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You Don't Act Like a Canadian

7/6/2026

Some years ago, an El Salvadorian student walked into my office and said, “You don’t act like a Canadian.”

“Who do I act like?” I asked.

“Us.”

I then asked her to tell me how she thinks Canadians act. I can’t remember her response, and I’m sure that many Canadians aren’t the way she described.

An Indigenous woman told me that she didn’t think of me as White but one of them.

A theology student from Pakistan said that I acted more like the people he knew in Pakistan.

And you know, I saw these comments as compliments. People who don’t act or appear normal are often easier for me to talk to because they don’t seem so restrained. It’s as if they have less need to control what they say or how they say it. And I don’t feel as if I’m being negatively judged when I let loose with my verbiage.

I have been told that I don’t have much of a filter. That’s probably true, some of the time.

A linguistic expert who without my knowledge, was asked to listen to me speak. So she did, and then told the person who asked her to spy on me, that my speech patterns were all over the place.

I’m sure that there is a name for any behaviour that doesn’t fit into a socially accepted mold. A desiccated description of my behaviour is probably buried deep inside some shrink’s thick book.

What worries me is that this huge psychiatric compendium of behavioural abnormalities, is growing and growing. I’m afraid that some day, there will be more people whose behaviour is to be found in the book than those whose behaviour isn’t to be found in the book.

Angry Goose

So, why am I even bothering writing about this?

Well, a few days ago, I was walking towards the door of a store. A vehicle pulled up next to me. The driver honked and then jumped out. I knew her, but not very well. She was an Indigenous woman. She excitedly began to tell me what she was doing there and other things and it was the kind of verbal and demonstrative behaviour that I am well equipped to respond to in a natural way. And, I didn’t feel the need to over-think what I’d said after this encounter. It felt real.

Time Machine

I then went into the store. I saw a person who I know, but not very well. I’m sure that she is a respected and respectable citizen. She looked at me, but didn’t say anything. So I gave a half wave and then said, “hi.” She gave me a half hello.

Corney Brook Rock Face

I felt slightly deflated, a tad irritated and a wee bit mystified.

I’m thankful that I live in Cape Breton where I’m surrounded by beauty, many friendly people, Indigenous communities and the ocean.

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Incantations and Imagination

23/4/2026

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Dee-doo.

Sure I’m crazy
But it ain’t easy.
Theodore Roethke, Straw For the Fire

One of the problems with my getting older is that people know that I’m getting older.

“I cursed my being visible.”
Theodore Roethke, The Loveless Provinces

One remedy for my senior-ship situation is my incantations. This blog may be an incantation.

Maybe, speaking these little words, might change the societal schemata that I’m living in. They will magically push me into another cultural reality. The power of these words could be logic busters that short circuit normalcy and all its ramifications.

These incantations, are in my case, crazy irrelevant words. They rise up from an untamed part of me that is connected to my imagination. They are a sharp sword in my battle against the overwhelming and insufferable number of incoming tips on how we should live. They are my jesters in a powerful king’s court.

Because, you see, worldly advice can be more threatening when you are a senior.

The preachy, capricious, logic of many specialists can be seen in the do’s and don’ts of eating. I was taking groceries from a shopping bag. I’d take something out of the bag and then say to Dominic, who is always interested in what is in grocery bags, “Cookies, a no, no. Dog food, a no, no. Beer, a no, no. Packaged chicken gravy, a no, no. Wieners, a no, no. Eggs, a no, no. Butter, a no, no. The shopping bag. Nutritious.”

Dominic is probably thinking, “Throw me the food. I’m not worried.”

I’ve used some of my made-up words or phrases for years. I have many. For example, when I’m picking up wood or other things that are hard to pick up I say, “Igaby.” Don’t ask me what it means.

Hiabye is another one. Sometimes an incantation for when I get into my truck.

If I do a little job and am successful at it, I may say ‘There you awe.” I remove the r. Silly me. Baby talk. Freedom of speech.

Dominic with His Rabbit

Little One-eared Donkey Waiting For a New Home

And I live alone. Well, I have Dominic, and lots of wild animals, but to add to my feelings of living in a community of friends and family, I give some of my machinery names. It fills my quiet life in the bush with more personalities.

Because, if I populate my world with objects that have names, then my world feels friendlier and less lonely.

My snowblower is called Blowie. And I must say, this winter, the little fella has done a herculean job.

The truck that I presently drive, is named Blaze. The truck that is buried in Alder bushes is named Basque. The one I sold a few years ago is named Bear.

When a person enters my deck, they are greeted by a little clown who has his one pinkie pointing up. I think he’s saying, beware, things are not as they seem.

Is That One of the Little People?

Now, the next thing I’m going to mention might get into the DSM psychiatric manual. Maybe it already is.

There is spectacle and drama in my cutlery drawer? It’s a soap opera. Specially when I close the drawer.

