]

In any event, she finally called my older brother ("old father" as my mother calls him), she was taken to a nearby hospital and eventuallly put in an ambulance and taken to university hospital in London, Ontario where she has been since last Tuesday. She cannot see on the right side of her world, she has moments of deep confusion (but is otherwise doing VERY well in terms of speech and cognition), and she has considerable weakness on the right side arm and leg -- both of which, however, she is using; walking with assistance and eating and drinking wtih the affected arm and hand.

As with everything in my life there is irony. My mother suffered an ishemic stroke in which a blood vessel becomes blocked restricting blood flow to the brain. The irony is that a blood clot broke free from the heart and began its way to her brain to end her life or do a hell of a lot worse than she suffered, BUT on the way it got caught on considerable plaque build up (itself a precursor to a stroke) on one of the four main arteries in the human neck and which feed the brain. So while the plaque was taking its own time in shutting down the artery, it acted as a net, grabbing the clot. I can't think of that without picturing jealous plaque grabbing anxious clotted blood ("no, no, let ME do it!!"). Still the artery is now shut forever. Now we wait, a nerve filled waiting game, hoping the blood clot dissolves with time (as it will do) before any pieces break off and make themselves known in the brain where they will cause havoc.

Well, that was a bit of a technical ramble.

Some humour amidst the dread, as is the way of my family. Me and all of my brothers have been told by one or more of a myriad of health care professionals that, and I'll paraphrase, we are all sarcastic bastards -- then said healthcare types point out they thought it was JUST my mother. Seems she's been yanking their chain a bit.

Anyway, on day two when I was visiting, my mother slept almost the entire time. At one point she awoke and saw me and acknowledged me. As I was trying to help her get comfortable, she was fussing about (seems she was on top of this electrical box about the size of three TV remote controls -- she angrily finally got a hold of it and tossed it to the floor). I asked her what she was doing? "Everyone I can," she replied.

After a speech and neurology test of some sort, the therapist turned to my older brothers and asked for their assessment as they obviously had more experience with my mother than the therapist. Working in tandem and without prior knowledge they expressed confusion at the appearance of a thick Scottish accent, as she (as you should tell from the name)was German. They had the therapist going for a while! For those who have never met my mother, she has the strong remnants of a Paisley (suburb of Glasgow!) accent.

On that first day I saw her, when she was sleeping, I was alone with her and went to give her a wee hug. As I leaned in to kiss her forehead a mega voltage static shock left from my lips and bolted my mother to near awakeness. I was mortified and also almost pissed my pants laughing. I'm amazed the heart monitor didn't belt out it's alarm at the shock.

It is a humbling thing to feed your mother, to take her to the washroom, to chide her to take a drink of water, to watch her eyes cloud into confusion during a conversation...

The most heartening omen is that a ladybug appeared in my mother's hospital room and was there the few days my mother was there, before her move to another unit. My mother loves ladybugs. Forbade us to kill them as kids, would rescue them if found inside and carefully put them outside on a bush, tells a story of collecting ladybugs as a kid and keeping them in a match box (which used to be big) with some grass and then letting them go the next day after their brief stay with her. "Aye, I've seen her--she's checking up on me," my mother said when I pointed out the ladybug.

As a student of English and someone dear to my heart says in less than perfect English syntax, but with perfect warmth: "Many healings" to my mother.

house hunting

Okay, let's give our heads a shake. A Toronto Star poll reveals that as a result of the sponsorship scandal (which is now a true political scandal)the Tories would easily win an election held "today."

Nothing worse than political corruption but I cannot live in this country if the C/conservatives return to power federally. I'd rather have the Enron management team running my government than the right-wing fuckers under beady-eyed Harper. (Okay, I know I revel in pettiness, but that's not my point in asking if others believe that Harper looks like the director of the movie "Deliverance" might have rejected casting him as a hillbilly because no one would believe he's a hillbilly 'cause he looks so much like a hillbilly?)

Not sure where on the planet I could go. It's a lonely ol' world for a democratic, humanist socialist these days. I suppose there's the Netherlands...

steve

two hops and a skip

This talk about fast tracking the last Pope to sainthood is just fucking nuts.

And I don't say that just because I think he was an actual force of global divisiveness and hurful dogma (him and fuckin' Mother Theresa), or because I think even less of the Roman Catholic church as an organization for systematically screwing up individual lives and societies as a whole.

No, the sainthood talk rankles 'cause the guy did nothing to deserve it. In all the talk of how great a man he was, or (and this one has set me afire more than once upon hearing it) that "no matter what religion, EVERYONE was touched by the humanity of the Pope," no one has backed those empty claims with supporting evidence. Oh sure, he singlehandedly toppled communism... Not a bloody chance. And what the hell (ahem, pardon the expression) does that have to do with winning sainthood. But lets get it clear. Pope Shake Rattle and Drool did not end communism. He hugged a man who led a group that had a lot to do with it though. Sheesh.

So, it seems even the process of making saints has been taken over by the cult of celebrity. If I'm not mistaken people wished fruitlessly of making Diana Princess of Wails, er, Wales a saint... Now with the lapse of time that hysteria over her death -- or more, over her greatness -- just looks silly. Yah, I was one of those who was actually touched by her death. But I just feel stupid about it now. Gee, she visited sick children and didn't like landmines. Well, fuck, stop the planet it's the second coming and the saviour's about to go for a car ride with a drunken chauffeur!

