The road less cycled

I ought to be camped in Mount Robson at this moment, or more likely I’d be reading John Barth’s Once Upon a Time, a novel written from the perspective of an older gentleman, a professor, who explores his past while embarking on a longer than intended sailing trip with his “editor, wife, friend, and lover” as the inside cover describes her. Though isn’t the “friend” part rather redundant when placed next to “wife”? I should hope his wife is also his friend, anyhow.

Or I’d be reading the Tao Te Ching which I picked up from the Metaphysical Book Store on Gladys today, or “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert which I picked up from a suggested donation table at my credit union, or I’d be journalling. At least I’d have the tent to myself for a night, as for the duration of the trip, to economize on weight, I’ve arranged to have a tentmate.

So why am I here? I was up late packing last night, so slept through my a.m. departure time, and then missed my p.m. departure as somehow my ticket disappeared on the bus trip from my house to the Greyhound Station. Sigh….The phone call I placed to my dad to come and get me from the Chevron was not a pleasant one. One of the few, “Dad can you come get me” calls I’ve had to place in my life though.

So here I am. One more night at home.

Lately I’ve been listening to Black Mountain, and Buck 65, both of whom played at Pemberton this past weekend, so I probably should have gone, though I’m glad I didn’t, with 40 000 people and huge traffic snarls. Would have liked to go to Mission Folk Fest too, but I do need to make a little more than I spend this summer. Breaking even if not in the red so far. I would buy Buck 65, but maybe not Black Mountain. With singles like “Way Back When” and “Wicked and Weird” that stand out from some very catchy tunes, Buck’s unique style of hip-hop on eclectic subjects is certainly making a name for itself.

Ok then, until later. Last post for a while. I promise. My family is convinced I’ll never actually leave by now.

Ok peeps, this is goodbye for now. Back in three weeks or so…come September I’ll have four or five classes (oh god, can I remain focused enough for that?), the Cascade will once again be publishing weekly with yours truly still doing his part (weekly!!?? how on Earth will I pull that off?), I’ll be back at Domino’s (with a scooter, maybe…..???), and life in general will go on.

For now and the next three weeks though, the Fraser River is the only thing on my mind. Sockeye, Mt. Robson, the Canyon, Prince George, SLLP’ers, Fin, JIT, roar of water on rocks, kiss of paddle in water, searing mid-summer heat, strange scenery, no e-mail, campfire, glitter of stars overhead, placid water, dusty portages…..life…..go with the flow….

Independence. Change. Better environment. Social situation. Space. Friends. Activism. Experience. Transportation. All reasons I’d cite as to why I desperately need a change of living area…

Money. The burden of extraordinary responsibility. The only reasons I can see to stay. I have to hit the sack, but I spoke somewhat heatedly with my dad today, and even he sort of agrees it’d be better for me to go. But the guilt factor….can I really move out now? I might have the best of intentions of being around often enough anyway, but will those materialize given the five courses and lots of other activities I plan to fill up my schedule with this Fall?

Have to put this on the shelf for a while. Not worth thinking about until I return at the end of August.

The guy in the picture to the right, Tyson Kellerman from somewhere back east, is one cool dude.  He’s cycling across the country this summer, and dedicating his trip to the Green Party of Canada.  I think that’s awesome.

Before I get to the political stuff, I’ve added Tyson’s blog to my blogroll – I encourage you to check it out.  What he’s doing is awesome and I definitely plan on doing some similarly long bike trips, whether they be across Canada, the US of A, or Europe. 

Now a warning.  Political commentary upcoming.  Those of you who suffer from Acute Politics Exposure Syndrome (APES) stop reading now and direct yourself instead to the following link: http://www.theonion.com/content/video/today_now_how_to_pretend_you_give

Politically, I’d have a hard time placing myself firmly in the camp of any of the major parties, as each have their strong points.  However, what I will say is that the Green Party has had a tremendous impact on the Canadian political scene despite never having managed to elect an MP.  By consistently capturing 5% of the vote in recent elections, and polling very close to the NDP and higher than the Bloc in recent months, and creating a five way vote split, they have ensured that it will be very difficult for either the Liberals or Conservatives to win a majority government.  Some say this will stall the country by throwing it into a deadlock; I say this will force actual discussion, cooperation, concession, and sacrifice, as well as a measure of prudence and greater represention of the electorate on important decisions.

