1.13.2019

my first island off the island: a brief stop in sointula

This week I drove down to Port McNeill -- about 30 minutes away, and the home of one of my libraries -- and took the ferry to Malcolm Island, to visit another of my libraries, in the town of Sointula. I traveled with a co-worker who does programming and support work in our zone's libraries and communities. She's a great person and an awesome library worker, and we're doing all my first site visits together.

We stepped off the ferry and into Coho Joe, a local haunt. No sooner did we walk through the door than C was greeted warmly by name. She introduced me to two women, one a local artist, and both heavy library users -- one of whom we would see later that day.

Coho Joe is my kind of place.

An adorable menu, great food, and amazing coffee.

The library!

The small library, walking distance from the ferry, is incredibly well-loved by its community -- voracious readers whose tastes run a full gamut from esoteric nonfiction to paperback westerns. Twice a month a local textile artist leads a craft. A group of teens are working on bullet journals. C and I are planning a seniors program.

Most Sointula kids commute by ferry to school in Port McNeill, but there are also many homeschoolers. Public libraries everywhere are vital resources for homeschooling parents, and perhaps even more important in a small island community.

How you know this is a stock photo: note the blue sky and sun.

While we were there, a mom stopped in with a toddler, and C and the little girl did some building with connector straws. One of the women we met in the cafe also came by, and I worked with her on using the library's new website to access digital resources. What fun! I love doing "e-help" with motivated users, especially when we have to figure out some of the answers together.

In the coming weeks I'll be visiting all my libraries, meeting in person the people who make them run, and learning how I can better support their work and strengthen library services to their communities. So much fun! Days like this, I feel like I won the lottery of great jobs.

Sointula

Ever since learning its library would be part of my portfolio, I have been extremely intrigued with the town of Sointula. It began life as a utopian community, founded by striking coal miners! The name itself means "place of harmony" in the miners' native Finnish.

I've always been fascinated by utopian communities. In the 19th and early 20th century, there were several in New York and New Jersey, but you really have to dig to find any of the history. The dissident roots of Sointula are much easier to find -- in fact, it feels as though they are on display. The town is proudly eccentric and almost defiantly independent.

View of Sointula from the Port McNeil ferry.
Sointula and Malcolm Island are high on my list of local places I want to explore. There's an annual winter festival that's supposed to be amazing. In August, from a viewing platform in Bere Point Park, you can see migrating Orca rub against a beach to scape off barnacles.

A brief west-coast geography lesson

Between Vancouver Island and the BC mainland, in the Strait of Georgia (or the Salish Sea) there are more than 200 islands, collectively known as the Gulf Islands. Gabriola and Salt Spring Islands are the largest of the Gulf Islands, and also the most convenient to the population centres of Vancouver and Nanaimo.

Southern Gulf Islands
North of the Gulf Islands is the Queen Charlotte Strait -- more water between Vancouver Island and mainland BC, and home to yet more islands. These are more remote, and also closer to where we live.
Here you can see where we live relative to the islands.
Note Nanaimo on both maps. Nanaimo is a 90-minute ferry ride from the city of Vancouver.

Still farther north is Haida Gwaii, an archipelago that is the heart of the territory of the Haida nation.

Note Port Hardy, our North Island town.
There are four VIRL libraries on Haida Gwaii.

For more perspective, note Haida Gwaii relative to Alaska.

You will occasionally hear people call Haida Gwaii the Queen Charlotte Islands, or just "the Queen Charlottes". The name Haida Gwaii -- which predates the anglo name by more than 10,000 years -- was returned to official status in 2010.

There is a movement to officially change the name of the province of BC as well. As this columnist wrote in 2016, the name itself is shameful, which may partly explain why one very rarely hears the full name spoken.

1.08.2019

the north island report: update on us

Things continue to fall into place here, a little at a time.

I'm enjoying our quiet weekends. Allan is off every Saturday, Sunday, and Monday; I work Saturdays until 5:00, then I'm off Sunday and Monday. This is more time off together than we've had in a long time, and having two consecutive days off every week -- without the added work from union responsibilities -- is so nice.