You want to talk hero? Today is the 25th anniversary of Terry Fox dipping his (fake)leg in the Atlantic off St. John's before heading west; destination the Pacific. AND the guy was NO saint.

I was briefed on just how difficult meeting Terry Fox could be (because on a bad day -- and what day wouldn't be a bad day with one's amputation stump bleeding -- he was known to eat, chew and spit in the ditch those he loved, let alone a reporter) by the head of the Canadian Cancer Society in Western Manitoba in the summer of 1980. I was a reporter in Brandon and had been chosen (more on why later) to drive with the Cancer Society head to meet Terry Fox as he entered Manitoba from Northern Ontario so that I could produce stories that would run a few days before his arrival in Western Manitoba. Two days before he was to cross into Manitoba he made the announcement (the audio clip is forever burned into my head) that he had to go home to fight "this thing" so he could come back and continue his journey.

I can't see that famous video clip of him on the highway without feeling a powerful awe that reduces me to tears. I hope the idiot mitred-hat crowd considers that their choices for saints should show even a tiny fraction of such guts!

That's courage. The kid was pure courage every hop hop skip along the way.

[Oh, I was chosen for the assignment because for several months before and a couple years afterward the director of the Canadian Cancer Society of Western Maniotba wanted in my pants. I was 21. She was at least 40, and quite hot. Yah, I see the irony now. The king of chicken hawks now, the target of a cougar then. Not sure why I didn't let her bed me, other than I was afraid of her.]

Forgive me father for I have sinned -- I forgot the lube!

So, if the mitred-hat club does decide to bury the Pope's heart in Poland, shouldn't his ass be set to eternal rest in the Boston Archdiocese?

Just a thought...

an experiment, yah that's what it was...

I did not fail to note that a huge chunk of time elapsed between today's earlier blog and the one before it.

I had hoped to prompt great begging and pleading from my extensive (!) readership by withholding my blogs. In the end, I received one "are you ever going to blog again" remark.

So, with some considerable and expert thinking about the conclusions regarding the reaction to my not blogging for 15 days, I have concluded that my huge readership is simply a group that personifies patience and would never stoop to demanding I blog more regularly.

Ahem.

The scent of memory

Strangest thing, memory. Well, I think so. It's probably because I really don't have one (memory, that is) at all to speak of.

I read somewhere that smell is the strongest memory or is most likely to prompt memories, I think it was.

As I walked to work this morning a Cat Stevens tune popped into my iPod (chosen by the very poorly written algorithm, which is iPod's "shuffle.") and I realized I was smelling my bedroom in the mid-'70s. I wore out Cat Stevens albums and 8-track tapes on my quadraphonic (yes four channels instead of two -- didn't last and I wonder why given that humans only have TWO ears)hi-fi. I'll not attempt a description of that room's, ah, scent, shared as it was by two teenage brothers...

I took my bike in for a major tune-up last night. Taking it off the balcony I had to remove a bottled water bottle that I'd stuck in the water bottle rack and realized it had been there since I last rode my bike which was the summer of '03. I remember that ride as I was with Alex and we'd just decided to try to be friends not lovers again after not seeing each other for nearly two years. His bike broke and I had to ride back to the car AND remember how the hell to get back to where he was -- some park we'd reached by bikes-only trails. I found him as it was getting dark and didn't get lost (still so proud of myself ). So, the water bottle became the memory, in a sense, and I found a familiar urge to then not throw the bottle out -- that somehow that would desecrate the memory. Alex made a fire in the middle of that park that we stood around like a camp fire -- can't believe somebody didn't call the cops/fire department. I have notes on a poem about that fire. If I was actually a poet I might turn the notes into a poem and share it here...

Much the same "item becomes the memory" process was involved in my recent tossing out of what must have been 5-year-old tofu from my refrigerator. It, the tofu, was packed in water and never opened and it never even turned colour -- although less tofu white and more "washed the white undies with a black sweater" grey it became. Surely toxic.

The tofu became emblematic of an event in my life (involving the person who bought it) and I couldn't bring myself to throw it out (like he did me, to switch to metaphor). Even now I regret having tossed it, but for gawd's sake it was a rotting food product :) It doesn't help that I've written a poem about that tofu. Maybe I could have sealed it and frozen it. Jesus, I'm such an eccentric. If it makes you feel better about me, I have two lemons from the same era as the tofu -- would have been purchased at the same time as the tofu. They remain in my fridge, totally dried out and weightless, but still strikingly lemon like to look at. Those, as they are unlikely to poison me accidentally, I shall keep.

A small console compartment in my car also contains "items as memory" -- there are small pieces of stone and driftwood, receipts, etc. That I could never bring myself to throw out. I don't even remember the specifics of the memory the items are supposed to recall (!) but they hold a nostalgic power in any event.

I had hoped to interview my mother about her life -- she'd agreed to it. I made one attempt while home for Christmas but she became terribly self-conscious and that frustrated me and the attempt failed. Not easy to go from strangers to mother and son through such talk... Her 79th b-day is coming up. It is imperative that I mine her memories -- the hope being they will work like the water bottle and unearth my own childhood data bank. Or, at least, to give enough details from which to construct a memory full of childhood.