This is how it works. The four main tribes in this kitchen drama are the table spoons, the forks, the knives and the teaspoons. There is a place for the table spoons, a place for the forks, a place for the knives and a place for the teaspoons.

In my mind, the tablespoons rule. They get the left hand side of the tray. The forks are not to invade their territory and when they do, I hold a wee bit of animosity towards them, and scoot them back where they belong. I tend to think that they are nasty. It’s personal. Stay in your space.

I have a feeling that the forks will try to make me think that they are the tablespoons or that the tablespoons are teaspoons which would make me question my memory. Psychological warfare.

The knives are friendly. The teaspoons are gentle and no bother. It’s the damn forks. I feel that they are a threat to the whole order of the cutlery tray.

Church Peeking Over Sand Dune

Don’t even get me going on the cups, saucers, mugs and, glasses.

It’s all crazy and fun, but as I get older, I’m certain that I will hear phrases such as: You’re not getting any younger. Perhaps you should consider. Have you given any thought to. You’re not a spring chicken. You’re not always going to be able to do this. What will you do when—?

And at the moment, I’m not tempted to move into a village, town or city. For me, they’re suffocating. Depressing. They’re places where nature is only an occasional thought and is almost invisible to some people, even when they’re looking at it.

And my disclaimer for this whole blog is that I don’t expect everyone to feel this way.

Or maybe my disclaimer is another incantation in disguise.
Minu’nsimk

“A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all.
Subtle, sent up—what is it? - I listen;
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you
sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?”
Walt Whitman

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My Sane Dog and Other Critters

2/3/2026

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Never miss an opportunity to shut up.
Mark Twain

I guess I’m not shutting up. I’m writing this blog.

But, it has been a long winter. The media is spewing out depressing crap. Specialists are preaching inanities. We can’t eat anything without a food guru saying it’s killing us. A disaster of some sort is just around the corner. Weather events are now coloured maps that predict different Armageddons and give us the approximate time that they are going to crush us.

So, I’m glad I live in the highlands. It’s good for my mental health, spiritual health and physical health. At least that’s my opinion.

My dog is also good for me.

Every morning, if the road isn’t icy, Dominic and I go walking in the gorgeous highlands. Before we venture out, I stuff a can of bear spray into my pocket and grab my camera. Then we step outside and amble away.

When I get home, I have chores to do. Dominic does too. One Dominic morning chore is squirrel hunting. He’s never caught one.

I believe, although I have no proof for this, that Dominic was meant to be in my life. He’s a furry angel with an occasional flea. The fleas may be wee angels.

But look out. I read, on the social media, that a woman had a dog lick her and she lost some limbs from the flesh eating disease.

You can’t be too careful. Or, can you be too careful?

Anyway, this fall, a couple of guys delivered a mattress to my place. They couldn’t get their truck down our lane so they loaded the mattress into my truck. They then hopped in and we all delivered the mattress together. It was a mattress-delivery-love-fest.

My dog, Dominic, hitched a ride when we delivered the men back to their delivery truck. The fella who sat in the front seat said, “This dog is one smart dog and I know dogs.”

Dominic was so proud. So was I.

Sometimes I think he is super smart. One example.

Dominic likes cottage cheese. So, one day, I finished off most of the cheese but left a bit for him. He didn’t touch it. He stood in the kitchen and watched me. What was he up to?

I then reached into the cupboard. I planned to make a tuna sandwich. I opened the can. I left a bit for him. He ate the tuna and then he ate the cottage cheese. He prioritizes.

Dominic has developed a routine in the morning.

Our Laneway

When I pull out the little vacuum cleaner, he jumps on the couch and chews his stuffed rabbit. The rabbit is now headless. Then, he lazes around until he has his breakfast.

However, when I am making my breakfast and he has finished his, he disappears. I then hear him barking in the bedroom. I know what he is up to. I have learned. He has created a game. He has created more than one game. He’s smart.

When I go into the bedroom, I see Dominic sitting on the bed. His tail is wagging as he barks at my jogging pants. They are on the dresser. He can reach them, but he won’t. I have to give him the pants. Then we fight for ownership. He viciously fake bites me to pieces, before I return to the kitchen and continue making my breakfast.

Sometimes, he starts barking again. Now what? I have learned what. When I go into the bedroom, he is sitting on the bed, staring down at the floor. He has dropped the pants. I must pick them up. It’s in his game rule book. I play along because I think he deserves to have games in his life.

The game is over when he drags the pants to the couch and gives them to his headless rabbit.

There are times when I can’t find articles of clothing. It took me a while to discover that he stashes them under the kitchen table. That’s the place where he likes to lounge.

When I’m relaxing is his favourite time to bark. It is sometimes at a stuffed toy that sits on top of the bread box. My job is to fetch it.

He has many barking chores for me to attend to.

A friend, who visits and has watched Dominic go through many of his antics, asked me if I ever get annoyed with Dominic. I said not often. He is too cute.

