O Cohen, My Cohen!

   This past week, Leonard Cohen passed away.
   I knew, of course, that this was eventually going to happen and I also knew, deep inside, that this was possibly imminent. Leonard himself, reflecting on the recent death of his longtime muse and love, Marianne Ihlen, seemed aware that he soon would be joining her. As much as I was intellectually prepared for this event, emotionally it was still a numbing moment.
   The world responded quickly, as it invariable does these days, and much was written about the poet and singer's legacy. Many tributes and much reminiscing occurred and his name has now been added to the seemingly endless list of musical icons who have passed away in this sad year.
   If you know me well, then you know how important Leonard Cohen was to me. My love for the man's writing and music grew out of the crucible of teenage hormonal angst we almost all found ourselves dealing with at that age. For me, this occurred back in the late sixties.
   I was not depressed or suicidal or filled with undue anxiety at the time but I did find myself torn in many directions and wanting desperately to be a man of the world when, in fact, I wasn't even a man of the subdivision. Finding my way with the girls was a constant state of struggle and rejection (or at least what felt like rejection) was the constant hidden jungle trap. On top of everything else, as much as I wasn't dealing with suicidal depression, someone else in my family was.
    So it was during this part of my life that I discovered Leonard Cohen.
   I was as prone to listening to the music of the day as anyone else was and there was a steady stream of Beatles, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin and The Doors engaging me on a daily basis. I liked it all, for sure, but then I heard Cohen's "Suzanne" for the first time.

   I had never heard anything like it before. The voice, the lyrics...they were like nothing else playing on the radio those days and I was drawn to them like no other. 
   Part of the attraction was Cohen's imperfect voice. There were no histrionics employed and the monotone he effected made it seem as though he was just one of us, one of the strugglers in the world who was trying to figure things out the same way we all were. As much as anything, though,  it was the lyrics which stood out. He talked about mysticism and sexuality and Jesus, for Christ's sake, all in the same song! The intimate nature of the music made it easy to feel as though it was only directed at me, and not the surrounding, acne-riddled masses.
   As soon as I was able, I bought the album "Songs of Leonard Cohen", playing it over and over. My parents were somewhat aghast that I would so readily immerse myself in what they saw as nothing more than monotonous melancholia. I, myself, was unable to adequately explain the attraction---apart from the fact that all teenagers seem to be  drawn to what their parents aren't.
   My love of Cohen wasn't easily shared. It probably didn't help that "Suzanne", partly because of its Canadian roots,  soon became part of the high school English curriculum. We studied it, for goodness' sake. Picked it apart. This was not an exercise most of my peers particularly enjoyed and the fact that I actually doted on Cohen never scored me any points on the popularity scale.
   On the wall in my bedroom, the posterised Cohen soon appeared. On another part of the wall, mounted like a shield, hung the cracked and broken top of a plastic birdbath. This birdbath and I had had a run-in in a neighbour's backyard and its jagged edge had made my leg bleed profusely. With my neighbour's blessing, I retrieved it, detached the top, and positioned it in a place of honour above my bed. Not far from this, I had also mounted a chunk of 2x8. Attached to this piece of wood was were samples of the same wires and staples that morticians use to ensure their clients' mouths stay firmly closed after death. An undertaker had once come to my public school as part of a "careers" presentation and had demonstrated their use. Afterward, I rather boldly asked him if he had any further use for this piece of wood. He did not and it came home with me. This then was the room to which I retreated to listen to Cohen in the dark, for hours. Very little wonder that my parents feared for me.
   The feeling that I had at the time, though, was that listening to Leonard Cohen was somehow or other saving me. It was almost as if the angst and confusion were being shared and, in the sharing, dissipated. It was not actually therapy but sort of was.
   I bought all of Cohen's early albums and soon along came "Songs of Love and Hate". I still consider this to be Cohen's masterpiece. I so clearly remember lying there in the dark, with headphones on, listening to "Dress Rehearsal Rag", an epic-length song from that album. Essentially it is a

contemplation of regret and loss in which suicidal images are very prevalent. It was easy to identify with the protagonist and feel, similarly to a good movie, that you were right there living his life with him. Then, just when you think it's possible he might actually end it all, suddenly "the cameras pan, the stand in stunt man, dress rehearsal rag, it's just the dress rehearsal rag." To me, this seemed like some form of redemption, that you could be depressed and contemplating ending it all (possibly even practising) but that, in the end, it perhaps was just as acceptable to carry on.
   As an adolescent, then, I let Cohen share the dark with me. As an older man, I allowed Leonard Cohen to age right in front (and only somewhat ahead) of me--sharing his joy, bewilderment, anger, longing and passion right up to the end.  The fact that he could still get the women as he aged also couldn't help but endear him to me

