Ivy's Château D'If

In April 2002 I started training in Cornwall, Ontario. Lodging was provided, which consisted of a room with a private bathroom. A hotel room for all intents and purposes. Training is five and a half months, a long time to be in a boring, impersonal space. In the first few weeks, I bought a new comforter and a small English ivy. It had no more than a handful of leaves. I also purchased two cute clay pots, green with gilded swirls, one small and one a little larger for it to grow into. I moved Ivy into her first clay home and placed her on the windowsill, from where she had a gorgeous view of the St. Lawrence River.

Ivy was easy to care for. In that, we are much alike. A bit of water with forgiving regularity; not much light. We're both creatures of shadow. Nonetheless, she much appreciated the warm summer sunlight and lazily but steadily stretched her vines along the windowsill. Soon she had to move to the larger pot, her growth mirroring my progress in the training program. By graduation time in September, she was no longer a shoot but a young ivy in her own right. My friend Sheila, who was driving back to her native Newfoundland, graciously accepted to take Ivy with her. A few weeks later, we were reunited as I moved into my new house in Gander.

For the two years that I lived in Gander, Ivy kept growing beyond my expectations. She was on top of my living room armoire but eventually, her vines touched the floor. I purchased a few discreet hooks, which I placed around an arch leading to the dining room, and gently positioned Ivy's vines to curve along it. She was glorious. I was proud. Then we adopted Belle, my precious tabby cat. That was a bit of a challenge. Cats are uncontrollably drawn to plants but a lot of them are toxic for them, including English ivy. I wanted to keep both the feline and vegetal loves of my life safe. I pulled it off and we were all a big happy family...

...Until it was time to move back to Montreal. I found out that plants are not allowed to leave the island of Newfoundland. Something about bacteria in the soil that they don't want spread to the mainland. Of course, Ivy's never even touched contaminated Newfie soil but there would be no way to prove that. Normally I wouldn't have hesitated to attempt smuggling her in but her vines were, by then, a good 6-7 feet long. With an empty car, perhaps, but I was bringing with me a year's worth of clothing, my computer and of course, Belle. I simply had no room for Ivy. I was crushed. Newfoundland had become her Château D'If.

And so it is of relationships, at times. You spend a few years with someone, traveling hand in hand along the path of life, facing a common future. Someday, one realizes that the other one has taken root. That he's growing in a different direction. The other one feels the urge to keep moving. The other one has to keep moving.

Beautiful bureaucracy

Friday afternoon I had my bi-annual medical exam required to keep my ATC license valid. I was slightly worried because in the past year I have noticed a slight change in my eyesight. After reading for extended periods of time, if I try to focus on something further away, the edges of it seem a bit blurry. I know I should have gone for an eye exam before the medical but of course, being a procrastinator in denial, I didn't.

This specific doctor only treats pilots and air traffic controllers. All day those are the people she and her assistant see. I sat at the front desk while the assistant questioned me. Some basic questions. Name, address, date of birth. Then she asked me for my employer's name. That struck me as a bit odd considering there is only one employer in the country for this job. "Nav Canada," I said. "How do you spell that?" "Er. N-A-V, as in, the one company responsible of air traffic control in the country?" "Oh that's right," she says, "you're a controller." So, as she reads off the form, "do you do this for business or leisure?" I laugh. "Excuse me?" She frowns. "Is this a serious question? Do I coordinate the flow of air traffic in a safe, orderly and expeditious way for business or leisure?" "Oh," she says, noncommittally. Suddenly I wondered if I shouldn't have chosen a different office. Fate's sense of humor is otherworldly indeed.

After a hearing test, we get to the eye test. I peer into the machine and see the neat rows of black letters on a yellowed background. First test: Right eye, far vision. "Read the smallest row you can," she says. There are 7. I see the sixth one clearly but the seventh is a bit blurry. I'd have to guess what the letters are. I read the sixth one thinking, they usually have one line smaller than 20/20 to see if people have better than normal vision, right? Left eye now. "Read the smallest li..." damnit. I see the seventh one clearly.

The doctor is a middle-aged woman with kind features and a warm, motherly smile. I find myself liking and trusting her instantly while wondering why this is the first time I ever feel like that towards a physician. What a messed up world. She asks me some questions about my medical history. Then, out of no where, "any tattoos?" "Er. Yes..." "Where and depicting what?" I'm suddenly glad it's not a downward red arrow on my pubic bone. "A quill in an inkwell on my right shoulder," I say out loud. "May I ask why this question?" "It can help identify the body," she says. In my mind, I see the newspaper headlines: "BODY OF VICTIM PIECED BACK TOGETHER THANKS TO FULL BODY TATTOO OF MICHELANGELO'S THE LAST JUDGEMENT!" I stare at her. "But I'm..." She smiles knowingly. "It's a question for pilots but Transport Canada left it on the form for controllers as well." Beautiful bureaucracy.

