Joy to the World

 Joy To The Sane World

S. B. Julian

- Good Morning, Class! (bright voice) I'm Mary from Mental Health Militia's Christmas Crisis Centre, and your teacher Ms Shepherd has invited me to talk to you about the stress we're all under at this time of year. I call it “the Curse of Christmas”. We carry heavy burdens during the Holiday Season. Right? (silence) You need to get over the stigma of talking about it, Class. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. Christmas is all about depression, anxiety and family conflict. (silence) So who wants to start? How about the girl in the middle there? You look sad.

-- I'm sad we're missing English, it's my favourite class.

-- English?

-- Yeah, you know, novels and poems and stuff. “Grammar and Literacy” the English Head calls it.

-- Well that's all fine but you need addiction-literacy, anxiety-literacy, bullying-and-exclusion-literacy ... the things that matter in life.

-- Oh. Could I go to the washroom please? (she leaves)

-- Who else would like to contribute? How about you at the back? Are you sitting apart because you feel excluded?

-- No.

-- Denial is a burden. You can safely unpack your misery here.  I'll give you the Christmas Crisis Line phone number so you can call in later. Make a note of this everyone: it's 01 - 888 -

-- Mary? (a student raises her hand) I need to leave for an appointment.

-- Really? Where? What could be more important than mental illness, depression, anxiety, mood swings, ADHD, addiction ...

-- 'scuse me Mary, but I don't have those things.

-- Of course you do. It's Christmas.

-- (another student speaks) Right. It's Christmas, so we must be suicidal.

-- Suicide is no joke, Class.

-- Actually I wasn't depressed until you arrived. (class laughs)

-- Is it the advertising? The commercialization? The burden on the poor?

-- No, it's you.

-- (another student chimes in) I love Christmas.

-- You think you do, but it's a well-known source of misery, loneliness, unpaid bills, over-eating...

-- Actually, for me it's the source of a decorated tree with a beautiful smell and colourfully-wrapped presents under it, and carol singing, and boxes of chocolate and home-made eggnog, and visits from grandparents who love me.

-- Let's unpack what those things really mean. For instance, when you say “carols” do you mean music which foists colonialist sentiments onto downtrodden races with other traditions?

-- No.

-- Because we all know that Christmas is merely a colonialist construct imposed on indigenous people who had never heard of it at the time of settler contact. We at Christmas Crisis Hotline help them deal with the trauma. There, you in the front row, you look indigenous. At least I hope you are, or that eagle feather and the First Nations T-shirt you're wearing would be pretty major cultural appropriations! (she laughs) So ... yes you are indigenous? And how is your family coping with the trauma of Christmas?

-- Umm ...

-- It's okay, you can speak, you're safe here. Have you got siblings at home?

-- Yeah. Tons.

-- And parents?

-- Mom. And sort of ... step-fathers.

-- And how does Mom cope with the trauma of Christmas?

-- Beer. (laughter from the class)

-- (Mary sighs) Poor woman. Driven to it. What does she think would help?

-- If the Food Bank carried it. (laughter)

-- Now class, let's not make fun of identifiable groups.

-- (student raises hand) Mary: we're not laughing at identifiable groups, we're laughing at you.

-- (flustered) Well that's a bit ... (pause) I mean, thank you for your honesty ... er ...

-- (another student raises her hand) Mary: I collect eagle feathers. They float to the ground at my grandparents' farm. They're everywhere. Why is liking eagle feathers cultural appropriation?

-- Umm ... Let's stay on topic, okay? The “Holiday Season”. Ask yourself what you need a holiday from. If it's the “Festive Season”, ask yourself why you don't feel festive.

-- (student raises his hand) I do feel festive.

-- No. Actually, you're suffering from the stress of pretending to like something which is exhausting, expensive, lonely, trans-phobic and competitive, when you have to buy presents for co-workers you hate, (voice rises) and you can't find a parking space, and it's freezing cold out and dark at 4:30 and you lose your gloves and those Salvation Army bells are driving you mad ... 

(Class is silent. A student rushes out, upset.)

-- Mary? (says another) Sorry for your troubles.

-- Well, it's not my troubles, it's society's. Now: let's form a circle and take turns revealing how Christmas triggers suicidal feelings. Put your smartphones away please. Now: the boy on my right, we'll start with you. What triggers your negative feelings?

-- Putting my smartphone away. (laughter from the class)

-- And what part of Christmas makes you smartphone-dependent?

-- (girl raises hand) Mary, I'll be major-triggered if I don't find a new smartphone in the toe of my stocking on Christmas morning. (other students cheer in agreement)

-- Yeah, and then she can like phone the Christmas Crisis Line when her sister steals all the cashews out of Santa's nut bowl. (laughter. Ms Shepherd the teacher calls for order.)

-- Well, there's a thought: food inequity. It's an aspect of worldwide injustice, and climate change only increases it ...