Anyway, after breakfast, I will sit on my orange chair to read and nod off. He will watch me for a few minutes, then he jumps off the couch and sits in front of me. He wants to plunk down next to me. I pat the chair and say, “Get up here.”

He doesn’t move.

You see, he wants me to lift my butt up off the chair, pretend I’m moving over, which I’m not really doing, because there is no more room, but that doesn’t matter, because after I do this, he jumps up on the chair and sits next to me. It’s all part of the game. It’s Pavlovian.

He will sometimes take his paw and poke my arm until I put my arm around him. Then we hug each other. Kinky, and he always sits on my right side. Never on my left side. It’s protocol.

One recent morning, I was working on a first paragraph of a chapter. Dominic began barking. I guessed that it was give-him-my-jogging-pants time. He’d started the game late.

I got up, which broke my concentration and walked to the bedroom. He wasn’t there.

He was in my little office. He’d cornered a squirrel. The squirrel leapt across the room, knocked over my bottle of coins and headed for the living room. We couldn’t find him.

It was, I think, a test of my ability to concentrate on my writing. I went right back to what I was working on, even though I knew the squirrel was probably hiding in the living room, only feet away.

Maybe my living in the bush and living close to many critters have made me more sensitive to their wants and needs. I feel more empathy. So, in this case, unless the squirrel causes me a lot of trouble, I will let him be.

I know what it is like to grieve the loss of a home and loved ones. Sure I could trap him or her or them, but I figure it would be more cruel to catch the squirrel, take him many miles from his home, and leave him homeless in the winter than to shoot the poor little bugger.

I don’t want to do that, so, I have Dominic and a pet squirrel. I might catch him in the spring, when he has a chance to survive a long way from his home.

See what living alone in the bush can do to a person. Is it making me more peculiar or helping me to better understand that they all belong in this universe?

So I say thank-you to Dominic and all the other wild creatures who add common sense and joy to my world.

And when I hear a specialist tell me that it isn’t good for people to pee in the shower because they might begin to only get the urge to pee when they are in the shower, well I call Dominic over and I say, “Dominic, you want to go outside for a pee pee?”

And he usually does. Rain or shine.

Leaping and running through the snow

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How I Met Sue

13/1/2026

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Sitting on Sue's Memorial Bench

Before I knew my partner Sue, who disappeared into the Cape Breton highlands on Dec. 3rd, 2021, I was working at an Ontario library.

One day, when I’d returned from lunch, I found a note on my desk. It said for me to phone Anna. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time.

A Leaf and a Foot Print

I phoned Anna. She was upset. She’d seen a photo in the local newspaper. She said she’d taken the photo and the newspaper had used it without her permission. She wanted me to take her back to the Frontenac Provincial Park, to the exact location where she said she’d taken the picture.

The Frontenac Provincial Park is a semi-wilderness park. It is rugged and contains many ponds and twenty-two lakes. I love this park.

Blowie My New Snowblower

Because it was April, I assumed there was snow on the ground. To get into the park I’d have to drive up two steep hills. I was only able to slip and slide to the top of the first one. I parked there and then we hiked into the park.

Dominic Goes Snow Crazy

We found the place where she said she’d taken the photo. It was almost dark by the time we headed back to the truck. There was no moon, Anna only had one working eye, and we had no flashlight or cell phone to light the way.

Fish/Bird Critter in my Pond

However, I knew the park fairly well and we did manage to get back to the truck. The north star gave us some illumination as its dim light reflected off the snow.

I was surprised to find a note under my windshield wiper. It said, “Thanks for destroying the road that I spent so long getting fixed.”

Hiking in Middle River Wilderness Area

I swore. I blamed some of the cottage owners up the road for giving me this note. They often harassed me about where I parked my truck when I went for a hike in the park.

I have spent many hours roaming through the park, off and on the trails. Through so many crisis that I’ve had in my life, the park was there to offer me comfort and solace. And now, here was this nasty letter which made me feel like I had no right to be there. I’d had it with those tormentors. The park was my home, my comforter, my security and an intimate friend and I wasn’t going to let anybody ruin this connection.

So, I wrote a letter. In it, I described how much I loved the park. It was a passionate and a tender-hearted letter.

After I finished writing it I drove to the park. I didn’t know to whom I was going to give the letter, but I figured, in some magical way, because the park, was for me, enchanted, that I would find a place to deliver the letter, and I did.

A blue car was parked at the bottom of the first big hill. I swore. Yes I did. How dare one of those idiots do this. Blocking my access.

I forgot about my heart-felt note.

What I did was remove the sandbags that I carried in my truck for weight and laid them next to the car.

“Use this sand to fill the pot-holes.” I wrote. I also used other words to express my feelings.

As I was hiking back to the truck after finishing my hike, a man stepped out of the forest. He was carrying firewood in a knapsack.

Our New Victoria County Arena

“Did you see the note that somebody put on Sue’s car window?” he said.

Sue? Who the heck was Sue?

I told the man it was from me and showed him the letter I’d originally planned on giving to this Sue person.