                                                   I knew that he would be gone some day and wondered how this would affect me. Of course, I have been able to share him with many over the past week or so, thanks to the world we live in these days. In an age of instant gratification and lightning-swift communication, though, I was bemused to discover that Leonard Cohen had actually passed a full three days before the world found out about it. This, and that fact that he was buried in a simple pine box next to his parents, helped to add  a little  perspective to the self-deprecatory man he always was.
   A very complex and simple man. 
   
      
    

   

Say Hello To "Hello Goodbye"

      I rarely blog about T.V. programming--generally there is very little out there I find remarkable. Which is not to say there aren't a handful of good shows we watch regularly but most of those I'm pretty sure you're already familiar with.

   Today, however, I wanted to mention a new show on CBC, one of Canada's T.V. networks. It is currently one of our favourites.

   It's called "Hello Goodbye" and stars a gentleman named Dale Curd. The premise is almost excruciatingly simple--Dale visits Canada's busiest airport, Toronto's Pearson International, and randomly interviews people who are there either waiting for loved ones to show up or seeing them off.

   As simple as this sounds, the results are always astoundingly poignant.

   Dale begins each interview (as the people are standing there waiting) by asking them who they are waiting for and why. Through a series of questions he then goes on to investigate the intricacy of their relationship with that person. The stories are never that dissimilar from our own but he has the ability to illuminate them through his questions.

   You have a mother, waiting to see the husband and daughter she hadn't seen in ten years. There is an elderly British woman, waiting to see the sister she hasn't seen in twenty years. A pregnant same-sex couple, waiting for a sister to arrive for a baby shower. Those are some of the "hellos".

   On the "goodbye" side, there is a nun who is leaving all her friends in Canada to serve in a third world country, knowing there is very little likelihood she'll ever be able to return. A man and his two young sons who are embarking on a year-long tour of the world, to honour their deceased mother's memory.

   The shows have themes, such as "Wish You Were Here", "Hard Choices" and "Honour The Past". All of the themes essentially explore the nature of human relationships and the different ways we are important to each other. Many times people are asked how their loved one has changed their lives. All of their answers make you stop and ask yourself some of the same questions. It is almost impossible to sit through an episode and not be reduced to tears, be forewarned.

   

Dale Curd

Coincidentally, Dale Curd was one of the co-hosts of the last T.V. show I recommended in this forum---"Life Story Project". You can read that post here. That show was similar in that Dale and Andrea Syrtash found ordinary people out there and were then able to bring out a wide variety of amazing stories. "Hello Goodbye" accomplishes something very similar.

   When he is done interviewing people, Dale parts company and the film crew there with him then hangs around and either films the arrival of the loved one or their departure. As the interview is going on, snippets of many of the other travelers in the airport are shown, as they greet each other. The music throughout this is also amazing.

   "Hello Goodbye" serves as a reminder of all our common bonds. This past year, I had the occasion to be at Pearson International four separate times---dropping off and picking up both my son and my wife and mother-in-law as they headed out on and then returned from world travels. Had any one stopped and asked us pointed questions as to why we were there and how had our loved ones affected us, I can only imagine a similar tearful response. The show is really about all of us, so take a boo and remember the kleenex! 

   

The Deconverted Mr. Ripley

     This year, for Christmas, I received a copy of the book "Life Beyond Belief: A Preacher's Deconversion".
   It was written by a gentleman named Bob Ripley who, for the last 30 years, has been an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada. Fifteen of those years were spent as the senior minister at Metropolitan United Church, one of the most prominent United churches in Canada, here in London, Ontario. For 25 years, he has also been a syndicated columnist, writing weekly about religion and spiritual matters.
   I have read his column in the London Free Press off and on over the years and always found them to be informative, entertaining and easy to read. For those many years his readers knew him as "Rev. Bob Ripley". Then things changed.
   I was reading his column a few weeks ago and noticed that there was no longer a "Rev." in front of his name. This struck me as being strange but I kind of passed it off. Then, shortly thereafter, I read an article about him in the Free Press and discovered that he had renounced his faith and become an atheist.
   My reaction to this was not hmm, that's kind of interesting, it was more like woo hoo, that's cool!
   I am an atheist myself and find I am drawn to people who either believe in deities strongly or, conversely, don't believe in them at all. My question for either group always seems to be why?
   In Bob Ripley's case, I found it fascinating that a person who for all appearances had been living and breathing Christianity these many years had seemingly suddenly just...changed his mind!