My medical is renewed. My right eye is 20/30 for far, 20/20 for near. My left eye is 20/20 everywhere and combined, my two eyes give me a 20/20 vision. No glasses needed. Rejoice!

An invaluable gift

About a week ago, in a moment of uninhibited forthrightness usually only afforded me by alcohol-induced alterity, I eked a confession out of my friend Jordan. I could feel that he had a crush on me but in a moment of blissful narcissism, I decided that I wanted to hear it spoken plainly. Emboldened by the confirmation of my suspicions, I pushed the cheekiness a step further and said that I expected him to compose a love poem for me for Valentine's Day. I was mostly kidding. He agreed immediately and I believed that he was just playing along.

Tonight, I playfully asked him if he had written me that love poem. He said he had composed not one, but three. I was delightfully surprised but not nearly as shocked as I was after hearing the first of them. With his permission, here they are.

---

What Good is a Muse?

Your love demands of me that in a day
I write poetry as if I were born with a pen
in my hand and a wonder in my heart!
Well, I have the wonder, but without
a proper muse I am lost! A proper muse!
That’s right—what good is a muse
if her influence is so powerful
that she scrambles mortal thoughts
and addles mortal minds?
I am no god, and though I find
no solace in this knowledge,
it is clear that I cannot comprehend
you! You, whose very presence sparks
the infernos of chaos in the thoughts
of lesser beings, tell me! What breeze
will come borne on wings of cool spring,
to extinguish the raging fires of discord
in my heart? If you can conjure such
a comfort then I beg of you to do so!
For chaos is not the only fire in my heart,
but it burns me just the same, consuming
my mind and body day and night,
burning but never burning! Temperatures
immeasurable by even the most divine
of scales, blazes so close at hand
--so concrete!--but simultaneously enigmatic,
obscure, ungraspable! What torture
your unknowable power does upon me;
what imprint will be left behind on my soul?
Will I, in some abstraction of reality,
ever fathom it? Can you show me
this enigma and let me hold it in my arms
like a small child cradles a newborn babe,
unable to grasp the implications of such
a wonder, but able to appreciate it with
naïve and guileless reverence? Would that
I would understand such a nature. Ah,
well. So, where did we begin?

---

Love Is My Excuse

I would ride upon a star for you—
creating a wake across the dark silk
of the night sky like a water skimmer
of the infinite whose ripples are felt
into forever,--and put it in your palm.

I would bear the fires of Hell for you,
taking them onto myself so that you
might walk free into Paradise
and sip the wine of divinity,
my thirst all but forgotten
in my weeping for your joy.

I would tame the wildest beast for you,
whether it be ant or lion or man,
and teach it to eat from your hand,
to sit at attention, or to live and die
by your command.

I would compose 10,000 poems for you,
take up my pen and splash its ink
across endless paper, to find that only
one unequivocal poem
in all that sea of soggy thoughts
exists to sate your heart’s hunger.

I would spend those endless hours with you,
sparing you the silliness of such poetry;
I would compose 10,000 poems for you,
and a million, million more, if you would but
consider our time together poetry.

I would sit in our wondrous silence with you,
commanded by your soul to connect
on a level
so much deeper
than poetry.

---

Feline

Look at you, strolling regally,
as though you were meant to be,
a queen.
Sparing nary a glance for passersby,
wondering, knowing, secretly where you've been.

Not until you’ve passed them by,
do you bother for
a peek.
You turn around to see them there,
looking back, their heart weak.

You stop and see them learning there,
knowing, seeking, yearning there,
for truth.
In your glance you have them there,
in the dominion of your youth.

You have comfort in your surety,
that they find you genuinely
divine.
You know that looking back at them,
they are emboldened by their find.

You peer with incandescent gems,
searching, demanding that they
are pure.
They tell you with their heart laid bare,
what their eyes have told before.

You nuzzle at their heartstrings now,
curled up, their mistress never
to cease.
You forget unnoticed time,
like a feline masterpiece.

---

Thank you, Jordan, for a touching Valentine's Day gift.