-- (sarcastically) And Christmas causes climate change.

-- Or what if Christmas solved it? What'd'ya think Mary? Like, what if we all drove flying Santa-sleighs instead of vehicles that run on fossil fuels?

-- Yeah! What if Amazon delivered parcels that way? Way cool eh!

-- (another girl replies) But if they were pulled by reindeer that would be animal exploitation.

-- Hey, Mary! Can I read my poem? It has rhymes for the name of each of the eight reindeer.

-- Not now Dear, that sounds rather frivolous for the Least Wonderful Time of the Year. Let's consider the pathology behind gift-giving.

-- Mary, why is your name Mary? It seems so old-fashioned.

-- Because I'm named after, you know ... Mary.

-- Oh. That must be traumatic if you hate the nativity season.

-- Mary, why is it that every nativity scene shows Joseph standing up? You never see him sitting on a bale of hay or anything.

-- (another student replies) Maybe he was a comedian. Like -- in “stand-up” -- get it? (laughter)

-- Yeah ... we get it. So is that why the best comics are Jewish? According to my Dad they are, anyway.

-- Does that mean he's racist? Hey Mary – her Dad's a racist!

-- Settle down, Class. What's your name, Dear?

-- Estuaria.

-- Ah. So you're named for a place where rivers of mental illness flow into seas of toxic Christmas expectations that mental health experts have proven are ... but wait, where are you going, Estuaria? Class: if you have trouble acknowledging repressed Christmas-misery you can be tested for mental illness for free. This is our prime misery-season, worse than summer holidays, back-to-school week, Halloween and Valentine's Day all rolled into one. This is when you need to guard against expectations of joy and examine cultural assumptions. The Christmas Crisis Centre can put you in touch with a therapist who ... (a man walks in, interrupting)

-- (The teacher, Ms Shepherd speaks up) Oh! Here is our principal: Mr. Barnes. Hello Mr. Barnes, we are discussing the emotional pitfalls of Christmas ...

-- Ms Shepherd, why has a stream of students from your class turned up weeping in my office?

                                         ******************

(This story first appeared in Short Humour Magazine: http://www.short-humour.org.uk )

Santa Claus's Resignation Letter

Dear World,

Oh boy, have things ever changed in the toy-delivery field. Remember when people wrote letters to Santa? You didn't expect to get one from me, but here goes ... I need to send you notice of my imminent retirement. I used to deliver a sleigh-full of dolls, teddy bears, train sets, roller skates and pencil sets every magical Christmas Eve. (Pencils! Can you imagine?) But no more: gifts have gone electronic. Now it's all game-boxes, fit-bits, gift cards and peculiar little digital devices that fall out of my bag and get lost on the floor of the sleigh.

I used to be able to park right beside the chimney I would be slipping down; now there are few chimneys. There's “smart heating” and roofs cluttered with solar panels. Last year, one had a poster on it saying “REINDEER SLEIGHS ABUSE UNGULATES”.

The few chimneys left have notes saying “VACCINE PASSPORT AND MASK REQUIRED”. A mask, on top of a beard like mine?! No one needs a mask who's already muffled by a deep white thicket of facial hair. 

I used to find treats like cookies and warm milk waiting for me beside people's hearths, but now they leave bizarre food I can't identify, like Guatemalan keto spice balls, and dirty-snow vegan gluten-free taro squares. Whatever happened to a nice cup of tea? Now I find notes advising me there's a Pomegranate Gingerbread Iced Latte in the 'fridge.

And no one's decently in bed taking their long winter nap while I lurk in their living rooms. They're all hunkered down in other rooms staring at smartphones. I see blue light from digital devices glowing under the doors. Even the kids aren't asleep, dreaming about full stockings while visions of sugar plums dance in their heads. They're texting their friends from under the covers. 

I remember when people used to hang real stockings at the fireplace, I mean stockings they would actually wear the next day to keep their feet warm. Now everyone hangs huge store-bought florescent plastic bag-like things sporting lewd or satirical jokes (satire! at Christmas?) which doesn't seem very traditional to me.

No: Christmas Eve isn't what it was when I started as apprentice to Great-Grandfather Claus. Nor is the elf staff the same! Not one knows how to wield a hammer and nail, and some can't even read. Being illiterate they can't copy out the lists I need, so I can't check them twice. Luckily every kid wants the same thing anyway: high-tech digital robotic Amazon-stuff. I might as well retire, and be replaced by a drone. I'm just not as jolly as I used to be. I guess drones do go further and faster than anything a bunch of reindeer would pull. They're much more efficient. So Tally-ho-ho-ho, Drones! 

But I can't help thinking something magical is being lost.