It’s nearly sacrilegious or heretical in our society to openly express acceptance of littering, or to actually engage in it oneself. In high school, Principal Neufeld spoke of using the amount of litter in the hallways as a barometer of student’s attitudes. At the time I agreed in full; and to some extent still do. If the hallways are cluttered with garbage of all sorts, it’s generally an indication that the students don’t give a shit, which would appear to translate to more than simply the cleanliness of the hallways; also their marks, morals, values, etc. Concern for one’s habitation (and make no mistake, school was and is a habitation) is a basic benchmark of character. Ever hear someone labelled a “pack-rat?” Well, I doubt that person was a socially respected individual.

There are exceptions of course; some people are just natural tinkerers, fixers, refurbishers, recyclers of whatever they can lay their hands on. These people are driven and can’t stand waste, hate to see anything thrown out. So they don’t. Instead, they’re always welding this gizmo to that gadget, and coming out with some pretty spiffy stuff. Kudos to them. But for every one of them, there’s five who never throw anything out regardless of it’s condition, and seem to attract “stuff” like a messy beard attracts food crumbs or blood draws sharks. The metaphors are appropriate, as more than likely they have the messy beard as well, and like sharks, their stuff will eventually consume them, weighing on their backs until they can turn neither left nor right and stagger with each step. Remember the late and brilliantly offensive George Carlin saying how, “Other people’s stuff is shit, but somehow your shit is stuff”?

Of course, dirty hallways can also be indicative of apathy at higher levels; perhaps the administration simply doesn’t care enough to adequately fund the janitorial department, or the janitors take every chance to slack off, or in the case of my high school, (remember, this is hypothetical) the private donors don’t care enough to actually donate in adequate levels forcing budget cutbacks, or hell, perhaps dirty hallways can be traced right up to those who control our money supply not caring enough to manage it wisely, generously, responsibly, or perhaps most of all, honestly. Truly, there’s a crescendo of implications.

But let’s not think about this too deeply; we might just hurt ourselves or actually accomplish something and we couldn’t have that. Oh no. Let’s just accept that littering is bad and those who do it are lazy and apathetic and that lots of litter means bad people and clean streets mean good people. Keep it simple, stupid.

Before I continue, let me point out that I’ve participated in garbage clean-ups, and not just at the behest of an elementary school teacher in a bad mood and equipped with lots of bright new shiny garbage picker-uppers, or, just to use my favorite childhood phrase, “super-dooper-pooper-scoopers.” No, stretches of Clayburn Road, Clayburn Creek, Ravine Park, and Downes Creek are all cleaner because I felt the desire to chip in and lend a hand, or in the case of Downes, herd some of the fearsome “Streaming Eagles” crew down into the creek to haul out whatever we could find.

What happened next, to use the Downes Creek example, to the 11 garbage bags of wrappers, busted sports balls, barely recognizable bottles, and other miscellaneous junk we hauled out of that creek? We put it in the school dumpster for a garbage collection agency to come and collect, and lo and behold, to dump it again!!! That’s right. We put in all the effort (a good part of our weekend as I recall, to haul this shit out, just so it could be re-dumped, several hours drive away. How does this make sense?

Moreover, what actually benefit did we do the creek? Sure it looked a little nicer to the human eye, but I don’t think a coho salmon decked out in bright red spawning colors would look at that little pocket of intertwined condoms wedged in a back-eddy behind a log, and turn tail back downstream because “boy, I don’t know if I can spawn in the vicinity of used condoms.” (and for that matter, the contents of those condoms might well enrich that streambanks nutrient profile, lol) No, that old tire wedged in the streambank might take thousands if not tens of thousands of years to decay, so it’s not significantly affecting the water quality. Nor is it likely to be impeding fish progress, or in any way posing an immediate threat to wildlife or the local ecosystem. One exception would be six-pack rings which can strangle waterbirds, or plastic bags which can do the same, but in general, I think we can agree that a lot of garbage is fairly harmless.