Truth, Duty, Valour

Earlier I mentioned a second "major failure" of mine. I figured I might as well beat the iron while it is hot and tell you today.

As pretentious as this may sound, success is a way of life for me. Everything I've tried to learn has always been easy. I have always gotten every job I've applied for. Most people send dozens of applications at a time. Me, I'd take my time to select the one I wanted and mailed one application. Then I waited for the call. The scholarship interview was the first time that I did not get what I wanted. The second time was my application to military college.

I remember walking into the office downtown and asking for the application forms. Everything was so bland. Dirty beige walls decorated with cheap laminated posters depicting overly cheerful recruits. Faded threadbare flags of Quebec and Canada on wobbly stands. Ugly commercial chairs that were all over auto repair shops in the 80's. Precariously piled 5 year old magazines with the corners rolled up. Plastic plants covered with a layer of dust in which someone had spelled "hi" with a fingertip. As I took it all in, my eyes focused on a middle-aged officer who stood behind a desk, idly twirling a pen, and I wondered if he was the conductor of this eclectic symphony of boredom.

He handed me the papers and a pile of video tapes. Pointing to a little curtained alcove, he told me to go watch some of these videos to "get a feel for what I liked." Half expecting to find a bottle of lubricant and a box of tissues, I gingerly sat down upon the ugly garage chair and popped in a random tape. They were all mini-documentaries on the different jobs available and the degrees required to get them. I rifled through the tapes and fast-forwarded through most of the ones I actually played.

When I came out, my blasé conductor scheduled me for an IQ test (well, they called it a general knowledge test at the time but it turned out to be a standard IQ test) and a medical. He told me to fill out the forms and to answer honestly, for "lying would not be doing myself a great service." I supplied the requested report cards and answered the questions truthfully, save for one.

The question was: How many hours a week do you spend on homework? The truth was that I didn't do homework. I only did the mandatory papers that must be turned in, the lab reports, the book reports and similar tasks. Everything else I didn't do because I didn't find it hard or challenging. For this reason, I didn't always get to see the hardest exercises that would have prepared me for the tests. I usually scored in the 80's though, which was pretty high for the private school I was attending. I didn't want to answer "less than two hours a week." That sounded bad. It sounded lazy. I tried to remember how much time our teachers said we should be spending studying at home. I came up with the nice round number 15. 2 hours a night + 5 hours on the weekend. It seemed like a reasonable, respectable amount. I wrote 15.

I passed on the IQ test and the medical. I was given an interview. I must say I was surprised by some of the questions the officer asked me. First of all he quizzed me on the stupid videos to see if I had really watched them. I guess I wasn't the first one to have been bored to tears by them. If the candidate had all the answers, I imagine that it showed that he had the masochistic disposition to become a soldier. Then he asked me some questions on current world events and general world geography. After that we fell into more conventional territory with questions about my personality and past achievements. The whole process lasted over an hour.

When it was over, he explained to me that he was not the person making the final decision. He would send my file, along with his interview notes to Ottawa where a committee would determine whether or not I got in. "You're a good candidate," he said, smiling. "Only one thing really concerns me. You say that you study 15 hours a week. I see that you have a general average of 83%. At the military college, the pass mark is 75% and experience has shown us that for a student to keep the same average, he'll need to put in twice as many hours. In your case that means 30 hours a week and you simply will not have that much time. This leads me to believe that you would struggle to pass your classes."

I sat very still as my brain processed and reprocessed the words in slow-motion. A faint echo of the symphony conductor's warning on lies came back to haunt me. What to do? Say that I had lied on that question? No good would come of that. Images of Wile E. Coyote burned, crushed and mutilated as a result of his own alleged cleverness flashed in my head. I laughed out loud. Noticing the disapproving frown of my interviewer, I converted the laugh into a cough and rose, extending a hand. "Thank you for your time, sir." As I exited the office, my eyes glimpsed the coat of arms of the military college hanging on the wall. Its motto read: "Truth, Duty, Valour."

About a month later I received a letter from the Department of National Defense: application denied. I saved the letter with my souvenirs as a reminder of the life lesson that lying is indeed very bad.

Sky-blue colored chains

I used to be in the air cadets in my teenage years. That's where my interest in aviation came from. Through the organization I was able to go gliding several times and even earned a ride aboard a rescue helicopter. I loved the feeling of flying immediately yet for some reason, it took me a few years to think about becoming a pilot. Flying is very expensive. The course itself is several thousand dollars and afterwards you have to rent an aircraft at a pricy hourly rate and fly a minimum of hours every year to maintain a valid license. I didn't think I'd be able to maintain the license but I figured I could try out for the course anyway.