Yours truly,

Old Man in the Red Suit

The Night Before Virtual Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas …

In each bedroom and hall
the seniors were stirring, insomniacs all,
support hose was hung by the chimneys with care,
it helps folk a lot as they walk here and there
The grandkids were somewhere else, thank heaven,

dreaming (or streaming) from midnight 'til seven

Then out on the lawn I heard such a clatter
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter
What to my short-sighted eyes should appear
but a miniature E-sleigh with battery-gear
The mechanical driver was shiny and slick,

I knew it too robotic to be St. Nick

More rapid than email with cursors it came
it called those who pulled the sleigh by name:
“Now Flasher, now Hacker,
now Zoom and Delete!
On, Android and Google!
On, Podcast and Tweet!
On to the porch and the top of the wall,

now flash away, blink away, bleep away all!”

So up to the rooftop the cursors they flew
with an E-sleigh of gadgets and the Robot too,
then as from the window I dizzily turned
it slid down the chimney, I quickly learned,
as a blinking metallic apparition --

and I blinked back, full of suspicion

A bundle of toys it began to unpack
like an Amazon delivery man with a sack
It filled the stockings that hung by the fire
and piled chocolate treats beyond all desire

Its lights how they twinkled, its buzzers were buzzy,
I think it spoke, but my memory's fuzzy
Then laying a finger on its A.I. nose

giving one more blink, up the chimney it rose

It sprang to the E-sleigh and quickly rebooted,
while a lively Help Function digitally hooted
as they flew to the stars and out of sight:

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!

The Plastic Aftermath of Christmas

The Owl and the Pussycat floated to sea 

in an ugly recycling bin 

It over-flowed with broken toys 

and plastic, paper and tin 

They sailed away on Boxing Day 

on a river of rubbish off-shore 

Large gifts they had bought but now they thought 

that with packaging, less is more 

They sailed for what seemed a year and a day 

and came to an island grim 

It rose as a mountain of styrofoam 

so big there was nowhere for fish to swim 

As night-time fell on the greasy sea 

and clouds obscured the moon, 

they threw the disposables overboard 

in fear they would capsize soon 

As water entered their plastic craft 

they used take-out cups to bail, 

but these broke into soggy flakes 

and they knew they couldn't but fail 

They spied a barge of digital waste 

for which the sea hadn't room 

Then a massive storm sent their bin to the deeps 

and they drowned by the light of the moon, 

the moon, 

they drowned ... by the light of the moon 

"Surviving" Christmas

    'Tis the season when magazines publish articles on how to "survive". At Christmas you won't, say the articles, come upon any midnights clear, you'll stumble into pitfalls social, emotional, financial, and political. Unfortunately the magazines seem to be right. To save your sanity, they recommend, make lists of guests and gifts. Make a to-buy list, to-bake list, political-topics-to-avoid list.

    At gatherings so many matters are triggering that you need a "Taboo Topics List". And you'd best check it twice. The taboo topics used to be sex, politics and religion; now they're identity, cultural appropriation and anything described as "systemic". As for variant behaviours, they're best ignored, like those of the cousin with so many allergies she's allergic to her own allergies and will claim to be allergic to your live fir tree. 

    Then there are acquaintances who refuse to call Christmas "Christmas", and only recognize a seasonal indigenous-inclusive non-binary non-colonial anti-privilege diversity-fest (not on any account a Mass for the birth of Christ).

    Then there's the guest who brings variant meat -- peppered grasshopper and fried slugs -- for the potluck. And the one who brings tattooed friends of variant gender who you can't greet because you fear to get their pronouns wrong. Some genders seem to change during the party itself.

    There are students who show up after their last university class in variant subjects you've never heard of, like Queering the Undead, and Acquiring Expert Venture Cognitions, and Critical Skills for Online Identity Management. 

    Why?? you ask.

    "They're pre-requisites for The Zombie in Woke Culture." 

    "I thought the whole point of Zombies was to be un-woke?" 

    "You mean un-AWAKE" 

    Quite.

    "These courses go toward a PhD in Fashion and Body Modification." 

    "Oh. Of course university teaching's so different now."

    "We don't have 'teaching', we have Culturally Sustaining Pedagogy."

    "Huh. And do you have jobs in the end?"

    "I have one already, as Exit Manager for Spaces Shoplifters and Non-vaccinated People Sneak Into."

    Ah. A bouncer. I almost wished I had one at my Christmas potluck. I guess one could bounce everyone out by saying someone had just "tested positive" for a variant of concern (concerning what, one needn't specify). That would clear the room. Except of course for the COVID-deniers. 

    Does the University teach a course in How To Be a Successful Hermit?

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A Concrete Discussion

-- Hello Sidewalk.

-- Hello Road.

-- We gotta stop meeting like this. 

-- But how else can we, stuck and immobilized as we are?

-- Quite. So, how are you?

-- Oh ... you know, still winding along.

-- Heard anything from below lately?

-- Yes! I heard from Soil. 

-- Soil is still down there?!

-- Yes, and it's hosting a worm-fest.

-- No! How?

-- After such a long summer drought the worms dug deep, even under concrete where it's dark and damp.