So now we’ve taken our 11 garbage bags and dumped them. All we’ve done is re-arranged the waste and emitted tons of carbon in order to do, and oh yes, we’ve bumped up the GDP a notch because us urbanites paid those Cache Creek hill-billies money to take our crap. Whoopee. Now the waste is all concentrated in one area where nobody can see it, instead of being spread out where everybody sees it. So what happens next? Well, out of sight, out of mind is what happens. We accept that we can simply send our waste elsewhere. We subconsciously condition ourselves to believe that it’s okay to generate copious quantities of waste because it doesn’t affect us tangibly. We don’t think twice about buying those oh so tempting muffins from the supermarket and throwing out the package afterwards only to repeat the process next week. Sure we can sometime recycle the package, but only for a limited time and not neccesarily for the same purpose, besides which recycling takes energy too. Eventually it’ll still end up in Cache Creek.

What if instead of doing those garbage clean-ups, we had dedicated our time to educating people about the automotive waste fluids which undoubtably affect Downes Creek? I’m by no means advocating apathy here. Merely that efforts be re-directed, as has become almost cliche in the health-care field, towards addressing the issues rather than the symptoms. Instead of picking up somebody else’s garbage, why not write to manufacturers indicating the future loss of your business should they not take whatever steps possible to reduce packaging? Or put time into re-vegetation of the streambanks (which we did, too)? Or any number of projects with potentially valuable long-term impact?

Do I regret participating in those garbage pick-ups? No; the exercise did me well and I made friends out of it, and gained some great feelings of accomplishment, because at the time, I believed wholeheartedly in what I was doing. My opinions have evolved; hey, if Stephane Dion can evolve his opinion of a revenue-neutral carbon tax that affects an entire country, I think I can update my thinking about garbage. Because, as I can’t resist pointing out, my thoughts ain’t garbage.

Neither do I regret, however, releasing two organic energy bar wrappers and a bag that contained mixed nuts out of my sunroof today. I may have ruffled some feathers, but that’s about all.

What I do regret is buying items wrapped in plastic in the first place. That is true apathy. I am conscious of this when I buy, and I will buy items wrapped in plastic again because I’m one person on a schedule, but perhaps it’s time to re-examine packed lunches and homemade snacks. Were I truly motivated, it’s what I’d be doing.

That’s right; brown-bag it. Just like your momma taught ya.

You might be able to detox in a matter of days, but the planet can’t. No, the planet, needs thousands of years, and you just might not survive that process. I, for one, would rather not risk it.

“I don’t want to write this down” JB said to me, so I moved over to hear what he had to say.

“This internal bathing with salt water will increase the specific gravity of your blood so that the water you ingest will flush right through. The liver will not filter it, and you will need to go. And when you need to go, you’ll need to go, like, right now.”

Wise words, from someone who knew. If only I’d realized the extent to which the internal saline bathing would turn my body into a sieve.

I got up around noon today after a fairly late night, realizing I wouldn’t have time to do a workout as planned but that I would just have time to stop in at the Farmer’s Market before being at work at 1:00. No need to worry about breakfast, because I was detoxing.

So I gulped down two glasses of salt water solution – two teaspoons of salt/quart (950 mL), not having time to finish the rest. Then, after picking up some swiss chard, kale, and shelling peas at the market, I arrived at work where I downed about 3 or 4 cups of the lemonade solution I’m subsisting on during my detox. That only took about 10 minutes – I sure was thirsty. Little did I know what was to happen next.

We were low on our Fraser Valley summer birdseed mix, so I started to mix up a new bag, 11lbs black oil sunflower seeds, 5lbs sunflower chips, 2lbs millet and 2lbs peanuts. I was just poking some holes in the newly sealed bag to let the air out when, whoosh! With absolutely no warning, my internal seive opened up and deposited its contents, in, well, you know.

Oh my god. Here I am, the sole staff member, and I’ve just done what I haven’t done since I was like 2 years old. What a fucking disaster. Aaaahh yes, the perils of detoxing.

So I cleaned up best I could; prayed there would be no customers, put a note on the door saying “back in 5 minutes due to a medical emergency”, locked up the store, and drove home like a maniac – like I’d shit my pants, I guess – in complete corroboration of my undeserved driving reputation running one red light completely intentionally because there was no traffic, tailgating a pick-up who pulled over to let me pass, and picked up some new “furnishings.”

