I am about as sentimental as they come. The older I get, the more easily I shudder and sob – especially in movies, or at concerts where my insides coalesce into goo when I listen to “L’Apres midi D’un Faun.”
So I was sitting watching the highly entertaining, superbly acted, beautifully scripted (thanks to Nora Ephron who can squeeze tears out of a turnip) Julie and Julia.
Julie is a failed writer who works on the phones answering grief-stricken callers following the 9/11 disaster. She decides to write a blog about cooking all of the recipes in Julia Child’s “The Art of French Cooking.”
This is not a critique of the film. I leave that to others. I was, for me, and perhaps for thousands of other bloggers, an event to share. She (Julie) wonders if anyone is reading her blog. She goes to it daily, proceeding with her thoughts as she cooked the Julia Child’s recipes. Perhaps that’s what I’m missing: daily.
I find myself forgetting that I have things to say that are being left unsaid. I will never find myself a faithful reader group unless I start to arrive daily with my thoughts. From time to time I appear on Mark’s Musings, where he never lets a day go by without two items to provoke response. Julie did it too. She did not let a day go by. She built an audience.
I used to have one because I showed up every day and yelled or teased, or grated, or laughed – at the world around us. People phoned.
Now they don’t even bother to write.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF....
Toronto’s wonderful “who goes when” traffic signal system requires a little patience. It has several different modes: one for streetcars (or as we like to call them – Light Rail Transit LRT) have their own light, through traffic has its turn, and then there is one for the left-turners. There is not however, one for pedestrians, who sometimes have to battle impatient drivers for the right to cross. But in Toronto, where the streets are “pedestrian-friendly” cars give way to walkers. Even though the walkers often stroll maddeningly across while one taps fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, they are still; privileged.
All this explanation leads to one special road-crossing, angry, probably mentally unstable man pushing a shopping cart in the special way that the homeless have. He was crossing on a green light, but because of his snail-like pace, the light changed, permitting left-turners to proceed. He trudged bravely and agonizingly slowly across. Glaring at waiting cars (one of whom, may have appeared to be impatient) he administered the “finger” and continued crawling. The arrow permitting a left turn changed to red. The angry man was however, not finished with the motorists. He turned what he could of his lean and careworn body to the stranded left-turn cars and gave them a full-front masturbatory pantomime. No one honked. No one yelled. A destitute street person made it across.
I have a few questions. Where was he going anyway? What was better on the other side of the street? But more than that, the slightly guilty feeling of sitting in a well, air-conditioned car, while a piece of social debris from our presumably caring society, inched across the road. What, if anything, can we do about the wreckage we have helped create? What can we do to restore some order in the lives of the totally dislocated, often schizophrenic non-members of our society?
We all should remember that in both Canada and the U.S. there was a major move to empty mental institutions and, in the words of the politicians – from Ronald Reagan, to Mike Harris, “put them into the community where they can be cared for.” In both countries we moved them out, but not into new community facilities. Those facilities did not and still do not exist. I remember when CUPE railed against the move and all the union-bashers were claiming that CUPE members only wanted to cling to their jobs.
Here we are many years later, and we still struggle with horded of sidewalk-sleepers, panhandlers, and the general flotsam of an uncaring society.
I have no solution. All I would hope as that we do not treat these poor souls as outcasts and even outlaws. We haven’t found the time to care.
All this explanation leads to one special road-crossing, angry, probably mentally unstable man pushing a shopping cart in the special way that the homeless have. He was crossing on a green light, but because of his snail-like pace, the light changed, permitting left-turners to proceed. He trudged bravely and agonizingly slowly across. Glaring at waiting cars (one of whom, may have appeared to be impatient) he administered the “finger” and continued crawling. The arrow permitting a left turn changed to red. The angry man was however, not finished with the motorists. He turned what he could of his lean and careworn body to the stranded left-turn cars and gave them a full-front masturbatory pantomime. No one honked. No one yelled. A destitute street person made it across.
I have a few questions. Where was he going anyway? What was better on the other side of the street? But more than that, the slightly guilty feeling of sitting in a well, air-conditioned car, while a piece of social debris from our presumably caring society, inched across the road. What, if anything, can we do about the wreckage we have helped create? What can we do to restore some order in the lives of the totally dislocated, often schizophrenic non-members of our society?
We all should remember that in both Canada and the U.S. there was a major move to empty mental institutions and, in the words of the politicians – from Ronald Reagan, to Mike Harris, “put them into the community where they can be cared for.” In both countries we moved them out, but not into new community facilities. Those facilities did not and still do not exist. I remember when CUPE railed against the move and all the union-bashers were claiming that CUPE members only wanted to cling to their jobs.
Here we are many years later, and we still struggle with horded of sidewalk-sleepers, panhandlers, and the general flotsam of an uncaring society.
I have no solution. All I would hope as that we do not treat these poor souls as outcasts and even outlaws. We haven’t found the time to care.
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