-- Clever!

-- Oh yeah … it's ancient knowledge, Road.

-- Of an ancient species. 

-- And now that the rains have come the worms are squirming across the hard surfaces. Very hazardous.

-- They'll get stepped on. Maybe they're not so smart …

-- Oh they are, Road, it's just they didn't evolve for the sudden new curse of concrete -- which is us -- they evolved for the ancient geology of soil.

-- So we're the enemy, really.

-- Yes. It's hard. 

-- WE are hard. Yet I'm cracking up.

-- Me too! It's liberating, isn't it?

-- And in the cracks, weeds appear! Green stuff, with tiny flowers on top. So life's not all ugly and hard, even we can be a bit softened and decorated, Sidewalk.

-- Yes, it's a relief, and you know what? A child was skipping along me one day, and as she hopped over a big crack she said the crack was my smile!

-- Smart kid.

-- Ancient knowledge …

   

The Pandemic of Logo-phobia

Is logo-phobia yet another new mental illness? Fearing, perhaps, to offend "persons of colour", are we becoming persons of colourless speech?

We fear words themselves -- pronouns, obviously -- but why are we anti-noun? We hate them so much we turn them into verbs -- always "efforting" and "expensing", "authoring" and "evidencing" -- even though misuse of the suffix "ing" does not a verb make. 

And who knew how malevolent a lowly preposition could be? Ask someone "where are you from?" and you could be labelled a right-wing anti-immigrant bigot. A polite conversational enquiry is attacked by the Language Police.

Remember when parents advised kids to "ask others about themselves, don't just talk about yourself"? Who knows what's polite now -- what's proper etiquette? "Etiquette" comes from the French word for "ticket". No one knows what our ticket out of Language Jail might be; no wonder we fear words. They're unexploded bombs: choose the wrong one and you can be blasted right off your platform.

In fear of the Language Police we call everybody persons-experiencing-things, rather than persons being things, i.e. noun-things with names, like "addict" for instance, rather than a person-experiencing-addiction. A shop-lifter, presumably, is a person-experiencing-kleptomania (and may be called a person-experiencing-marginalization-and-underprivilege, by persons-acting-diverse-and-inclusive).

 

So am I un-empathetically linking language with moral responsibility? Yup. (Sorry.) So avoiding clear language means avoiding moral responsibility? (A non-correct question if ever there was one. Our apologies.) 

Nothing's your fault if your pronoun is "they/them" -- it's theirs. Maybe avoiding being the Subject and hiding behind Object-hood is a survival strategy, but this refusal to let the ball of responsibility and fluency land in your court is causing certain others to experience depression -- and mystification. Why do we fear words, and fear meaning what words mean? Do we fear giving offense, or are we simply persons-experiencing-mass-censorship?

.

Where's the Statute for the Protection of the Status of Statues?

The fashion of the moment is to fall all over ourselves de-historicizing our surroundings, which means making statues fall all over themselves as we knock them down for being colonialist. 

Is it time to make a law (statute) that stands up for the status of statues? These words derive from the Latin verb "stare" -- to stand. Is it time to stand up for History and the memorialization of significant historical figures? Their significance arose because they embody the signs of their times, and if we don't keep track of past times we will certainly lose our way in present times, as we are doing: getting lost in willed-amnesia. 

The past can be erased from collective memory but it can't be erased: it lives on in the present. It made the present and made us what we are. That's pretty immemorial.

By "re-claiming our history", groups often mean obscuring the past and adopting an alternative identitarian narrative -- projecting backwards a story which is actually about the present. The most clear view of history is in the stories of individual lives. From biographies and memoirs we learn about an era. Some people don't read biography however, and for them a statue with a plaque may be the only window on the past. Let's not close it. If you don't like the story on the plaque, don't stand there staring, just amble on by.

We can stand-down our nation-builders, but we can't dam the stream of their influence. We can topple from their platforms Macdonald and Ryerson, Duncan Campbell Scott, Susanna Moodie and L.M. Montgomery, Tom Tomson, Emily Carr and Nellie McClung ... but we can't take currents out of a river that has already flowed. 

Here stand a couple of colonials (PAINTER/writer Emily Carr and POET/administrator Duncan Campbell Scott):

JustJests

Hear their spirits alive and chatting in the night, in the short story "Gardens of History" (see Shifting Landscapes, an Anthology, VIAPA, 2021)

"Why do they hate us, Dunc?"

"Search me, Em. The future is a foreign country."

"In what kind of future do people stop studying

 the past and start 'curating' it?"

"I don't know. Why don't you go paint a mountain? I'm reading."

Miniature Worlds and Imagining Mind -- a mental health response to pandemic restrictions

Were you one of those millions of urban dwellers worldwide condemned to life in a box in a tower block, during the pandemic? Presumably millions in Europe -- Austria for a start -- still are. Did you resort to devices like this:

"Humans are designed by evolution for society, talk, interaction, for watching and mimicking others, criticizing, cajoling, encouraging, comforting in turn. Screen-life is no substitute; screen life is fake life. Depression stalks us now, tracking some folks down to their suicidal lairs. Or up to lethal tower block heights. How many, gazing out the tiny window, dream of jumping?