Back in the store I phoned up JB, who’s like, “Yeah, that’s why I said ‘right now’ and why you don’t go out.”

Really? I must have missed the part about not going out.

Then he said, “Usually I take a book and I go sit on the toilet.” Oh. Well then. This poses some challenges. Like “how the fuck am I supposed to do this detox if I work 5 days a week in places where I can’t be paid to sit on the toilet!!!?”

Well anyway, maybe it’s only the first hour or two after the morning internal saline bath. If so I can probaby continue with this. If not, well, so much for the detox routine, and hello junk food.

As they say, shit happens. Deal with it. Or as I could well imagine Red Green saying, pinch those cheeks tight.

13 days, approximately, until I leave for Valemont by Greyhound. I’d considered just strapping on a backpack and going town to town over the course of a couple weeks all the way to Mount Robson, but those twin identical demons that are really one and the same, time and money, stood in the way.

This leaves just enough time to do what I hope will be a thorough detox. JB did this with excellent results. It’s a very simple procedure. No solid foods over a 10 day period, in which you’re to ingest large quantities of a lemon juice, maple syrup, cayenne pepper, and water solution, along with laxative teas in the evening and internal salt water bathing in the morning. This 10 day regime is followed by three days on orange juice, and then it’s back to business as usual.

I start tomorrow morning, so if I make sudden and seemingly random trips to the washroom, you know why.

Why do people put up with the inflexible and outdated policies imposed by ICBC in this province? I had to re-insure my car this morning, and cycled over to the office as my insurance had expired, but I left very frustrated. For one, I wanted to insure my car for a couple of weeks since I won’t need it for the entire month of August, but the insurance system is set up so that 15 days insurance would work out to roughly $500 a month. I wouldn’t save any money by doing that and having it uninsured for August.

Secondly, ICBC won’t allow you to simply take the current plates, unassign them from whoever they’re registered under, and re-insure them under a different name. No, you have to pay $46 to buy new plates when the old ones are perfectly good. I understand that it’s due to how their system works, but it’s a very inflexible system.

We really need a Pay As You Drive (PAYD) insurance system in this province. ICBC might not like this model because it creates an incentive to drive less, but it makes sense from the perspective that those who spend more time on the road are a greater risk and should therefore pay more. Instead, someone like me who tries to minimize vehicle usage is forced to pay the same premium as someone who uses the car each and every day for every little errand. In fact, this creates an incentive to drive, as the extra kilometres do not affect my premium one iota, and when I don’t drive, it feels as if I’m paying for nothing.

There are some very basic options to choose from based on what the vehicle is primarily used for, but these options are not nearly comprehensive enough to capture the wide range in driving frequency. It’s time ICBC re-examined it’s insurance system; like the carbon tax, it would be one more way to shift the balance in favor of those who drive less, and one more tool in the government’s emissions reduction efforts.

Something was eatin’ me real bad after work today. I drove today to take the car through AirCare which this little ‘86 Prelude passed with flying colors. Only problem was the thing kept on flying right out of the gates, and not two winks after the test I was slammed with a ~$130 speeding ticket. Still wondering how the hell they managed to point that radar gun through the hedges and houses separating me from their set-up, but no matter. Damage is done.

For whatever reason, there is some satisfaction in taking it stoically. It’s my first ticket for speeding, not for lack of trying mind you, and perhaps it’s petty but I can’t allow the satisfaction of any kind of reaction, so I basically grunt, take the ticket, and move on. At 60km/h.

But that’s not what was eating me. It’s only money, after all, and I haven’t learned to respect that yet; not enough, anyhow. Don’t rightly know what it was, but I fumed all the way home where I decided to keep on going to the Mt. Lehman City Blends to finish Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. Work was slow enough that I read several chapters during the day, and I simply had to finish it off. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Had to be done.

Turned out to be one of the best novels I’ve read. It’s historical fiction, written from the alternating viewpoints of five very different women, four of them the young daughters of a rabidly evangelical Reverend Nathaniel Price who is hell-bent on bringing Jesus Christ to the Congolese people, one person and one village at a time. The fifth is Price’s wife, Orleanna.

The setting is amidst the Congolese fight for independence from Belgium. Price and his family take up a missionary post in Kilanga, where he delivers fiery sermons to the villagers while completely neglecting his family and the customs of the people.