Every weekend we get out to explore some local beauty. We'll walk on the paved walk path along the bay, or poke along seaweed, shells, and rocks at low tide, or drive 10 minutes to a sandy beach where Diego can run on the sand. We always see birds. My many birding friends may enjoy this: I picked up one of these pocket guides to local birds, and I put it -- along with binoculars -- in the glove box in the car. I'd like to expand the range of birds I can identify... without making it a whole big project. (My ongoing quest against all-or-nothing thinking continues.)

I purchased the field guide at Cafe Guido, also known as The Book Nook, our local cafe/bookstore/gift shop/craft shop, across the street from the library. It's the sweetest place. The coffee and food are top-notch, and it's full of work by local artists. It's the kind of place you find in overkill proportions in touristy areas, but in Port Hardy, it's the only place like it in town. It's directly across from the library.

We had dinner in Port McNeill, which is about a half-hour down the "highway," and where another one of my libraries is located. We were again pleasantly surprised, and can now add Archipelagos to our short list of good local restaurants. This makes three! I think we'll end up with four or five places that we can cycle through, once a week. And when I think about it, that's really what we did in Mississauga. The difference is that in the GTA if we felt like something different, pretty much anything at all, it was available. (I can tell that when we travel, sushi and dim sum will be priorities!)

This means I'm cooking more. I'm getting into a weekly habit of cooking one or two dishes in a large batch, usually in the slow-cooker, and freezing it in portions. This leads me to want to expand my cooking repertoire.

We bought a big load of firewood. Someone posts firewood for sale in the Port Hardy Buy/Sell/Trade Facebook group, and then her partner delivers it to your home. A few days later, the firewood guy was on our street for another delivery, so he knocked on the door, and arranged to drop off smaller, "starter wood" (that's what he called kindling) during the week.

The wood is fir, and comes dry and ready to burn. Allan is going to get an ax and get some exercise making smaller logs, something he's not done since his teenage years in Vermont. (Don't worry, all safety precautions will be taken.) At night our neighbourhood smells so sweet from the smoke drifting out of the chimneys. We're hoping to contribute to that soon, and hopefully cut down on our enormous hydro bills.

We got our BC driver's licenses! Only temporary licenses so far while the real ones are being processed, and we've started the auto insurance process. Car insurance is public in BC. The North Island has slightly higher rates than "down island", as the many unpaved roads and changeable weather leads to a greater number of claims. Even so, our monthly premiums will be about the same as they were in the GTA.

And -- drumroll, please -- I got my hair done! This was the scariest piece, and I finally got it over with. I had a great cut/colour/highlights -- and Allan got a haircut, too -- at one of two local salons. It was as good as what I had in Mississauga, although much less expensive and I didn't have to step foot in the dreaded mall. Plus the stylist, who owns the shop, was really cool, and we had a good time talking. I often have to suffer through those conversations, but this was genuinely nice.

Also, we did all this right in town: driver's licenses and insurance in one stop, plus hair, a little lunch and the bird book, all steps away from each other on our main street, which itself is a five minutes' drive from home.

There's not a lot here, but on the other hand, there's everything we need. And as expected, we need less, and I'm enjoying that.

Several people have asked about photos... but Google street view will have to do for now. I often prefer to go out with out a camera, and I'm not into posting cell-phone pics. Sorry!

1.04.2019

harry leslie smith -- rest in power, and thank you

Harry Leslie Smith, who sometimes called himself "the world's oldest rebel," died in late November 2018. I was unable to acknowledge his passing on wmtc at the time.

Smith, a writer and an activist, was a steadfast critic of neoliberal policies, especially the austerity agenda. He spoke out constantly and consistently for a more generous, more just, and more inclusive society -- in short, for the preservation of social democracy.

His obituary in The Guardian quotes him:
I am one of the last few remaining voices left from a generation of men and women who built a better society for our children and grandchildren out of the horrors of the second world war, as well as the hunger of the Great Depression.

Sadly, that world my generation helped build on a foundation of decency and fair play is being swept away by neoliberalism and the greed of the 1%, which has brought discord around the globe. Today, the western world stands at its most dangerous juncture since the 1930s.
Smith was at his most eloquent when speaking against war-for-profit and in support of peace. In 2013, he wrote "This year, I will wear a poppy for the last time". It's a brilliant and heartbreaking piece. I will print it below; I hope you will read the whole thing.