       “Only go out for essentials” say the health officials. Here's what's essential: fresh air, movement, sunshine, night skies and the smell of leaves. Zooming is not essential, Google News is not essential. These are distractions, traps and diversions and in the end, corrosive.
       On the table in the sitting room squashed up against the bedroom of my box, I have built a miniature world. There's a castle, and a farm, a farmhouse and some trees made of twigs gleaned from the municipal park across town. A family – dream characters – lives in the farmhouse. A queen lives in the castle, as do her ladies-in-waiting, and lots of knights, her visitors of the night. In my night-visiting dreams I imagine their dramas unfolding, and the farm animals stirring, the owls watching, the earth of the miniature-landscape seething with microscopic life.

       When the world shrinks we must make an inner world grow, the one we may reveal in miniature displays and the imagining mind. This is resilience … "

(See the whole article, "The Box and the Bubble", by Flora Jardine, at: 

https://pagespineficshowcase.com

Is Literacy "Cultural Genocide"? How Do We Reconcile With Censorship?

How Did Literacy Come to be "Cultural Genocide"?

We need without fear to to ask questions about Canadian residential schools and "cultural genocide". Those who established the schools intended two things: to educate aboriginal people by imparting literacy and academic knowledge, and to draw aboriginals into the mainstream as employed non-dependent members of society. Would this change them? Undoubtedly. (Education is supposed to change people.) Was that "genocide"? That buzzword hadn't been invented when native schools were set up, and wouldn't have been understood. Education was education, and boarding school a common institution.

Does that mean nothing bad ever happened in them? No strict discipline, no separation from families? No, it doesn't mean that. Pedagogical theory was not what it is today, and the churches who ran many of the schools had additional agenda of their own, which now seem questionable. 

Presumably some pupils did learn to read, however. Did they learn math, and something of the world -- its history, its geography? Undoubtedly. Was that bad, from an inclusion-and-equity point of view? Presumably universal education has social value? Or do we really now think general literacy is "cultural genocide"?

Reason suggests that perpetuating an underclass of unemployable illiterates excluded from schooling would have been a lot more like cultural genocide than was establishing places where academic skills were learned.

Maybe they were under-funded and some staff were under-qualified: that we can picture. Can we not also picture that dedicated well-qualified individuals also joined residential school staffs because they had a teaching ideal of their own? A personal career goal, a desire to contribute?

 

There used to be abundant writings (histories, diaries, correspondence) describing students' positive memories of residential school -- but you won't find them now. They've been excised from the record and from library shelves; they don't fit present ideology. Censorship is no sin in present political ideology; in fact it's becoming a national pastime. Why?

Is it fair that teachers who were caring and gifted at their jobs should be lumped in with those who were the opposite? That is what we do through hysterical outbursts every time anyone suggests there might have been principled educators who went to remote lonely parts of Canada to teach first nations kids for commendable reasons. They sure didn't go for high pay and creature comforts. In their worldview, literacy mattered. We are the ones who demote it, who parrot ideological slogans out of fear of being "racist", and of being de-platformed from jobs and social media. Tell those early educators that they "stole" aboriginal languages (which had no written form at all, of course, and weren't shared among the warring tribes themselves), and they would think their descendants had gone mad.

We've gone unjust. We've marginalized and victimized many now-anonymous teachers who might have enriched the lives, in many ways, of some first nations students.

Our favourite national pastime is toppling statues of people who for better or worse built our (passably democratic and prosperous) country. Maybe a generation from now they'll erect a Memorial to the Unknown Teacher, the one who inspired a kid here and there but whose name we have made a point of erasing from the history books. That erasure will come back to bite the ideologues one day, for there's no reconciliation with censorship.

The Hidden Violence Around You -- Who Knew?

You think you live a quiet life, minding your own business in peaceful surroundings? No: there's hidden violence all around. Remember when there was just common-or-garden-variety violence? Violence of the street, perpetrated by criminals? Now it's perpetrated by everyone, and you probably don't even know all the names under which it rears its mystifying head:

Data violence,  Misgender violence,                                                                    Ablement violence (not to be confused with Disablement violence)            Epistemic violence (and its murderous cousin, Pernicious Ignorance)   Hermeneutic violance,  Policy violence, Symbolic violence,  Categoration violence

These are of course related to the "micros" (fleas of injustice biting the unwary in society's multiple unsafe spaces …): micro-aggression, micro-assault and micro-invalidation ... 

These are closely related to the new generation of "isms": linguicism, normism, audism, blank-slatism, colourism, technofeminism, dysconscious racism (not to be confused, presumably, with conscious racism), vaginism and Zoomism (Okay, I made the last two up; why not?)