“Use that one,” he said.

So I did.

Dominic's Squirrel Hunting Blind

Another day on another hike, when I returned to my truck, I found a note under my windshield. It was a brief apology note with an email address. Apparently another truck had actually wrecked the road.

And that’s how Sue and I hooked up.

We met in the forest and we separated in the forest.

So, from day one, our connection was magical. A huge happenstance. A meeting and a departing circle. One of the healing memories where I was able to find closure. Even though Sue was never found.

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Our Walk to Sue's Memorial Bench

7/12/2025

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December 3rd, 2021 is the fateful day that Sue disappeared. She has been gone for over four years.

Last year, on December 3rd, a friend and I hiked up to Sue’s memorial bench.

Sue With Friend Lloyd Stone

We didn’t leave for the hike until about an hour and a bit before the sun planned to duck down behind the horizon. It was cold. The temperature was approaching the temperature of that tragic night. It began to snow as the evening light dimmed.

By the time we got to the bench the shadows were being absorbed by the night’s chilly blackness.

We had brought some cake and tea bags. We wanted to have a memorial snack.

Sue and Buster at Tim Hortons

It took us some time to get the fire going so that we could boil water for tea. In the process of looking for kindling I lost a glove. Meanwhile, Torrey got her mitts wet. They weren’t much comfort.

Darkness deepened and only the strongest shadows hung around the perimeter of our make-shift campsite. Eventually, they were also smothered by this special night’s darkness.

We’d only brought one flashlight. Its batteries were weak so their light wasn’t very intense. It would flicker and I’d have to shake it or strike it against my leg.

Sue, Larry and Ron

Finally, we got the fire burning and got the water boiling. We ate and drank quickly. We were getting chilled. And as I mentioned, I had one mitt and Torrey had two wet mitts.

A Passage

Then we headed home. Torrey was unsteady so I held onto her one hand with my bare hand.

As we walked down the side of the mountain, the wind blew the snow against our faces.

The flashlight was dimming. I turned it off to see what we would have to contend with if the battery died. It was nearly pitch black.

And I thought, this is what Sue had to deal with.To make it more real, we missed the place where the path left the forest and entered the field.

This meant, as my flashlight batteries were tiring out, that we were lost. At least for a little while.

However, we did find the trail out and arrived home safely.

Afterwards, we realized that our memorial walk, had given us a bit of an idea of what Sue had experienced.

Because, you see, it was almost the same temperature as the night that Sue took her fatal walk. And it was snowing just like the night she disappeared and I was missing a glove. Sue had lost a glove. We’d found one of her gloves that she’d left in the forest.

These similarities made us think that we had, in some sense, made a significant walk up to Sue’s Memorial Bench.

t was serendipitous.

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Stuff Without a Story

27/11/2025

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One day, as I walked and whistled my way along a new subdivision sidewalk, I got to looking into the many open-doored garages.

Almost Un-noticed Beauty

You could call me a garage voyeur. Except, I wasn’t looking at stripped down garage interiors. I was seeing stuff. Stuff and stuff and more stuff, stuffed inside many of these garages. Much of the stuff being toys and things that kids and adults like to use or plan to use and then often forget or toss or yard-sale away.

Too much stuff to savour or from which to create enriching memories and stories.

“There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he’d look upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a
Certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.”

Walt Whitman, There Was Child Went Forth

When I was a kid, outside play-time wasn’t an official play-time event. It was something we did for fun. There were very few camps and official fun events and clinics.

Good Book if You Like Weird

Have you noticed how empty the parks are? Those play-areas with clusters of colourful slides, swings and other fun, almost accident-proof contraptions. The parks now look like a vacant city in a Stephen King movie.

I loved to make up games when I was a child.

Here’s a game that I made up when I was about seven or so.

We lived in a big white wooden house. My friends and I liked to run around and around the house. We were never ourselves. We were cowboys or horses or race cars or cougars or something else weird, wild and exciting.

Upside Down Face in Water

My game could be called the customs officer game. It required two bits of stuff. A rope and an empty rolled up toothpaste tube.

I’d tie one end of the rope to the fence. The rope would be long enough for me to pull across the opening which would block off the passage.

My friends and neighbours and illegal friends would be running around the house when suddenly, they had to apply the brakes to whatever they were in or on. Because there would be this wee customs-officer twerp blocking the way.

What would they have to do so that they could cross the border and proceed over my beautiful border?

Well, I’d toss the folded up toothpaste container onto the ground.

The person who was attempting to get across the border, would have to pick up the empty toothpaste container and hand it to me. I would then let them pass.

The toothpaste tube was a passport. Magic.

This game could go on for quite awhile as the kids ran around and around the house. Always having to stop to pick up the rolled up toothpaste container.

What did this game cost? The rolled up toothpaste container cost me nothing. The rope was probably lying around the yard.

I also invented a game which allowed us to pretend that we were passing from one school grade to the next school grade without writing any exams or attending any schools. Kindergarten to grade eight in about one hour of fun and joy.