Smith gave his initials HLS new meaning with his Twitter name, @harryslaststand. Last year, Smith tweeted this. Then as now, it brings tears to my eyes. An incredible honour, and something that helped me through the ordeal.


This year, I will wear a poppy for the last time
Harry Leslie Smith

I will remember friends and comrades in private next year, as the solemnity of remembrance has been twisted into a justification for conflict

Over the last 10 years the sepia tone of November has become blood-soaked with paper poppies festooning the lapels of our politicians, newsreaders and business leaders. The most fortunate in our society have turned the solemnity of remembrance for fallen soldiers in ancient wars into a justification for our most recent armed conflicts. The American civil war's General Sherman once said that "war is hell", but unfortunately today's politicians in Britain use past wars to bolster our flagging belief in national austerity or to compel us to surrender our rights as citizens, in the name of the public good.

Still, this year I shall wear the poppy as I have done for many years. I wear it because I am from that last generation who remember a war that encompassed the entire world. I wear the poppy because I can recall when Britain was actually threatened with a real invasion and how its citizens stood at the ready to defend her shores. But most importantly, I wear the poppy to commemorate those of my childhood friends and comrades who did not survive the second world war and those who came home physically and emotionally wounded from horrific battles that no poet or journalist could describe.

However, I am afraid it will be the last time that I will bear witness to those soldiers, airmen and sailors who are no more, at my local cenotaph. From now on, I will lament their passing in private because my despair is for those who live in this present world. I will no longer allow my obligation as a veteran to remember those who died in the great wars to be co-opted by current or former politicians to justify our folly in Iraq, our morally dubious war on terror and our elimination of one's right to privacy.

Come 2014 when the government marks the beginning of the first world war with quotes from Rupert Brooke, Rudyard Kipling and other great jingoists from our past empire, I will declare myself a conscientious objector. We must remember that the historical past of this country is not like an episode of Downton Abbey where the rich are portrayed as thoughtful, benevolent masters to poor folk who need the guiding hand of the ruling classes to live a proper life.

I can tell you it didn't happen that way because I was born nine years after the first world war began. I can attest that life for most people was spent in abject poverty where one laboured under brutal working conditions for little pay and lived in houses not fit to kennel a dog today. We must remember that the war was fought by the working classes who comprised 80% of Britain's population in 1913.

This is why I find that the government's intention to spend £50m to dress the slaughter of close to a million British soldiers in the 1914-18 conflict as a fight for freedom and democracy profane. Too many of the dead, from that horrendous war, didn't know real freedom because they were poor and were never truly represented by their members of parliament.

My uncle and many of my relatives died in that war and they weren't officers or NCOs; they were simple Tommies. They were like the hundreds of thousands of other boys who were sent to their slaughter by a government that didn't care to represent their citizens if they were working poor and under-educated. My family members took the king's shilling because they had little choice, whereas many others from similar economic backgrounds were strong-armed into enlisting by war propaganda or press-ganged into military service by their employers.

For many of you 1914 probably seems like a long time ago but I'll be 91 next year, so it feels recent. Today, we have allowed monolithic corporate institutions to set our national agenda. We have allowed vitriol to replace earnest debate and we have somehow deluded ourselves into thinking that wealth is wisdom. But by far the worst error we have made as a people is to think ourselves as taxpayers first and citizens second.

Next year, I won't wear the poppy but I will until my last breath remember the past and the struggles my generation made to build this country into a civilised state for the working and middle classes. If we are to survive as a progressive nation we have to start tending to our living because the wounded: our poor, our underemployed youth, our hard-pressed middle class and our struggling seniors shouldn't be left to die on the battleground of modern life.

1.01.2019

what i'm reading: hunger by roxane gay

During the Ontario provincial election, after a hack from the Toronto Sun drew attention to an unpopular view that I had expressed some years earlier, I was the object of right-wing attacks by email and on social media.

Many of these wingnuts referenced my weight in various disgusting ways. This shocked me because, although I am overweight, I'm not unusually heavy, not large enough to be remarkable. No matter. Total strangers mocked me for being overweight, using a whole slew of pejoratives and curse-words. I had never experienced that before.