So if you go down to the socio-linguistic woods today -- deep, dark and dangerous -- prepare for a big surprise: systemic incomprehension.

.

Passive-Aggressive Punctuation Is Out To Make You Anxious

A well-known writer and reviewer shared some extraordinary opinions about punctuation as used in online text. Apparently there are new rules: 

"The period can feel so emphatic as to sound sarcastic. It can easily come across as passive-aggressive." Exclamation marks, however, "convey warmth and sincerity; failing to use them runs the risk of making the person you are messaging feel uncertain and anxious."

What. Nonsense. The kind of nonsense that makes one feel uncertain and anxious.

To some writers punctuation is king; it rules the pauses between the tumble of words, providing shape, enriching meaning. It's not about pandering to either warm or anxious "feelings" of readers. Martialing meaning is the whole point of the period (note the Latin for point: punctus). 

In British grammar the period is called a "full stop" because "to stop" comes from the Old English verb meaning "to stuff up or block". Drains for instance, and road traffic, get stopped at punctuated points of blockage. In prose these pauses are no bad thing. (It's handy in speaking too if you wish to stop for breath -- and don't you hate those people who talk in breathless! exclamation! marks!?) Only in a weather report is that okay (Warning! Snowstorm on highway!) Although maybe we also need a Bad Grammar signal: Warning! Illiteracy Ahead!

The comma too is essential, this word has Greek ancestry: "komma". Commas close off a clause with the "least degree of separation" (compared to the period or semi-colon which separate more decisively). With "clause" we're back to Latin and closing off: claudere is "to shut". 

So at the risk of making ourselves "feel uncertain and anxious" let's champion the full use of punctuation by everyone punctilious about the points they're making when they write. Of course, "texting" is something else, neither speech nor writing, and nothing to do with actual texts. "Text" also derives from Latin, textura meaning "relating to arrangement of threads, as in fabric, skin, rock, and literary work". 

So if you're saying anything beyond "me grunt, you snort" you need to arrange your threads of meaning, points, clauses, sentences and paragraphs according to punctuation. And if that idea makes you passive-aggressively anxious, just wait 'til we examine the role of the hyphen …

What Can You Do When Your City Hates Your Country?

The municipal council of the city of Victoria, BC has a collective loathing of the country of Canada. Therefore they have voted to replace Canada Day in 2022 with Hate-Canada Day. But with what seems mendacious hypocrisy, they will call it “Civic Inclusion Day”. That means it includes first nations and recent immigrants but not descendants of earlier immigrants, which raises the question: what was the cut-off date when bad multicultural colonial immigrants became good multicultural recent immigrants? (There's probably a History PhD for someone in researching it.)

https://www.timescolonist.com/local-news/victoria-council-mulls-canada-day-2022-without-fireworks-4726608

Recorded council meetings indicate that Victoria Council plans to create a Welcoming City Committee to accomplish Civic Inclusion Day. They will replace fireworks, music, celebration and the red and white T-Shirts cheerfully worn for the occasion by all ages, ethnicities and occupational groups, with something they consider “modest, family-friendly, multi-cultural and anti-racist” (which is code for anti-white-settler).

There will be, in this form of celebration, a moment of silence for “reflection”. (That'll be fun.) And it will be another chance to ideologically lower the flag. Is there any other country in the world as addicted as Canada to lowering their flag? Half-mast is Canada's favourite position -- as if afraid to stand upright and be counted, as a flag-pole. Does being serially half-mast suggest half-full or half-empty? The heads of some of our decision makers seem fully empty.

There will of course be no fireworks allowed in this anti-celebration (too bright, too festive) – except the verbal fireworks in the opinion columns of course, among independently thinking patriotic types.

So what can citizens do when their city hates their country? They can hold their own Canada Day parties -- real parties -- picnics in the parks, beaches and gardens with flags flying, such as the group of friends shown below did in Victoria BC in 2021.

Senior Thoughts From Dr. Seuss

From the Notes of Dr. Seuss, Gerontologist

Now that kids who grew up with the early Dr. Seuss books are into their senior years, a new Dr. Seuss is required -- so here's a compendium of rhymes from the picture books (Oh The Places You'll Go, Horton Hears a Who, The Birthday Book, and more …! 

"The Places You'll Go" are not the places you went,

when your future was ahead and your youth mis-spent,

but with a head full of brains and shoes full of feet  

you're still too wise to walk on Foolish-folk Street

You'll walk as far as your walker will go, 

downhill's best, as I'm sure you know,

and think of all the places you'll stay,

while keeping out of other folks' way,

and the thinks you won't think

with the thoughts you've not got,

but this you recall: Sam I am not

Before you know it, you have a hunch,

it's time for another Birthday Lunch,

Well you had to be born or you wouldn't be here,

and as Doctor Seuss added, it's certainly clear

"there's no one alive who is you-er than you"

Chance was, he said, you've been in a slump,

and might even be in another one today,

"Un-slumping yourself is not easily done",

yet was done by the Grinch through his heart, they say.