   At the same time I discovered that Rev. Bob Ripley was now just plain old Bob Ripley, I also found out that he had written a book describing in some detail the lengthy and difficult (as you can imagine) process he'd undergone in coming to the realization that there is no God. This, then, the book I requested for Christmas (the irony is not lost on me) and this, then, the book I received!
   A lifetime spent studying theology and spiritual matters has made Ripley a knowledgeable man, not only in regard to Christianity but also most of the other major religions. Throughout the book, he will often draw comparisons between the religions.
   What he ends up describing, as he writes, was the slow and steady realization he came to that the things we are being asked to believe in the writings and teachings of the major religions (most notably, in this case, the Bible) are simply things which make little sense. We are asked to believe things that could not have happened and we are asked to believe things which modern day science has disproved. He also takes great pains to point out, with quotes, the discrepancies between the different Gospels in the Bible as to what happened when, where and how. After awhile, it became quite apparent that the Bible was very much a man-made thing and maybe not so much the word of God.
   He also points to his increasing interest, as an adult, in the scientific world as one of the things which started guiding him to his deconversion. Faced with the ever-increasing things we find out almost daily about the universe, it was impossible for him to reconcile his religious beliefs with what he knew to be actual fact.
   More than anything, he became a man who was distressed with what he saw as groups of people who had, from ancient time times up to the present, used religion as a reason for inflicting suffering upon other groups of people. He quotes passages from the Bible and other religious tomes which call for the destruction of enemies and non-believers. He goes on to provide historical examples of religion being invoked solely to justify greed and power-mongering.
   As I read, I personally found myself feeling more justified and reassured in my own beliefs. In terms of religion I am nothing more than a layperson in my understanding of things. Here then, in black and white, was a man who knew what he was talking about and had come to many of the same conclusions I had!
   As you might have guessed, Bob Ripley has lost some friends. New friends, however, have been made. He also says there are aspects of the Church he misses, such as the music and the fellowship. I can only imagine the inner turmoil the man must have been going through, to think about the thousands he ministered to or counselled, the weddings he performed and the funerals he officiated over all in the guise of being a man of God and then to feel it necessary to renounce all that.
   He relates that one of his former parishioners talked to him after he proclaimed himself an atheist and thanked him for having helped her through a difficult time. Sometimes words of support do the trick, regardless of whether there's divine inspiration for them or not!
   Bob continues to write his column and if you're interested in reading the particular column he wrote about his life-altering decision, you can read it here. As I mentioned before, I enjoyed reading his work when he was still an ordained minister. At the same time, I viewed him as a Christian writing about principally Christian things and, being an atheist, there was always at least a subliminal grain of doubt nestled there in my brain. Now, he has erased whatever small misgivings I might have had and there is a somewhat more welcoming and comfortable space for him.
   I read "Life Beyond Belief" in two days, interspersed with much holiday goings-on. It is obviously a thought-provoking read. On the back cover, one of the book's reviewers, Rev. Dr. Daniel Meester of the Old First Reformed Church in Brooklyn, NY declares, "If you're a Christian, you should take this book seriously, and if you're not...you'll find companionship." I would echo that.
   A humourous note. On Christmas Day, my wife, Doralyn and I were in the kitchen, working on dinner prep. My mother-in-law was in the livingroom and had picked up and was perusing my new copy of Ripley's book. She called out to us and made a reference to "Ripley". Doralyn didn't quite hear her and asked me what she'd said. I told her the reference had been to the Bob Ripley book. Doralyn said, "Oh..I thought she was talking about Ripley's Believe It Or Not..." At which point I replied, "Apparently he doesn't!"   
   
   

"Neanderings" Turns Three!