I confess that even though I couldn't possibly care less what trolls think of me, each time this happened, I felt a brief pang of humiliation and embarrassment. I've always been impervious to right-wing bullying; if anything, I wear it with pride. But these taunts hurt, if only for a split-second. I wish this weren't true. I'm embarrassed to admit it.

I thought of this experience as I read Roxane Gay's powerful book, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body. I imagined what it might be like to feel that humiliation and embarrassment all the time, multiplied a thousandfold, day in and day out, year after year. To experience this so often and so typically that you come to expect it and imagine it, even when it might not be happening. I tried to imagine the psychic cost.

Gay makes it easy to imagine and to empathize, as she lays bare her thoughts and emotions in a way few memoirists dare. She lays open her heart to the reader. Even more than that. She opens a vein. Few writers allow themselves to be so vulnerable, so emotionally naked. It's impressive, and sometimes painful to read. I felt that Gay is asking us to bear witness. That's not comfortable or easy to do; it's not supposed to be.

Hunger and Gay's unsettling candor is not just about her weight. It's about why she first began to overeat, to build an armor between her and the world. When she was 12 years old, Gay survived an extremely brutal rape -- a gang rape, in fact, organized by someone she loved and trusted. The circumstances surrounding the assault -- who the perpetrator was, and Gay's relationship to him both before and after the attack -- add even more layers of horror.

Overwhelmed by shame and self-blame, Gay never told her parents. For a long time, she never told anyone. Her isolation amplified her feelings of worthlessness, and set her on the path of an extreme eating disorder.

Gay is a committed and informed feminist. Yet she carries an overwhelming hatred of her body, and an almost elemental self-blame and self-hate.
It would be easy to pretend I am just fine with my body as it is. I wish I did not see my body as something for which I should apologize or provide explanation. I'm a feminist and I believe in doing away with the rigid beauty standards that force women to conform to unrealistic ideals. I believe we should have broader definitions of beauty that include diverse body types. I believe it is so important for women to feel comfortable in their bodies, without wanting to change every single thing about their bodies to find that comfort. I (want to) believe my worth as a human being does not reside in my size or appearance. I know, having grown up in a culture that is generally toxic to women and constantly trying to discipline women's bodies, that is important to resist unreasonable standards for how my body or any body should look.

What I know and what I feel are two very different things.
I think most of us can relate to a gap between what we know and what we feel. Much of Hunger resides in that gap.

Gay writes about how her size and her self-loathing impact everything in her life -- travel, dining in restaurants, shopping, public speaking, exercise. And of course, her relationships. In short, she writes about what it's like to be very fat in a fat-phobic world -- and by extension, what it's like to be a woman in a world where the female appearance is relentlessly policed and judged.

Some of the best pieces in Hunger focus on reality television, the weight-loss industry, and the culture of celebrity fat-shaming. I'm no stranger to this material, but Gay's analysis is trenchant and bracing.

Her writing is spare, and it is blunt. Where it shines the brightest -- and paradoxically, where it's most difficult to read -- is her analysis of the aftermath and enduring effects of the rape. Throughout, she connects her private struggles to the larger public sphere.

Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body is an important book, both deeply personal and staunchly political.

If you're interested but don't think you'll read it, here are two very good reviews: The New Yorker and The Guardian.

12.31.2018

more trip pics on flickr

More photos from our drive west are now on my Flickr page: here.

I'll also be adding to the sets vancouver island and vancouver island north as we explore.

the view from here

This is the view around the corner from our place, maybe 100 metres down the main road into town -- when it's not raining.


looking back, looking ahead: the year that was 2018

Last year at this time, the wmtc i hate christmas tradition -- after being in decline for several years -- roared back in full swing.

This year we enjoyed the two extra days off, and I found nothing to hate, or even dislike. About half the houses in our neighbourhood have holiday lights. People wish each other Merry Christmas, and when I say Happy Holidays, it appears unremarkable.

And now it's New Year's Eve, one of the few holidays I really love. A time to look back and look forward, to take stock and to make plans. On this arbitrary date (it hasn't always been January 1!), the whole secular world flips the calendar and tries to make a fresh start.

This has been an eventful year! Events were fun, stressful, horrible, surreal, nerve-wracking, heartbreaking, amazing, and wonderful.