But Horton's forgotten hearing a Who,

At 90 he barely hears "how do you do?"

When his carer asks him "and how are you?"

he asks her in turn, "you're Cindy Lou Who?"

"Believe me," says Horton, "I tell you sincerely,

my ears aren't so good, they don't hear clearly,

but this I will tell you, if I may be so bold,

"a person's a person no matter how old",

so don't yield your space, don't give an inch,

just try to be the Lorax, and not the Grinch.

Shakespeare For the Modern Audience

Our performance offers a medley of famous scenes from Shakespeare without any elitist non-inclusive language offensive to many diversified and marginalized communities.

We open the curtain on King Lear who is getting lost in a storm, raging against his disloyal daughters, and expressing the feelings of his Inner Child:

“Oh let me not be mad, sweet heaven” -- by which his Inner Child means “Let me not be neuro-variant, sweet safe place”

Adding that “Old fools are babes again”, he stresses that “older differently-abled adults are just as good as newborns”

Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, Hamlet upon seeing the ghost of his murdered father, is wondering:

“Whether to suffer the slings and arrows of this escalatory shit-storm, or whether 'tis woker in the mind to leverage against a sea of its positionality, and by un-friending, de-platform it.”

King Richard by contrast has no doubt about how to win a battle. He on his own battlefield would give up what Hamlet's uncle wouldn't, confirming that he'd prefer a horse to a crown. “My kingdom for a horse,” he assures us, meaning “my traditional territory for an electric all-terrain-vehicle in which to roar across the landscape”

From here our medley switches to a scene in Italy where the Capulet and Montague families are having an ancestral feud. “A plague on both your high-rise low-carbon urban appropriately eco-dense condos”, responds one onlooker. Meanwhile a member of one of the families, Juliet, is trying to contact a member of the other:

“Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art though Romeo?” she texts, while muttering under her breath “why are you being such an elitist privileged misogynist?”

Miranda, after witnessing a Tempest that struck her island homeland, is having better luck with a new immigrant, Prince Ferdinand. After a life spent with only one manic-depressive father for company and one distant neighbour who was … alternative, she fell in love with this first new guy to come along. Finding he had relatives in tow plus a bunch of alcoholic mariners, she expressed wonder: "oh brave new international order," she exclaimed, "that has such multicultural intersectional identity groups in't!"

And as our play comes to an end, three omnivorous old foodies appear and stir a pot in a cooking demonstration for the benefit of Lord Macbeth who, feeling victimized by their harassment, insults them in very sexist ageist terms, even alleging they smell like filthy old people-experiencing-poverty.

Then, clearly himself a person experiencing depression (due partly to his wife tasking him with a too-actionable ask) Macbeth announces that it's time to “out out” all kinds of societal bad actors, plus the brief green-battery low-energy flashlight that lights his way to death. In an obvious fit of post traumatic stress disorder he concludes that “on the coming event-horizon (in fact, three of them) our brief green-battery flashlight will go out-out, and every poor click-baiting content-providing social media influencer too will strut but an hour of performativity upon the platform, and then be blocked".

At this the curtain falls, upon sincere pre-emptive apologies from the cast to whomever might have been offended by their speech.

The Misanthropy Sector

Funding isn't evenly distributed across the philanthropy sector, claim philanthropy spokespeople. Of course not -- it isn't even a single sector. To fund any one organization within it is to anti-fund another, for they have conflicting aims. Aims change depending on which way the attitudinal winds are blowing: whether funding is taxpayer-based or private donation-based, it all depends on the dominant and competing social prejudices of the moment.

Whatever the "philanthropy sector" is doing, it has a twin, a hidden opposite doing the opposite. Look at the word "philanthropy": love of mankind. Some people don't love mankind; they prefer other species. The bumper-sticker is not  joking which says, "the more time I spend with people the more I prefer my cat". Or someone might secretly agree with the satirical tongue-in-cheek observation of a certain poet: "We are here to help others -- but why are the others here?"

There is, then, a philanthropy sector and a misanthropy sector (a loving-mankind ideal and a hating-mankind honesty). And this is not even mentioning the powerful misogyny sector. Many groups' aims are objectionable to other groups. Humanity itself is objectionable, most of the time. How so, you ask? 

Humans are

-- argumentatively unpleasantly combative  

-- they take up too much space (eight billion on this one planet?)

-- they create huge paved conurbations, destroy landscape, cut down trees, fill the ocean with evil inventions like plastic 

-- they bury other creatures' habitat under toxic cast-off wastes

-- they are noisy (who else would invent helicopters, chainsaws and leaf blowers?)