Kingsolver brilliantly brings together the subtleties of the Kilangan tongue with masterful reference to the Bible, capturing the complete incompatibility of the Baptist faith as presented by Price with the villager’s way of life. The personalities she creates are deep and believable, and historical context of the unfolding plot is riveting. The novel starts and ends a bit slow, but this is more than compensated for by the intricately woven plot.

I finished the novel, but what I really wanted to say is a thank-you, to GSR for being there randomly to chat on a rare intellectual as opposed to social plane, and to the young lady behind the counter, both of you for quite literally making my day. To GSR, well, you just rock, and to the young lady, I’ll be back for that Kaila special. You can count on it. (For those who know a Kaila in my life, no, not that one.)

Again, thanks, because I entered there under a black cloud and left with a grin.

And it wasn’t simply the iced hemp milk mocha.

Perhaps it’s time I began thinking about finding a roommate or two. I’ve no problems living at home, as in theory I have plenty of space. In theory. In reality, I have about all the furniture I could possibly want short of some shelving, and the rest of the space is taken up by the odds and ends Papa has accumulated over the years. I would say parents, but that wouldn’t really be fair. My mom is equally opposed to clutter as am I and we typically share a tirade everytime he finds another great deal somewhere.

Bottom line is I’m really tired of having a refrigerator, an old scratching post, an empty dog kennel, and half-functioning air conditioning units all occupying the balcony right outside the main door. The air conditioning unit is a classic example. One day he came home with like three of them, all identical, only to find that the air conditioning part didn’t work; only the air circulation part. So they’re just big fans that take up space. Great.

I walk past that everyday when I come home. Then downstairs are a half dozen half-functioning exercise machines, various chairs, a huge roll of carpet, a rack of dry-clean only clothing boxes of books, and more. This is what doesn’t fit into the storage room. Suffice to say I was elated when we finally disposed of a broken down treadmill a few months back, but that’s where progress stopped and now entering my room involves turning on all the lights so I can see where to walk, and then tip-toeing around the items that line a narrow walkway.

I’m contemplating setting a deadline; that I need to have a clean downstairs hallway area, by say, the end of September, or I’m officially looking for a roommate. That can’t be a bad thing; I can get along with just about anybody, and maybe getting out and having my own place (well, shared place at least) might just galvanize me to be a little more pro-active in some areas of my life.

Anyway, I’ve got some bargaining chips, and we’ll see where it goes in the next couple weeks and then after my trip. As for location, perhaps somewhere close to the University would do, though I think I’d like Mission as well. I even really liked the Okanagan area when I was up there recently. Financially, staying here makes a lot of sense; Papa won’t take my rent, telling me I’m better off investing it which of course I haven’t done, and there’s always some moving costs and things to consider.

Regardless of where I end up, I’m confident that for now, I’ll stay within SalmonNation. This strip of land from California to Alaska where we’re rained on perpetually from October to April and the trees grow so tall that walking the length of their shadow might take 5 or 10 minutes and the waves swoop off the ocean to pile up into the fjord coastlines has been my home for nineteen years, and I’ve no desire to leave.

Yet.

Gas at $144.9? To be blunt, I couldn’t care less. What for many people is a fact that raises blood pressure nearly to the point of apoplexy and causes them to grumble all the way to wherever they’re combusting their way to, has been nothing but a boon to me. It’s been the final piece of motivation I’ve needed to leave the car at home with much greater regularity than when gas was at $1.20. Overall, I think I’ve saved money with the higher gas prices, especially since mileage reimbursement at my job as a delivery driver was increased. On top of that, the BC Libs sent me $100.00 to try and soften the political damage resulting from their carbon tax. On an aside, while I’ll take the hundred bucks and treat it like income, it looks like a cheap political gimmick to palatize the policy; make it annual or invest carbon tax proceeds in emission reduction programs, and then I’ll give the Libs credit.

Even when I drove to the Okanagan, and the six of us split the cost of gas among other things like camping and food, the total cost for four days of cycling, drinking, camping, and swimming including gas was around $75.00. I can’t complain about that price – chalk one up for local holidays.