I have other economical children’s games I can describe, but only if you are interested.

That's me sitting on Sue's Memorial Bench. December third will mark four years since Sue disappeared. I know that there are plenty of people who miss her. I'm one of them. I feel very lucky to have been able to have Sue in my life. I think of her every day.

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To Be Thankful For

19/10/2025

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“Wealth is the number of things one can do without.”
Fyodor Dostovesky

Thanksgiving Sunday was a gorgeous day. The trees were in full coloured bloom. The air was crisp and shiny. The atmosphere pumped and cheery. The Highlands garbed in brilliant colours.

Dominic Sleeping With His Buddys

Yet, I wasn’t feeling up to snuff. Because, it’s holiday times when the loss of my partner weighs heavily on my mind.

But, I then thought about how, for Sue and me, moving to Cape Breton was like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

An escape from over the top commerce and artificial necessities. An escape from phoniness, noise and concrete. From spaces enclosed in rigid rectangles and squares.

Living in our little trailer was part of this treasure. Even with all its inaccurate measurements, inappropriate or outdated decor, loose fittings and unfinished trimmings.

I mean, where can you find a home, that when sitting on a couch, which is set against the living room wall, you can be rocked to sleep by an eager wind? Pretty cool.

Sounds crazy though?

“Talking nonsense is the sole privilege mankind possesses over the other organisms. It's by talking nonsense that one gets to the truth! I talk nonsense, therefore I'm human”
Fyodor Dostoevsky

We lived together in our little trailer with our union strengthened by our love of the wild outside our little home. Cozy, and with nature sometimes inside.

Grass Creature

Mice, squirrels, chipmunks and moles dropping in from time to time. Once they had a wild party while I was in Ontario. And there have been a few wild squirrel chases in the trailer. My holding a broom and Dominic sniffing and chasing them within range of my powerful sweeper.

During the last squirrel pursuit the little fella knocked over a lamp, a sculpture and a container of water. I think I’ve caught the little devil and transported him ten kilometres from my place. I hope he’s okay. Maybe he’s back..

Anyway, on Thanksgiving Sunday night, Dominic and I went for a walk. The laneway winding its way past dark trees and unfamiliar shapes that are familiar in the day-light.

Coyotes howled from what seemed to be three directions. And they were close, while barred owls hoots slipped through the forest’s mysterious blackness. The untamed music comforted me.

I wondered, why do I feel at home in this darkness and with wild animals near-by? Why does this feel more real and safer than being in any village, town or city?

“People speak sometimes about the "bestial" cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Little Fella Is Back

Then, although it was only me and my dog, and I wasn’t partying it up with friends or family on this Thanksgiving Sunday, I couldn’t help but think that I had much to be thankful for. Because, Sue and I, had discovered something precious.

Thanks for reading this blog.

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It's my Birthday Gift

18/9/2025

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Having a dog is interesting. Having an argument with a smart dog is even more interesting.

You see, it was my birthday a few days ago. My age, by the way, is a secret, in case you’re wondering. I’m going to a hypnotist, so I can forget it.

At Trail Head. to Sue's Memorial Bench

Anyway, I got this present. As I opened the gift bag, Dominic, being a curious dog, sat in front of me, looking as cute as ever. He watched my every gift opening move.

I removed number one present. It was a beautiful little hardcover notebook. It came with a colourful pen. Dominic was happy for me. His tail wagged. Happy Birthday Larry.

Then, I pulled out a wee stuffed figure with a pointed hat and a long white beard.

Dominic wanted it.

“But, Dominic,” I said, “It’s for my birthday.”

A Meeting of Trees

He didn’t care. Dominic loves stuffed toys. He has lots of stuffed toys. I think he might be a dog-in-the-manger, greedy stuffed-toy collector and he wanted my birthday gift.

Advertising Space

I already can’t put any of the toys that I thought was mine on a shelf. He’ll whine and jump and torment me until I take them down and give them to him to maul.

His stuffed toys, always come with a head, but some are now headless and eyeless. The toys are piled on the couch. I can’t move the couch out from the wall to tuck in the cover, without him charging across the room, leaping on the couch and slamming his cute furry body down on top of the stuffed toys. It’s obvious that he doesn’t trust me. Ditto, ditto.

Dominic Hiking Up Trail in Early. Morning

Anyway, I put MY stuffed gift toy on a shelf, out of reach of Dominic. He whined. He tried to jump up on the table, which is laden with photos and books. He clawed the table. He clawed me. He was relentless. He was irritating.

So, what I did was phone the nice person, whose name is Mona, to ask her if the gift was for me or for Dominic.

Trail to Heaven

All the time, Dominic’s ears were flitting around while he made quiet whimpering sounds. He was as attentive as a person waiting for a judge to pass judgement.

And really, what did it matter. I only phoned for my own edification, because if she said it was for me, which she did, would that have satisfied Dominic?

