We’ll have been in this house for nine years soon, and I’ve lived in Toronto for almost nineteen, quite a bit longer than anywhere else. How many meals have I eaten in all these years? How many sunrises and sunsets have I actually watched. How many circuits off to work and back again? How interesting that some things seem old and routine the third or fourth time you do them, while others are never so. And when I think about what surprises me about my circular journeying through life, what stands out is that there is still so very much that eludes my understanding, particularly when it comes to figuring out the ways of my fellow human beings.
I didn’t want any hoopla on this day. I resisted Ponczka’s efforts to organize a party or dinner. I felt – this year anyway – that I’ve have enough of those. The treat I wanted was to have a pass on housework (plenty of that too – why does stuff just keep getting dirty again) and to relax through the weekend.
I watched quite a bit of tv. There were some college hoops on. There was coverage of the NDP leadership race. And I watched Tiger Woods win his first PGA tournament in a couple of years. A friend had convinced me to give the series "The Walking Dead" a try, and I watched the first three episodes on Netflix. Not bad. It was the promise of all the social issues addressed, rather than the zombies, that attracted me. And yes, I can see that the show creates a fertile field for playing out all sorts of social dilemmas and quagmires.
The weekend also held the suspense of wondering whether my union – CUPE 79, representing City Workers – would be going on strike, or alternately, be locked out by the city. I confess to almost total ignorance as to the issues. Where it comes to my job, my concerns of late have much to do with the role I play in my clients’ lives, and how I go about fulfilling that, and the degree to which I fail or succeed in making anything better for them. And, right along with that, is concern about how doing this work does or does not help me fulfill the expectations I have of myself, in terms of how I’d like the script of my life to read, and in terms of the flavors I hope to be lingering when this life ends. Key on both counts are the inevitably dwindling resources of energy and time, and the challenge of using them well.
A great part of the weekend was an informal party that had nothing to do with my b-day. We had our Spring meeting at the boat club to talk about the launch, and getting ready for it. And the gathering that followed turned into quite the jam session. Penti - a reknowned drummer for the likes of Lou Reed and Alice Cooper - had a bunch of his musician friends set up shop and it was amazing. I brought my alto sax along and got to jam with folks who are so much better than me that there’s no basis of comparison. The generosity of musicians never ceases to amaze me. They welcomed my out-of-key squawks with smiles and encouragement, never letting up on their own inspired play. I got to play with another sax man – a tenor – for the first time ever, and learned a couple of things just from hanging around.
The following generalization fails, as all must, and possibly insults, so I apologize, but it strikes me that while visual artists tend to be very interesting folks, and we writers are disproportionately pretty weird, musicians, in my opinion, are by far the most fun. And last night definitely underscored that.
So, on the verge of starting another work week – if there’s no strike – I felt the desire to post some thoughts, disjointed as they may be. It was a good day, a good weekend. Lap 59 begins and I am beyond content.