- We visited Vancouver Island with my brother and sister-in-law, to see if we wanted to live there.

- I was asked to stand for election in the Ontario provincial elections, and accepted the nomination.

- I took a leave of absence from the Mississauga library to campaign.

- I was targeted by a right-wing hack, and got doxed by wingnuts. I became a meme!

- The NDP came in second in our riding, beating the Liberal candidate who had vastly more resources. This was a first in Mississauga.

- I applied for a job with the Vancouver Island library.

- We spent two weeks in provincial parks in Northern Ontario.

- We decided if I was offered the position, we would move to a tiny town in the remote North Island.

- We signed a lease before I was even interviewed.

- I got the job!

- Allan was asked to keep his same position, working from home!

- I resigned as president of CUPE Local 1989.

- We said goodbye to friends, comrades, and union family.

- We drove from Mississauga to Port Hardy! We did this with my brother, a huge truck, our tiny car, and our dog. Our sister-in-law joined the party in Calgary.

2019 promises to be much less eventful. I very much hope it keeps its promise.

As always, thanks for reading. I wish you all the best in the year ahead. Stay in touch, eh?

12.25.2018

listening to joni: #7: the hissing of summer lawns

The Hissing of Summer Lawns, 1975

Front and back covers:
The landscapes of the songs
Joni's seventh studio album (her ninth album overall) is both a continuation and a departure. The Hissing of Summer Lawns is rich and multi-layered, somewhat enigmatic, full of interesting images and sounds that are open to interpretation. When I'm in a certain mood, this becomes my favourite of all Joni's albums, surpassing even Court and Spark in my imagination, flooring me with its beauty and complexity.

Musically, on this album Joni continues to bring more jazz arrangements to her songs. But she also begins something new: the music is used very sparingly, sometimes only for rhythm, while the melody is carried by only one instrument, Joni's voice.

This is most pronounced in some of the album's most memorable numbers: "Edith and the Kingpin," "Don't Interrupt the Sorrow," "Shades of Scarlett Conquering," and "The Boho Dance". Listen to each of those songs and try to find the melody from the instruments: you can't. The instruments provide a rhythmic backdrop, harmonies, or counterpoints. The melody is almost entirely vocal.

Inside cover: Joni in the pool
I didn't notice this until I began to listen more to Hejira, the album that follows Hissing, where this idea takes full flight. Listening to these albums in order of release, time and again I've heard a musical expression in one album, then an expansion of that idea in the next. This project has been wonderful for that.

The vocals themselves are as rich and pure as anything Joni has sung to this point, her voice at its greatest warmth and range. She uses her "vocal acting" sparingly and precisely. In "Scarlett," there is "cinematic lovers sway" and "she likes to have things her way..."; in "The BoHo Dance, "....Jesus was a beggar" and "Don't you get sensitive on me"; in "Edith," "the wires in the walls are humming". If you can't hear those in your mind as you read them, go and have a listen.

Lyrically, although some of the themes of these songs are familiar, their forms and structures are very different. Joni goes seemingly to a new place, leaving the first-person for the third, from so-called confessional (a label she always rejected) to story songs, very nearly like traditional ballads.

Of 10 songs on this album, seven are stories, and another two can be read that way. Court and Spark has story-songs -- "Raised on Robbery," "Trouble Child," for example -- but the album as a whole retains a first-person feel. The stories on Hissing are like little movies. There is the couple in the title track, she nesting and lonely, he overworked and alienated. There is the gossiping women in "Edith," and Edith herself, with her dubious prize. The woman in "Sorrow," proud and angry but also resigned. The couple from "Harry's House" might be the same people from "Hissing," a little farther into their lives. In "The Boho Dance," Joni hands us the movie script: "A camera pans the cocktail hour / Behind a blind of potted palms".

Many images from these lyrics are indelible for me. "A helicopter lands on the Pan Am roof / Like a dragonfly on a tomb" and
His eyes hold Edith
His left hand holds his right
What does that hand desire
That he grips it so tight
There are many unhappy people in these stories, especially many women whose lives have taken bad turns or who have made bad choices, valued the wrong things. But the lyrics aren't biting or cutting, the songs don't condemn them. The woman whose moods and choices echo Gone with the Wind is cold and imperious, but she's also fragile and lonely. In the suburban world of "Harry's House" or the small-town glamour of "Edith," characters are searching, yearning, struggling, lonely. Joni views them with compassion.