Anyway, I explained the situation and she told me that it was intended for me but she’d be okay with my giving it to Dominic.

So I did, and he began to chew off the long beard. Then, he stood in the middle of the living room and coughed and gagged out the white beard.

Forest Creature

Avarice can be dangerous for your health.

Pushing my Book

My Birthday Gift

Field in Early Morning

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Waspish Anthropomorphism

17/8/2025

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Please note that this blog is anthropomorphical.
***
I didn’t want to do it. Actually, I didn’t have to do it. A friend did it.
Now for a poetry commercial break.

Blueberry Mountain

“Meanwhile
The old man who goes about
gathering dog-lime
walks in the gutter
without looking up
and his tread
is more majestic than
that of the Episcopal minister
approaching the pulpit
of a Sunday.
These things
astonish me beyond words."
William Carlos Williams, The Wanderer

I have mentioned before, that I’ve tried to co-exist with wasps. It began as an experiment. An attempt to discover if they are actually meaner and more miserable than some humans, who do a lot of hurting and killing.

Well, this summer, wasps built a nest outside the screened in deck that separates me from them, and is located close to the deck door, which is my main entranceway.

It was a friend who alerted me to the nest’s presence. He told me to destroy them and their personal living space. Torch it, drown them, spray it, wipe them out.

Well, I’d made a peace pact with other wasps who were quite cordial, but I had to admit that these ones were very close.

Early Morning

What I did was procrastinate. I didn’t do anything but leave them alone. I’d walk out onto the deck and they’d look a bit suspicious, but only when I’d open the squeaky door and step outside, would they get worked up and then follow me a little ways. But, they never stung me.

One afternoon I gardened under their nest. They sent a few observers out, but they didn’t sting me. I like to think that their leader buzzed, “Ease up guys, he’s okay.”

However, I verbally warned them that if they stung me or Dominic, it was game over.

I enjoyed the close encounters with only a screen between us and them. I was living up close and intimate with an interesting species, who is not looked on by many as being a kind and gentler breed. But, I think the more you know about a subject the more you love the subject.

Did you know that the average wasp nest can house thousands of wasps? That wasps use logic. And, did you know that a wasp can recognize every individual wasp that lives in the nest. That’s amazing!

Emerald Woods

However, I must mention a concerning word. A word that I think, may have something to do with why humans have such trouble understanding different critters or why they are nasty or deadly to them. The word is Anthropomorphism.

Lunch on Blueberry Mountain

Anthropomorphism means the attribution of human qualities to another species. It can also mean to a god or an object. Scientists believe that contributing human qualities to another species hinders their objective study of critters.

I can understand why scientists follow the philosophy of not being anthropomorphic, but I think it’s a win/lose situation for the animals and for ourselves. Some people absolutely don’t attribute the emotions that they feel to other species and that can make them cruel. Some people don’t attribute human qualities to humans. Maybe even to themselves. The word human resources comes to my mind.

A Chair In the Morning

And maybe a wasp does love, does plan, is conscious of its sadness, who knows? Cause we don’t.

So, each day when I’d open the door to leave or return, the wasps would get upset. Buzz around, land on the screen, but they never stung me.

No Caption for This One

However, there was Dominic. He can open the door from the outside because he’s smart, but he doesn’t completely close the door from the inside, because he’s not super smart.

What happens is that when Dominic leaves the door open, some of the wasps get too brave or curious and they fly inside. I did kill two, I will admit, but for most of the intruders, I used a glass and cardboard to capture them and then I duly released the emotionally distraught and traumatized little fellas, so they could return to their agitated family, friends and co-workers.

Wasp Capture Paraphernalia With Back-up Equipment

It’s fascinating and a bit heart-wrenching watching the wasps on one side of the screen desperately communicating with the ones that are trapped inside with me. I could almost hear the trapped ones buzzing, “Get me out of here.”

Did I hear a 911 buzz. Probably not.

I should mention that only the females sting.

Tunnel

Anyway, one evening, the peace pact was broken. We were heading out, and I was feeling happy that they weren’t stinging me, when I suddenly noticed Dominic rubbing his chin on the grass and batting at his face. A while later, I saw that his left eye was almost swollen shut.

The wasps had been warned.

Torey Gardening

My theory is, and this may sound absolutely out of a crazed psychiatrist’s big blue book on Dog and Wasp Interpersonal Relationships, but my theory is that the wasps had some Waspishpomorphically trained members. Maybe they attended a wasp workshop. Anyway, these scientifically trained individuals thought that they shouldn’t attribute waspish behaviour to a dog and had decided that a dog doesn’t feel and think like they do. So, the Waspishpomorphically believing females went out and gave it to my dog while the Waspishomorphically believing male wasps watched and offered encouragement and support in any way they could. Why didn't they sting me? Am I a wasp?

Wasp Community

What I planned to do the next day was to buy a can of wasp exterminator spray and then, after a brief ceremony, I was going to wipe them out.