Today, for instance, I cycled to the University to drop off some library books, headed over to Save-On foods for some shopping, and then over to the Matsqui Recreation Centre for a swim, all in the mid-day heat – a trip that’s not easy given the traffic on Sumas Way and the 25 + degree temperature. Cycling, though, felt great, pushin’ pedal in the midst of 2 ton SUV’s, loaded mini-vans, motorbike riders all decked out in summer gear, one vulnerable cyclist criss-crossing the town on nothing but muscle power and sweat, and then stopping in for a refreshing swim on the way home.

Flash-back to a time many years ago, at the very same pool, the MRC, with my brother and I taking swimming lessons, one of the few activities we were ever to do together. Our lack of confidence in the water was obvious; granted our swimming lessons were a luxury that didn’t last long, but both of us were terrible swimmers. Well into the lessons, the rest of the kids were diving off the low-dive for the first time, while the two of us could barely tread water. I joked about calling us “the Sinking Brothers,” bu there was Papa, off at the side watching the lessons, the frustration at watching us flounder palpable. He could swim like a fish, even as a kid, so you can understand his mounting frustration. We never did learn to swim well, and the lessons were soon discontinued, though I’ll probably never know if he was just pissed off or if he simply didn’t have the money.

That was then; since then I’ve learned to swim, and more, learned to love swimming, though by no means am I an expert. Regardless, I can’t seem to get enough of it, though I still hate the chlorine in the water at public swimming pools. It irritates my eyes and my throat (somehow I always swallow some pool water), and relegates the best swimming to alpine pools generally only accessible through 3-5 hour hikes. The kind that make you feel like you earned the swim, but also of the kind that rarely fit into my schedule.

Though I’m far from an expert, if what Richard Heinberg and others have to say about declining oil stocks has any credence, I think that gas prices will only go up from here. The trend of governments finally slapping a price on carbon dioxide emissions will only exacerbate this trend, so I won’t be surprised to see more and more bicycles on the road.

Not to mention people washing off all that sweat at the local watering holes, be they chlorinated in the city or fresh and clean hundreds of metres into the mountains. Up for a hike? Let me know.

Music I’m into of late: rapper Abdominal; east coast 9 piece band Tom Fun Orchestra, banjo player Old Man Luedecke, and metal band Bison. Mostly Canadian stuff gleaned from CBC Radio3 – I’m having a hard time finding new music sources, as I’m so protective of my laptop as a result of whatever hit my last system – I suspect hardware, but don’t really know, could have been something to do with music download programs. Few if any are trouble-free, so I’m reluctant to download any until I get my stuff properly backed-up, by which I mean not on my sister’s finicky laptop but on an external drive. Any music suggestions, anybody?

Things are settling down now; unbelievably the unstructured portion of my summer is nearly over, and so far all I’ve managed is one hike, some good bike rides, and a 4 day bike trip to the Okanagan. I’ve three weeks remaining to take care of all kinds of loose ends – car repairs, AirCare, home reno. and clean-up, bike repairs, travel paperwork, student loan application, etc. It all sounds straightforward enough, but they’re all the types of things that are so easy to postpone.

I say three weeks because come August I’m off for what could well be the trip of a lifetime: paddling from the Fraser River headwaters to the Fraser Valley over the course of three weeks, living on the river and along with my group, immersing myself in concepts of sustainability and developing leadership skills. It’s organized through the Rivershed Society of BC (www.rivershed.com), and headed by famed swimmer Fin Donnelly, who actually swam the length of the river twice. It sounds like an amazing opportunity, and it is, but I don’t exactly expect it to be relaxing; we’ll be worked hard and expected to be present mentally as well as physically, meaning I can’t treat it like a vacation; more like a course or practicum. No matter; is there a better place to learn than out in the open on the banks of the mightiest salmon river on Earth? Well, yes, if the mosquitoes have anything to say about it.

The last trip, though, proved promising in terms of mosquitoes. When camped in the Okanagan Lake area, for whatever reason, mosquitoes didn’t bother me. Yes, I had a secure tent, but nonetheless there were periods where mosquitoes could get at me, and I noticed not a single bite from the entire four days, although some of the others were tormented and broke out with mosquito bite rashes.