On The Hissing of Summer Lawns, Joni's recurring theme of the conflict between art and commerce finds its greatest and most nuanced expression: "The Boho Dance". Here Joni sings to and about another musician. Whether this person is based on a real friend or is a composite of people she's known doesn't matter. This other musician has chosen the purist route, the life of small smokey rooms, creating music without fame or wealth, or even public recognition. The narrator, Joni's lyrical stand-in, sees the purity as a kind of conformity, a choice -- a dance.
And you were in the parking lot
Subterranean by your own design
The virtue of your style inscribed
On your contempt for mine
In this song, though, Joni doesn't condemn the dance, or dismiss it, or even envy it. She sees it for what it is, "an old romance," and knows it was not for her: "It's just that some steps outside the Boho dance / Have a fascination for me." The woman who wrote "he played real good for free" has seen much more of the music-making world now. She knows herself and accepts her choices.

The final two songs on the album depart from the stories. Joni uses a wider lens here, and becomes philosophical. "Sweet Bird" and "Shadows and Light" are both very different than the rest of the album, and unusual for Joni. "Sweet Bird" is the Sweet Bird of Youth, the title of a Tennessee Williams' play and movie.1, 2 The woman who wrote "it won't be long now, until you drag your feet to slow those circles down" now understands the brevity of those youthful circles in a more profound way.
Sweet bird you are
Briefer than a falling star
All these vain promises on beauty jars
Somewhere with your wings on time
You must be laughing
In this song, Joni declares our grasp of the mysteries of life "guesses at most". The older I get, the more meaningful this is to me. The more we know, the greater the wealth of our experiences, the more we see how little we know, and realize that in so many ways, we are blind and uncomprehending.

Then the album segues into "Shadows and Light," an unusual Joni tune, one that sums up her vision of the world -- one of contrast and duality. Art and commerce, love and freedom, joy and sorrow. She brings us the interconnectedness and commonality of humanity -- and perhaps an idea that our way of seeing and classifying the world is as imperfect and unknowing as we are. Maybe this is why I don't understand the harsh criticism of Joni: because I see the world this way, too.

Bad critic comment of the album

Hissing was received with skepticism and general disdain. There were some positive reviews, but most were dismissive. Many critics cited the lack of conventional melodies and "the problem" of setting poetry to music.

Hissing marks the end of most critics understanding Joni's music, at least for many years to come. Court and Spark was triumphal, and now it was time to start taking her down. (Aimee Mann: "...in a town where winning isn't sweet / And every win is the beginning of defeat".) I don't think Joni ever intended to be opaque or incomprehensible, but the boundaries of popular musical were too small and confining. Critics looking for popular tropes, by definition, will be disappointed.

Writing in The New York Times, Henry Edwards found Hissing "nebulous and pretentious". After referencing a few of the Hissing characters, he claims: "Mitchell has refused to amplify these feminist perceptions with melody, and so they exist as nothing more or less than cocktail jazz-rock." Edwards found the album "eventually becomes numbing."

John Rockwell, one of the godfathers of rock criticism, declares the photo on the inside cover "narcissistic," the lyrics "saccharine," the music "brittle, rhythmically displaced". He dismisses the whole lot as "the same humorless self-absorption that has always marked Miss Mitchell's work". This is a real head-scratcher to me, since almost the entire album is about other people. I wonder, are all photographs of artists on album covers narcissistic?

Rockwell also includes this backhanded praise:
That said, "The Hissing of Summer Lawns" is a fascinating piece of work.3 The poetic interconnections, the musical idioms, the way Miss Mitchell expands her past styles (African drums, more synthesizer than ever) - all fuse into something unique in pop music. This really is the "total work" she tells us it is, and if that means she shows her warts, her warts are slicker, more glamorous and more interesting than almost anybody else's.
The album cover

Joni has drawn a pen-and-ink landscape, the world of the songs contained therein. In the foreground, the jungle line, and perhaps the boho dancers, make their way across a lush green. Two spots of pool-blue show us Harry's house, and the world where the lawns are hissing. Or maybe Joni's house, as inside, she is shown in her pool. The album cover is evocative and enigmatic, like the album.