-- they are nosey, prone to spying on and stalking each other, and inventing mindless entertainment shows inviting others to watch them doing it

-- although noisy, they tell people with other opinions to shut up; many like censorship (and really love de-platforming)

-- they're okay with torture too, being cruel to other animals -- eating, trapping, hunting and performing savage laboratory experiments on them

-- their population doubled since 1970, while wild animal numbers declined by 68%

-- they're always asking others for money through charities and foundations

Clearly then, the "philanthropy sector" is a sector at war with itself, some parts being for free speech, others against it, some for hyper-urban growth, others for nature conservation, some for animal rights, others for animal-harming ethnic traditions, some for equality, others discriminating against "colonials".

Many people, even when feeling they should donate to a charity, are actually closet misanthropists. And that's quite apart from those misogynists …  

At the Pet Shop

Here we are at the pet shop, in the parrot section:

 

Customer: Do they talk?

Manager: Some do, some don't ...

Customer:  I want to hear one speak. How about his one? 

Customer to parrot: Polly wanna platform?

Parrot:  Feathered Lives Matter.

Customer:  Of course they do, Parrot.

Parrot:  Polly "takes a deep dive". Do you feel safe?

Customer:  I beg your pardon?

Parrot:  Do you feel safe?

Customer:  Uh … sure. Does Polly feel safe?

Parrot:  Polly's thirsty.

Customer:  Ah! Polly wanna drink?

Parrot:  Yes, something medium dry, with musky undertones and a fruity finish, please.

Customer:  What am I, the bartender? Polly's a bold old bird …

Parrot:  My name's not actually Polly. That's a girly name.

Customer:  Sorry. 

Parrot:  Misgendering Is Violence.

Customer:  Aren't they the clever parrot then. … Now what are they doing, Parrot?

Parrot:  Reversing their position on the perch.It's Re-versity For Di-versity. I'm pivoting. 

Customer:  Oh.

Parrot:  I'm changing the positionality of my performativity to make it more escalatory.

Customer:  Of course. But why do you keep hopping up and down -- it looks exhausting.

Parrot:  We're doing our Formal Air Acknowledgement.

Customer: You seem so human. 

Parrot:  We're not a human. Mis-speciesing Is Violence.

Customer:  Well you sure parrot like a human. 

Parrot:  Just "reaching out".

Customer:  Shall I reach in?

Manager to Customer:  Hey! Don't open that cage! If you stick your hand in there he'll peck you.

Customer:  Me? But we're friends. Allies. We've bonded.

Manager:  Yeah? So, you wanna buy a parrot? 

Customer:  No thanks.

Manager:  Because it doesn't talk enough? Maybe that one doesn't, but they can learn, you can compel their speech if you work at it. 

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Strutting and Fretting on the BC Law Society's Stage ("compelled pronoun usage")

(See  https://vancouversun.com/opinion/columnists/ian-mulgrew-b-c-lawyers-wont-debate-courts-new-pronouns-policy-as-hateful-resolution-fails )

Two resolutions have been presented at the Law Society of BC: one to force use of "gender inclusive" language in court, and another which alleges that this would endanger free speech and silence politically incorrect views. That's an attack on the equality of non-binary people, was the hyperbolic retort to that allegation. All this turns the courts of B.C. into "politically correct theatre", charge the supporters of Resolution number 2. 

No! Really? Law courts theatrical? They certainly provide comedy at times.

Courts of law have of course always been theatrical, filled with costumed actors playing strict roles, delivering grand soliloquy or clown-speak, strutting and fretting their hour on the stage and trying on different masks, like the defendant cited in the BC Law Society's showdown who has "already changed gender once during their case and they’re still at the bail segment". (see Vancouver Sun, above)

Of course this drama wasn't created by the Law Society, it was imported from the wider culture, where many folks remain bemused about whatever "misgendering non-binary people" through pronouns might mean. 

Many of us are just pro-noun. Here's a good noun: "farce". It means a type of drama designed "to excite laughter," and also means "an absurdly futile proceeding". No doubt we've only seen Act One of the Law Society Misgendering Comedy, and many characters still wait in the wings, still intending to demand their pound of flesh.

For more on "compelled pronoun usage", see https://quillette.com/2021/10/08/weekly-roundup-and-the-harassment-of-dorian-abbott-and-kathleen-stock/

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City Life -- What do we want in a next door neighbour?

The Ideal Neighbour

-- never whistles

-- has a dog who doesn't bark

-- has a cute kid or two who wave over the fence but never shriek 

-- grows foliage in his garden 

-- has no surveillance cameras 

-- doesn't put an officious Neighbourhood Watch sign in the window 

-- keeps to himself which lives he thinks matter

-- doesn't put election signs on the lawn

-- waters the lawn

-- hates loud music

-- thinks "hip-hop" is what robins do on the lawn after he waters it

-- possesses no leaf blower, chainsaw or drill

-- has a good high hedge

-- doesn't keep saying we should get together

-- doesn't move away

-- continues never to whistle