The air cadets awarded a certain number of scholarships every year to cover the cost of the training. During the school year, I spent my time studying basic theory of flight, meteorology, physics and the workings of flight instruments. In the spring, I took the scholarship written exam. I passed with flying colors and moved on to the next step, the interview. I've always been naturally comfortable with the interview process. At the time of this one, even though I was only sixteen, I had gone through several military interviews and had competed for two years in public speaking contests. I was ready to blow them away.

I thought I did well. I expected to be offered a scholarship. I wasn't. The committee met with me later in the day to give me their answer. They believed that I was a valuable candidate; however they preferred to award the motorized scholarship (the one I had applied for) to someone who had previously obtained a glider license. They recommended that next year I try out for the glider course and the following year the motorized course. This was the first of what I considered major failures in my life. Ironically enough, the second major failure was also going to be related to the military. I'll save that story for another time.

I knew I wouldn't be in the cadets long enough to do both the gliding and motorized course. That's why I had applied directly for the motorized, even after being warned by my instructor that the committee was not fond of students skipping the gliding. Other projects came along; I became a dance instructor and set my avian yearnings aside.

Today I work in the aviation industry. I talk to pilots on radio frequencies and guide the little data tag on the radar that represents their aircraft. Often times, when two targets merge, I find myself wishing I was in the cockpit to see this huge Boeing fly just above me at nearly one thousand kilometers per hour. The sky calls to me again and this time I will not resist it.

I've decided to enroll in a hang gliding school once I've bought and furnished my new house. My desire to fly is as strong as ever, but the method has changed. I no longer want to be disturbed by the alien, quasi-sacrilegious sound of an engine. I want to soar like a bird, gliding with only the help of wings and my understanding of nature. I feel that my body would stay behind, anchored to the edge of the cliff, while my weightless soul took off, unfettered. Oh I know that this is only an illusion of freedom, a trick of nature. I don't care. I still squeal in delight when I see a rabbit pulled out of a hat.

"No one is free, even the birds are chained to the sky."

- Bob Dylan

The loaded scales of corporate justice

Next Wednesday I will be attending a full day seminar on harassment in the workplace. Attendance is made mandatory by my employer. Honestly, I'm afraid of what is going to be taught. A few months ago, the employer started campaigning and raising awareness on respect and tolerance. New posters went up on the walls; a new professional code of conduct was published. I believe this is due to some recent occurrences of sexual harassment.

Harassment of any kind, and especially sexual, is a touchy issue. I think the whole process is totally mishandled. Everyone has their own personal comfort zone. A salacious comment can trigger laughter in one person and utter shock in another. Certainly, we can agree that the limit of what is or is not acceptable varies from one person to the other. This poses a problem to any employer wishing to enforce a no-harassment policy. How to determine what is ok and what isn't? They found a simple answer. If the victim determines it was unacceptable, then so it was.

So far, I think that this is a reasonable approach. This is where reasonable ends though. I have seen a few guys get pulled into the office and told that they were sexually harassing some of the girls. Every time, the guy was totally shocked. They were oblivious to the fact that some comments or brief contacts could have unsettled someone. To me, harassment implies malevolent intent. I don't think a guy is harassing a woman if he's totally unaware of how he's making her feel. If he is told in an unequivocal way and persists, then yeah, go ahead and lock him up with my blessing. Until that very step, I think the employer should not be involved in any way.

Personally, I strongly believe that women should be encouraged to voice their discomfort to the person directly. It happened to me, in the very same workplace, less than a year ago. One of the security guards was constantly making comments to me. At first, I thought nothing of them. I figured I was misunderstanding, that I was imagining things. As time went by, my discomfort grew. Eventually I decided that regardless of his intent, what mattered was that I wasn't comfortable and for that reason alone, these comments should stop. So one day I gathered my courage and told him about it. I explained that I was sure he didn't mean anything by them but I still wanted him to stop it. He apologized profusely and promised to stop immediately, which he did. End of story. If I had gone to the management, there would be a note in this dear man's file. Absolutely unfair.