Cacti or stockings?

This one leaves no doubt. We've got both the ripped stockings and the lace/stockings with the jeans.
But even on the scuffle
The cleaner's press was in my jeans
And any eye for detail
Caught a little lace along the seams
. . . .
A camera pans the cocktail hour
Behind a blind of potted palms
And finds a lady in a Paris dress
With runs in her nylons
Other musicians on this album

Many musicians played on this album, chiefly:
Electric piano, Joe Sample
Electric guitar, Larry Carlton
Bass, Wilton Felder
Bass, Max Benett
Drums, John Guerin
Horns, Chuck Findley
Keyboards and percussion, Victor Feldman

And also:
Electric guitar, Jeff Baxter
Horns and woodwinds, Bud Shank
Vocals, James Taylor (also guitar)
Vocals, Graham Nash, David Crosby
...and the warrior drums of Burundi

The rich vocals on "Shadows and Light" are all Joni and a Farfisa synthesizer.

Joni herself tells us:
This record is a total work conceived graphically, musically, lyrically and accidentally - as a whole. The performances were guided by the given compositional structures and the audibly inspired beauty of every player. The whole unfolded like a mystery. It is not my intention to unravel that mystery for anyone, but rather to offer some additional clues:

"Centerpiece" is a Johnny Mandel-Jon Hendricks tune. John Guerin and I collaborated on "The Hissing Of Summer Lawns." "The Boho Dance" is a Tom Wolfe-ism from the book, "The Painted Word." The poem, "Don't Interrupt The Sorrow" was born around 4 a.m. in a New York loft. Larry Poons seeded it and Bobby Neuwirth was midwife here, but the child filtered thru Genesis at Jackson Lake, Saskatchewan, is rebellious and mystical and insists that its conception was immaculate.
This is first time Joni has included notes of this kind on an album.

Note: I enjoyed writing this more comprehensive review. I'm thinking of going back to my posts on Blue and Court and Spark and fleshing them out a little more.

1. I don't know if Joni is referencing the title of the play or if both titles share a common origin.

2. "Shades of Scarlett Conquering" is often said to evoke Blanche DuBois, of Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire. I've wondered if there's a connection.

3. Early "that said" sighting!

12.24.2018

another piece to check off the list: we have a new vet

We knew there was a veterinary clinic in our area, the North Island Veterinary Hospital. But I was a bit concerned. This is a bias a mine, perhaps unfounded, but in my experience, people in rural areas may be less vigilant about the health of their dogs and cats, leaving things more to nature than to modern medicine. I wondered, would we find a vet who "got" us, who would understand and support the place our dogs hold in our lives? Would it be a problem to order Diego's special food? Would they be up to date on the latest treatment options?

Earlier this week, we learned the answers are yes, yes, and yes. This is a great relief!

We are still treating Diego for a skin infection, likely caused by allergies. We're running out of meds, so this was an excuse to meet a new vet and check out the clinic. As soon as we walked in, I knew we would be all right. It's a large, bright, modern facility, with all the prescription foods for sale, and friendly, professional staff.

The vet we saw is here on a temporary gig. He's from Saskatoon, and he's working in month-long rotations at various west coast towns. He was super nice, and very knowledgeable and competent -- which speaks well of the principal vet who hired him.

He was great with Diego. We've had only bad experiences with male vets and uniformly good experiences with female vets, so I wanted to see his bedside manner, so to speak. He was perfect. Another relief. (This post reveals two of my main biases! In 30 years of dogs, I've had a lot of time to form them.)

There are normally three doctors at this clinic. They are open seven days a week, and have a satellite office in nearby Port McNeill (home to another of "my" libraries).

We even learned something new. Dogs in this area need flea and tick protection all year, something our old vet thought we might find. What we didn't know is that there's now an oral treatment that's good for three months. Nice!

I was much more concerned about finding a good vet than about finding a good family doctor. My experience with medical professionals in Canada has been very positive, that I'm expecting a positive experience when we check out the Port Hardy Primary Health Care Centre. I'll keep you posted.