I mentioned my plan to a friend. He works in a lumber yard. Wasps love lumber but not always the workers and one had recently stung my friend on his lip. Top or bottom, I’m not sure. He was very keen to do the killing job.

So, he came over in the evening, and he, without any ceremony, sprayed his vengeful heart out until the nest was only a silent miracle.

What is my conclusion about this whole episode?

It is to be careful of animals who believe in not attributing their feelings to us.
  ***
“The little sparrows
hop ingenuously
about the pavement
quarrelling
with sharp voices
over those things
that interest them.
But we who are wiser
shut ourselves in
on either hand
and no one knows
whether we think good
or evil.”
   William Carlos Williams, The Wanderer

Selma

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Master Muse

19/7/2025

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I’ve written a pile of blogs and am aware that they are my opinions. My feelings. I also realize that nobody, including myself, knows an awful lot about anything, when put up against what there is to know.

Anyway, I’ve been jawing on something. It’s how I felt after my last book, ExtraOrdinary was launched out into the reading-sphere. My fresh-faced feeling of being published had lost some of its gloss. I figured that it might have something to do with my having lived under so many moon phases.

But recently, I thought that I might also be dealing with postpartum feelings. I think that many creators have these emotions. I might write about this in another blog.

“Hey Muse, what do you think?”

I think that one reason, for these feelings, is that my Ego, which was one of the driving forces, has lost some its influence.

So, my question is, is this why my Muse is spending more hanging-out-time in my mind’s damp basement? Not the greatest place. The concrete walls are unpainted and cracked, the floor is clammy, dust covered unused objects sit in the shadows, and spider webs, filled with dead bugs, hang from the ceiling and furnace pipes.

And lately, when I knock on the basement door, he often doesn’t answer.”

The thing is, the Muse knows I need him.
***
“In the stillness of one’s being is the centre of Creation
there I am the camera, the image.”
Louise Nevelson

I often don’t know what I’d say to my Muse, if he did climb the stairs to find out what smart idea I had to pitch.

I know this. My Muse is no friend of my Ego.

And do you want to know one thing that drives my Ego nutsoid, but doesn’t seem to effect my Muse one tittle? It’s that I’m a pee poor marketer. So, even when my Ego works itself up into a dramatic tantrum, and goes on about the absolute necessity of my getting out there and shoving my books into as many readers’ faces as is humanly possible, using every communication method ever invented by man-kind, I can only let out a small whimper of agreement.

Corney Brook Trail

I know. I know. Marketing only makes sense. But what about the Death of a Salesman? Ay?

You see, my Muse doesn’t give two ships about marketing.

And there’s another thing I’ve noticed about my Muse. He’s getting more unruly as I get older. I was taught to write, no matter how I feel. Grind my teeth into powdered enamel, if I have to, but write, write, write. Make a schedule. Find a set room to hammer on the keyboard. Pound the crap out of the keyboard. Almost every day. Even if the words look and smell like a dog park.

Now, the Muse wants to work only when it wants to work. He’s more picky. So, I keep trying to come up with more bizarre writing ideas and rituals and more colourful notebooks, lined and unlined, to arouse his interest. And, they usually don’t entice him to even walk to the bottom of the stairs to tell me that I’m boring him.

Dinosaur on Beach

However, he did like the leather covered journal with unlined pages that I showed him.

“To dream within the mist of one’s own accomplishments is to allow the true essence of life to find all its destiny.”
Quote by John Williams

What’s so darn frustrating is that I know he’s right. He represents the authentic part of my writing and I don’t want him going sucky, shallow and weak. Luckily, he’s stubborn as hell.

My Muse and my Ego agree on practically nothing.

For example, I remember a fella telling me that he’d read a story in one of my books. He’d said, “I didn’t like it.”

He thought the main character was crazy. It upset him.

My Road

I thanked him. I genuinely meant it. My Muse was proud of my reaction to the reader’s criticism. He even came upstairs to see how I was doing.

My ego went into a hissy fit.

You see, this particular book, White Eyes, contains plenty of Indigenous content. When the book was first published, I felt somewhat guilty when I was told by non-Indigenous readers, that they liked my book. I mean, what right did I have to enjoy being complimented by those who mostly viewed the world from my perspective?

I did let my ego take some pleasure from these accolades. I can’t totally shut my Ego off. He’s not horrible. It’s not as if he can help himself, but, you see, the stories came from my living with a culture that was massively and intrinsically different than mine, and had been significantly abused and mis-understood. It was only when I began to get positive reports from the Indigenous readers that I felt some peace and comfort about having written White Eyes.

My novel, Dead and Not Dead, also has plenty of Indigenous content. There’s lots of humour in the book. There is also deep sorrow.

Some readers told me that my novel was difficult to read. Not a big surprise. It isn’t about Dick and Jane having a good time at their summer cottage.