I always knew there was something different about me. Mosquito proof blood. One could be worse endowed, though I just know I’m invoking Murphy’s law by blogging about this. Those voracious little monsters up in the Fraser Canyon have probably targeted me already, as a human who “must be taught a thing or two.”

All is not well on the DVDK social front; as usual, I’m friends with everybody, yet somehow close friends with none. I dwell too much on the serious side of life; on overall frustration with the imperative to work too much to have a life, not so much on my part, but on the part of those close to me, family in particular. Time with family too often turns into repetitive mastication of the same problems: lack of communication, differing priorities, financial challenges, the frustration of Mama’s poor health, and the looming elephant in the room called retirement – something that neither those retiring nor those far from retired are currently able to finance. So we re-hash the issues much as a cow chewing her cud, and then eventually we go our own way, continuing to exactly what we were doing before, and then wondering why things do not improve. That’s family, but outside family, too, there’s mounting frustration. I could jettison off to Switzerland, or the Congo tomorrow, and probably count on one hand the number of people who’d notice in less than two weeks. Why is this so? I really cannot say; a part of me likes it this way. Perhaps that is the side of me that has won out so often in the past, being quite content to function at my own pace independently from others. But that side is losing ground fast; it’s no longer enough. It’s high time I developed some passable social skills and some penchant for leaving my comfort zone if I expect things to change; perhaps next time a woman in a million as good as falls into my lap, I’ll at some level be prepared and ready. Sure as hell wasn’t the last time. If there’s one thing that I haven’t learned but know intuitively, it’s that you don’t rush these things; also, you don’t necessarily have to be mirror images in the opposite sex with identical interests for things to work out.

I mean, it’s not every woman who’ll whip out a pair of binos from between her ladies at the first sighting of an LBB or a peep in a densely clothed Acer macrophyllum or on a sandy tombolo while telling you to grab her Sibley’s.

Though if you understood that last sentence, I’d love to meet ya.. my e-mail address is….

A Letter to the Editor I sent while all steamed up after reading the July 6 edition of the Abbotsford News.

I am tired of hearing the policy of pricing carbon dioxide emissions through carbon taxes and carbon trading systems trashed and mis-represented.

Yes, these new polices will have a slight impact on the price of gas at the pump as well as on consumer goods at the store. But this will be nothing compared to the rise in fuel prices we have seen in recent years. I remember when gas sold for 70c/litre. I’m young, obviously – I’m sure there are those who remember gas being half that or less. Now we are seeing double those prices and more. That’s right – a 100%+ increase, incrementally, in a few short years. What sort of reaction did this provoke from consumers?

That’s right; nary so much as a squeak of protest. Barely more than a grumble of discontent. We just took the price hikes square on the chin, and kept right on pumping and pushing that gas pedal.

Compare that to the carbon tax – a miniscule increase by comparison – and you’d be forgiven for thinking the sun would never rise again judging by the outcry in the media.

The difference? The gas price increases we’ve seen, independent of any kind of carbon tax, are market induced, while the carbon taxes are government driven.

When the markets impose price increases, we grin and bear it. Yet when the government enacts proactive policy, such as the carbon tax, an essential component of tackling one of the greatest threats to face mankind, all hell breaks loose. People talk of breaking out the pitchforks and kicking out those bums in elected office -the very ones who actually have the stones to take the necessary steps to combat climate change. (and even for those who do not yet accept the reality of climate change, you must agree that reducing pollution is a positive step).

People, give your heads a shake. What is this holy grail known as “the market”? It is simply the result of unilateral decisions made at the board room level of the top corporations, banks, and yes, some governmental institutions, in tandem with some good ol’ supply and demand. It is not some irresistible force which we must all be slaves to. At the end of the day, it is the consumer who determines how the markets will play out by way of what we do and do not consume.

We all know that oil and gas are limited resouces. Why not begin the shift away from them now, rather than waiting until every last barrel has been extracted from the pristine natural habitats where it is found? Why not embrace change now, and create a gradual transition that is under our control, rather than be shocked when we can no longer live in the high consumptive ways we are so accustomed to?

For once, our governments are taking sensible measures to motivate us to adapt to a different future. Let’s take our heads out of the proverbial tar sands, cut them some slack, and see if we can’t biccycle to work or the grocery store next time around.