To thine own self be true

“We all have expiry dates. Some of us will die today, some tomorrow. Some next month, some 15 years from now. No one gets out alive.”

We should never kid ourselves or dwell in ignorant bliss. Especially at Christmas as we remember all the dead who are no longer in our lives. If I were to recommend one story for Christmas reading, it would be James Joyce’s “The Dead” from The Dubliners.

(Above pic: The excellent 1987 John Huston adaptation of Joyce’s classic story–his last movie, starring his daughter. Make certain you see the 83 minute version from Amazon, not the 73 minute version.)

12 years late, but better late than never. Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth remains a basic must-see for anyone who wants to know more about what is and has been happening to the Earth via climate change.

The movie is based on his famous travelling slideshow and his personal travels to far-flung areas of the planet to get a better idea of what has been happening re. global warming. It is punchy and fact-based, with many impressive charts, stats, footage, and stills. It reveals, even today, how, under Trump, the U.S. has backed away from the hard truths of Gore’s messages.

Most in danger are the coastal cities, which has been borne out since 2006 when this documentary was made. People living in those areas should be very nervous, especially when you think of millions being displaced. Lately, with the hurricanes, we have been witnessing a foreshadowing of hos bad it is going to get for these places.
Given the Bush ignorance on climate science vs. gold bars (one of the funnier, absurd moments) shown in this film, the trade-offs are spelled out pretty clearly as to what American and Western priorities typically are.

An Inconvenient Truth is basic informative eco info and quite convincing. Certainly anyone looking to reduce their carbon footprint or wanting to save the planet should check this movie out. It speaks loudly for itself as a significant A/V tool and basic on the road to Earth’s salvation and recovery. Two thumbs way up.

If you can’t make it to Stonehenge today, remember to toss a Yule log on the fire to ensure new year’s light.

1. Treating others as a means to an end, rather than as ends in themselves.

2. Not thinking at all. (U.S. labor data shows that 83% of Americans don’t spend any part of their days just thinking.– Bloomberg, July 5, 2014.

“Most of one’s life is a prolonged effort to avoid thinking.”–Aldous Huxley, “Green Tunnels”

Worth thinking about amidst the Xmas and workplace frenzy.

In deep November there is disbelief
A loss of faith that winter, not yet here,
Will go about its business and be brief.
Instead the season generates a fear
That winter, once in place will stay that way
Forever–cold and bleak, cheerless and stark–
As icy blasts relentlessly hold sway,
Consigning us forever to the dark.
But then December comes along, and lo!
What lights are these that sparkle, clear and bright?
Instead of darkness, there’s a happy glow
Of red and green that glistens through the night,
And where we feared that coldness might prevail
The warmth of love tells quite a different tale!

–R. Glenn Martin

…………………………………………….

Glenn was my ED Curriculum and Instruction ( i.e., how to teach English) prof at U of A in 1971-2 A.D. He published my first articles in Alberta English, notably one on Canadian literature. Glenn was a generally genial gentleman and a long-time friend. He was a Harvard grad and took a class with Robert Frost who encouraged the students to write poetry. (Frost sent him a Christmas card.) Glenn and I shared a great love of poetry and we often talked of Emily Dickinson. In his last good year, I escorted him to the Edmonton Symphony and we dined out each time. The last time I saw him in hospital, he was happily in his own world, but sort of recognized me and whistled (quite accurately) the melody of a Beethoven piece. (His favorite composer on whom he lectured via a U of Ex Extension class.) It was my honour to read the eulogy at his funeral. He was a brilliant, witty, kind man who talked me into staying in my first/junior high student teaching round when I wanted to quit. After that, I was the only one who ever sent him a Xmas card every year, something he noted and appreciated. One of my literary heroes and major influences, remembered this winter morn.

Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales, experienced on Christmas eve or Christmas Day. Dylan Thomas Reading was the first album Thomas recorded for the two women who founded Caedmon Records; this was the label’s first release in 1952. The special blue booklet of woodcut illustrations by Ellen Raskin (New Directions) was long a Christmas staple, too. Later came the excellent 1988 movie adaptation (Hen’s Tooth/Alliance) of the story. All are highly recommended reading, listening, and viewing.

He slid down the
Sunday hill below
his home in Vermont.

In a distant church
an organ proclaimed
it was Christmas.

The boy walked onward
with his sled,
blown by the wind.

The pews were half-full
as a choir entered
two-by-two.

Snow began to fall
upon the desolate field.
The boy kept his season alone.

Eternity was white
on the steeple spire
as “The Carol of the Bells” began.

A boy saw his shadow
on the snow, the sun low
near the horizon.

The thick flakes
and his cold trek
had become A Question.

“Silent Night” began
and the choir lit
its candles

as the boy rushed
up the steps outside
to a tall open oak door.

He entered with his boots,
scarf and tuque,
moving slowly up the aisle.

An old man at the back
of the church turned
to greet the boy

and held out a candle
to light the one
he offered him.

A girl in a black velvet dress
played her violin as the hymn
burned brighter now.

And afterward, across the field
boy and man walked as one
in the fading winter light.

The steeple bell pealed
softly behind them as they
climbed the hill for home.

I was five-years-old. We were living a year with my father’s mother in a big old house on Thompson Drive, then in the outskirts of St. James with only Kirkfield Park west of us. My grandmother always had men rooming with her and one of them, Matt, a large gruff man, was very ill and somewhat angry about having me around the house. My parents were working in the day then and I was probably getting underfoot so my grandmother sent me outside to play on a cold windy day on the snow-covered garden plot beside the house (I presume she didn’t want me to wander off).

I may have had a sled, but mostly was digging about in the drifts. She would call me in later for Howdy Doody, a ’50s tv program for kids in the late afternoon. Anyway, as I tried to play in the snow, I imaginatively transferred Matt’s condition to myself there outside and pondered what it might be like to die. I finally decided that it would be better to die in the house watching Howdy Doody, and then my grandmother called me in.

Just a few moments ago, this afternoon almost 60 years later, lying on the couch in the darkened living room, the big tree ablaze with glorious lights and decorations, listening to the holy-voiced English choirs of the Christmas 101 CD, singing carols and other seasonal music I had not heard for many a year, thinking ‘Yes, this would be a fine way to go. I could not imagine a better exit at Christmas time.’ Until I remembered a five year-old-boy playing by himself for what seemed like hours, imagining a better, more perfect finale–while watching Howdy Doody.