Unfortunately this is what is being taught to women. "You don't have to tolerate this! Report it immediately!" Now, I can understand that not every woman is comfortable with such a direct approach as what I would like to see. A council of peers could be formed. Non-judgmental co-workers chosen for their empathy and objectivity. They could serve as an intermediary to pass along the message, at best, and as a witness if things take a turn for the worst. It makes me angry that it should be so easy for a woman to tarnish a man's reputation. I don't blame it on the woman; I blame it on the system. Humans are lazy and that breeds creatures of the extreme. A healthy balance is hard to reach and harder still to maintain. It's too easy to let ourselves be lulled by a comfortable extreme.

The road to Cheshire

A few months ago it occurred to me that I should brush my cat's teeth. She's a gorgeous two year old tabby, my precious little feline masterpiece, my baby. The vet said she had beautiful teeth. I asked her about brushing and she recommended some toothpaste and brush. I purchased it all and eagerly rushed home to try it out. Of course, I was to be sorely disappointed.

Kitty did not seem too enthusiastic at the prospect. She watched me suspiciously as I unpacked my treasures. She came close, inspected the brush dubiously and after deeming it harmless, gave it the mandatory "you're mine" cheek-rub. I opened the toothpaste and put a little on the tip of my finger. She licked it and seemed to like it. Emboldened by my success thus far, I ventured to put some paste on the brush. Quickly seizing the furry creature, I gently pulled back her lip to try lightly brushing a canine. Kitty did not like that much. She sneezed her displeasure and started squirming. Kitty still has her claws on all four feet. Slightly mutilated and feeling amateurish, I let her go. 1-0 for kitty.

I decided I needed serious help to tackle the task so I referred to the source of all wisdom: google. So many helpful websites out there. Reminds me of my quest for the perfect sirloin roast cooking time. It appears that the secret is to make kitty like the teeth brushing sessions. Right. So easy. I'm supposed to brush only a couple teeth and reward her until she starts tolerating it without squirming. It's been months now and although I skip some days, she still squirms. She likes the paste but I can't get to her back teeth. The score is now a sad 76-0 for kitty. (Editorial Note: Previous number was made up at random but is likely an optimistic estimate.)

I'm determined. I've had mitigated results but I will not give up. The road to Cheshire is paved with good intentions (and a few scratch marks). My cat will have a sparkling smile or I will lose an arm!

A vampire's honey

I fell in love. Yes yes, I know. I fall in love every day or just about. A gorgeous pair of shoes, a cute little kitten, a bloody sirloin roast, I always find something worthy of turning my heart inside out and upside down for. This time, it is a human being. His name is Alexander Veljanov, singer of Deine Lakaien. The first time I heard his voice, I felt myself melt inside. It was not an unfamiliar feeling. Other men whose voice triggers the same reaction in me include Ronan Harris, singer of VNV Nation, Leonard Cohen, poet and songwriter, and the pilot of Air Canada flight 015 that flies out of Toronto every night for New Delhi. I love you all.

Alexander is something else. His voice is powerful yet vulnerable, it's intense and rich in emotions, it gives as much as it demands. Aaah. Alexander, my love. I wrote him a note telling him how I felt about him (no, no, I'm not a psycho fan. I only complimented him on his work). I had to. Such a strong emotion could not be contained.

I sent a couple DL songs to a friend of mine. The first thing he said was: "This is vampire music!" My reaction to that was to laugh. But then I took a second to think about this. Did he mean that this is the type of music vampires compose or listen to? However the real concern is, how would he know that, either way, unless he 1) is a vampire himself or 2) is good buddies with one. Yeah. Note to self: must remember to eat garlic if he ever takes me out to dinner.

After I expressed that I loved Alexander's voice, afore-mentioned friend/vampire said the voice was "buttery." I disagree. His voice is like pure honey, so mellifluous that I would gladly drown myself trying to drink it all.

I love you, Alexander Veljanov.

Defying the moirae

Some people say that everything happens for a reason. My opinion is that whether it does or not, there's a reason to learn, always something to gain from every situation, every relationship. I think we should suck up as much of life's essence as is offered us, without delay, because being alive is only the first step towards really living. The only moment is now. The past provides great wisdom, the future great hope, but fulfilling happiness can only be found in the present. It's such a shame that so many people surrender their now to reminisce on what was or to plan what will be. James Dean, who died at 24, said: "Dream as if you'll live forever, and live as if you'll die tomorrow." If more people did that, perhaps I wouldn't feel like this city is a large scale reenactment of Night of the Living Dead by day.

We are all artists. Every new day is a fresh canvas, an untouched ball of clay. It's up to us to mold it into the masterpiece that hides within it. Let not today's beauty pass you by because you expect to have better tools tomorrow.