When I phoned my Muse, he has an old cell phone, I told him that some people were having trouble reading my novel. It prompted him to jump off the raggedy basement couch, scurry upstairs, tap me on the shoulder and ask me if I wanted to go out for a beer. I felt honoured that he’d invited me to go out with him for a beer. His face beamed out happiness.

I trust my Muse because he sometimes hangs out with my Soul.

I think I should take the vowels out of the word Soul and just say SL. Just like when the word God used to be an unmentionable and unspellable word. These days, many people stuff God in with their credit and debit cards.

And, can my Ego ever get jealous.

I do say to my Ego, because I know he has feelings too, “You have your place, but you can’t be living in my house full time. You’re too much of an attention getter.”

You might think, why does my Muse live in the basement? That’s just my Muse. Give him all the niceties of a place and he’d be no good to anybody.

“The first will be last and the last will be first.”
Luke 13:30

Some people say that I should write about some of the interesting events that have happened in my life. Sounds like a good idea. Why not? Makes sense, just like marketing makes cold hard sense.

Not to my Muse. I mention this to my Muse and he’ll give me his quirky little sideways look, probably say nothing and then dramatically ignore me. I get it. I get it.

I think he wants me to attempt to capture the soulful essence of whatever I am writing about. Then he almost always joins in, and sometimes even smiles. Will even spend a day or two in the room I specially made for him, when I first began writing. I followed the building instructions from many of the books I first read on how to try and make a special space for my Muse so that I could keep him happy. I’m not sure that it was all good advice or he was that impressed.

I did see him wipe away a few tears, when I was working on my novel. I guess he likes it when I dig for the diamonds, buried far below my shallow ego.

Lake O'Law

Many creative people, go to great lengths to keep their Muse happy. Some will fight to the death to stay true to their Muse and the messages it receives from SL.

I worry, maybe neurotically, that my Muse, when it’s buffeted by all the pressures that try to make it sit, roll-over, be silent, or play dumb, that it will become domesticated. But, I’ve learned that it’s one of the strongest forces in Creation. I think it’s because of its connection with the SL.

Margaree Beach

I can sometimes feel the SL’s presence. It often happens when I’m in a crowd. I might worry that my Muse and the SL, which has a terribly soft voice, will get ploughed under by the multitude of noisy Egos. The power of the throng. But then, that's when I often become aware of the deep sadness and Joy that permeates the universe. I think that’s the SL speaking softly.

And, no matter how much my Ego pushes me, if I listen to my Muse, I can usually see that King Ego is often wearing no clothes, or they are only shabby rags. Even though, in his mind, he’s wearing colourful and unique designer garments.

There are, of course, many reasons why I write.

I love books. I love to touch books. I love the pictures on the front and the back of books. Such a pleasure to turn the pages, feel the flimsiness of the paper and to think of the strength and resiliency of the words that are on the pages.

I love telling stories. I will tell stories about myself that sometimes paints me in a bad light, but if it gets a laugh or a smile or a frown, or some kind of emotional reaction, then I’m happy.

I also need to write because I want to try and touch people in a deep way. I don’t think Ego has so much to do with that. It feels more like I’m doing something that is the right thing for me to do.

Beach Squirrel

Occasionally, I will look at my books, three so far, and how many total pages, I don’t know, and will feel sad when I think about how much time and emotions they have cost me.

However, I’m also proud of them. I know that they came from a solid, soulful need to hang on. To spit into some very blustery winds.

Salmon Pools Trail

Money, fame, shallow relationships, security, appropriate career choices, and many, many other decisions, I have heard, knocking, pounding or even trying to kick down my door. Shouting threats and filling my mind with uncertainty. Often, promising full-blown existential chaos. Which can, at times, remove almost any sense of my having a secure conceptual or emotional place for me to write from.

So I keep in close touch with my Muse. I let him stay in my basement for free and I buy him most of his necessities.

And if you are lucky enough, as I was, you might meet a person, such as my partner Susan. She understood this energy that fills the universe. She understood what drove me. She respected and honoured my, often disruptive Creative Muse.

I am super lucky to presently know a few people who feel the need to stay connected to that awesome joyous melancholy that fills the space around and inside us.

How can I not love a person who understands the need to stay in touch with their Muse and its omnipresent connections?

And, surprise, surprise. My Muse, believe it or not, just a minute ago, bounded up the stairs, opened the door and said, “Way to go! You’re feeling it. Take a break. Let’s go get a beer.”

“No,” I said. “Let’s get a cold Iced Cap.”

Slug Glitz

I grasp why he likes this blog. He understands that it was my honest attempt to connect and to write towards the truth that I deeply feel. He likes that. No. He loves it!

“Art is a Universal love affair for me and I’m in love with Art.”
Louise Nevelson

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You Don't Act Like a Canadian

Incantations and Imagination

My Sane Dog and Other Critters

How I Met Sue

Our Walk to Sue's Memorial Bench

Stuff Without a Story

To Be Thankful For

It's my Birthday Gift

Waspish Anthropomorphism

Master Muse

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