    Earlier on in December, "Neanderings" turned three.
   This kind of blew me away, as some anniversaries are prone to do, simply because you tend to lose track of time and then forget that you have been doing one thing or another for as long as you actually have been.

   At the same time, there have been a couple of other blogging anniversaries to celebrate--Year One for "Strides", my running blog, and 10,000 page views for "Neanderings"--so I've kind of lost track a little of the "housekeeping" end of things.
   So, Year Three is in the books.
    As I usually do, I went back and took a bit of a look at what I'd been up to in "Neanderings" in the past year.
   There were no trends. Apart from a series of blog posts devoted to a brief Efudex treatment I found myself undergoing at one point, I was all over the place with my randomness.
   I wrote a little bit about crime (The Last Thing I Wanted To Write About, Dead building, and Boston), a little bit about the blogging experience itself (Be Careful What You Say, Where The Heck Have I Been, and I Am A Blasphemer) and a little bit about the aging process (Turning Sixty, Cranky Old Man).
   A couple of times I got into a bit of a silly mood (Apple, Halves and Important Stuff You Need To Know) and occasionally I wanted to touch on relationships (Carving, This Christmas, I Am Woman, Reunion and Autistic Boy Meets Damaged Woman).
   Apart from these, there were a whole host of totally random topics touched on, with titles like "Jesus, God and Facebook", "Coffee", "Hypocrisy", "Kika In The Bar", "I Am Unfriended" and "Would anyone like to sit on the purple couch?" I love random!
   Toward the latter part of the year, I also extended my blog audience to include Google+ and Twitter along with the ever-trustworthy Facebook. What this meant was that all of the sudden much of the "Neanderings" audience started coming from the States, whereas before it was primarily Canadian people reading. A larger audience also meant that I received my first little bit of anonymous criticism--another blogger described a blog post from last year as "pure blasphemy" and indicated that I would surely be punished. It was a small blip, however, and still good to know that people were reading!
   It's been a pretty good year and I intend to keep writing as much as I possibly can, regardless of who and how many might be stopping by from time to time.
   If you are a faithful reader, I thank you greatly! Some of you are new and some of you have been visiting since the beginning. Here's hoping we can get together many more times in the future!
   Cheers!

Cursive, Foiled Again!

   Back toward the end of summer, I found myself writing a couple of short little notes in birthday cards for a couple of my stepsons, Keenan and Callum.

If you've never seen it, this is what it looks like!

   I have been writing salutations in birthday cards, letters to people, notes to friends and family, exams, prose, poetry, and daily recording for over half a century now. When I have done this, I have a used a form of cursive writing that was very legible, neat and pleasing to the eye. In fact, I have received high praise from anyone who has had the pleasure of viewing it. 

   So it took me greatly by surprise, then, when I realized that neither of these two young men were actually able to decipher the messages I'd written in their birthday cards. They are both extremely intelligent lads but I might just as well have been writing in Sanskrit, for all they knew.
    Cursive writing is fading away as a viable means of communication. In this day of texting, e-mails and instant messaging, the need to actually hand write a note is almost non-existent. It also seems as though the handwriting you do run into is becoming more and more illegible all the time.
   I learned to write cursive in public school and I remember spending whole periods where we'd study the alphabet on display above the blackboard and attempt to copy it to a t--and a and b and so on--until our versions were almost identical to the ones we were trying to emulate.
   I've always had the ability to closely copy whatever was placed on paper in front of me and this was a skill which greatly came in handy when it came to cursive writing. I never was flowery and never really embellished my penmanship--I copied what I saw and it has held me in good stead ever since.
    These days, it also seems to be getting tougher to read other people's cursive writing and the younger the person is, the more difficult it seems. Written communication has almost become a printing/cursive hybrid anymore. We occasionally have staff meetings at my place of employment and someone needs to take the minutes. These are always handwritten and it's kind of funny looking around the table trying to find someone whose handwriting will be legible enough to transcribe later on!
   Not only do I do cursive wonderfully but I took four years of Latin in high school. Yes, I am a dinosaur. Not only can I write something you can't read I can tell you the ancient origin of it you won't care about!
   There could (will) be a day when we will need to pass around handwritten notes, because that will be the only option for communication. The ones of us who can still write cursive will be there, writing implements in hand, ready to rule the world.
   So, birthday number three rolled around, Quin's, and when the time came to inscribe something on his card, I had sadly learned my lesson---I printed.