I am not a psychologist, or a scientist and I can only just barely do math, however I believe in the Universal Collective Unconscious. This was a theory originated by Freud and expounded on by his younger colleague, Carl Jung. For me the UCU explains why children today have an seemingly intrinsic ability to ride a bike, to drive a car, even to use a computer. In Jung's words, the collective unconscious is "the deposit of ancestral experience from untold millions of years, the echo of prehistoric world events to which each century adds an infinitesimally small amount of variation and differentiation" (1928, p. 162). (Retrieved May 16, 2010 from: http://psych.athabascau.ca/html/Glossary/demo_glossary.cgi?term_id=%221178%22)
Every now and again I have an experience that makes me realize that perhaps my thoughts are not my own; actually, I am convinced I have never had an original thought. For example, in the mid- nineteen eighties I was working as a bicycle mechanic. The owner, my employer was a friend and we spent many hours talking about the future. "What do you really want to do," he asked? "I want to teach," I answered. "But if that doesn't happen (which at that time was the way it was looking), I would love to open a bookstore and maybe sell coffee, cheesecake and other fresh baking as well." No more than a week later my employer called me out of the back to introduce me to a couple in the shop. "These people are opening your store," he said with a laugh. They had in fact just bought a place in which they were going to open a bookstore and bakery. The mid to late eighties was around the time of the start of the coffee culture in BC. I suppose it was just a fluke, but who's to say that all flukes aren't created by the universal collective unconscious.
Another time, in the late fall, I went to the local kitchen shop to see about buying a pudding mold for my Christmas puddings. The store owner had one, but thought perhaps there was a second one in the basement. I said I would check back in. A week or so later the owner came out of the store and said she had found the second mold. I had already made my puddings (which turned out excellently I might add), and wasn't feeling financially flush so I said thanks but no thanks. The next time I was in the shop the owner told me that the same afternoon that I turned down the pudding mold a tourist had come into the shop and had inquired as to whether she might have a pudding mold. She was gobsmacked. She had only sold one or two since the store had opened and now she had sold two within a week.
The universal collective unconscious is also equated with psychic ability. Perhaps some people are more in tune to the collective waves than others. In the book, Jung and Tarot: an archetypal journey by Sallie Nichols the author states, "[Jung] recognized at once, as he did in so many other games and primordial attempts at divination of the unseen and the future, that Tarot had its origin and anticipation in profound patterns of the collective unconscious with access to potentials of increased awareness uniquely at the disposal of these patterns". (xiv) I was told once that I was a sender; that my thought were easy to read. If that's true am I responsible for the return of the seventies? In June of 1993 I hosted a seventies themed party at my house, ever since then there has been a global seventies revival. Sorry, I'll try to be more careful in the future.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Do you hear what I hear?
There is a song by the band Panic at the Disco that includes the line, "...haven't you people ever heard of, closing the goddamn door." This line was recently brought to mind as I listened to some students in the washroom across the hall. Their voices reverberated around the tiled walls, bounced around the corner of the modern, door-less facility and wandered happily across the hall to where I sat, trying to mind my own business, not really interested in how many people you know who actually take a dump at school.
I am an eavesdropper of epic skill. While living in Montreal and Victoria it wasn't unusual for me to miss my metro or bus stop, rather than miss the end of a juicy conversation. I usually had a book open, feigning an interest, and I almost always had the headphones of my small portable tape player in, although the music was usually turned way down, or even off. My eavesdropping has always been good-natured; I have only rarely entered into a conversation, "...'Scuse me, I couldn't help overhearing...". In fact, I could have helped it, I just tend to choose not to.
I recently found myself relaxing at a hot spring. I had a pool noodle under my neck and my feet up on the edge of the pool. My husband actually drifted off to sleep that way, but my ears were working overtime. Even partially submerged they fought to catch snippets of conversation. I heard many languages; German, Japanese, possibly Mandarin or another Asian language, some Scandinavian language and the language of a lower mainland city dweller who has just discovered and fallen in love with the Kootenays. "What are the house prices like? How big is the hospital? Do marijuana growers really make up that big a part of the economy? Are the hippies a problem?" My answer, go home. There isn't enough work for those of us that live here, it is because of the lifestyle immigrants that our house prices are so high, and no the economy is mostly driven by tourists like you, and what exactly do you consider a hippie?
Anyway....
There is a vast difference between eavesdropping on an intimate conversation and being subjected to the opinions, ramblings and profanity of those who are simply loud talkers; those who don't have an inside voice, those who need to speak at top volume whether they are in a bathroom, on a bus, or across a lake or a hot spring pool. Perhaps these people are unaware of the properties of water that makes it an excellent sound conductor. Perhaps because of our awareness of sounds around us, my husband and I tend to hushed tones, or silence if the venue demands it.
We talk about air pollution, water pollution and even light pollution; what about sound pollution? To me it is a demonstration of extreme arrogance to believe that everyone and everything in the campground, or neighbourhood wants to listen to your music, let alone your conversation. I remember laying in bed listening to a house party, feeling almost nauseous as Cher bellowed out her third song in a row. My husband I like to listen to music too, but we are almost hyper-conscious of keeping it to ourselves. I wonder what makes us so different from those who feel it's okay to crank up the satellite radio's country station, open all the doors on their overly large, probably diesel pick-up truck (which they will idle for what seems like forever in the wee hours of the morning) and force everyone within a huge radius to listen to their music. The crowning touch on one camping trip was when they finally turned the music down, they cranked up the diesel generator for the next two hours.
I am an eavesdropper of epic skill. While living in Montreal and Victoria it wasn't unusual for me to miss my metro or bus stop, rather than miss the end of a juicy conversation. I usually had a book open, feigning an interest, and I almost always had the headphones of my small portable tape player in, although the music was usually turned way down, or even off. My eavesdropping has always been good-natured; I have only rarely entered into a conversation, "...'Scuse me, I couldn't help overhearing...". In fact, I could have helped it, I just tend to choose not to.
I recently found myself relaxing at a hot spring. I had a pool noodle under my neck and my feet up on the edge of the pool. My husband actually drifted off to sleep that way, but my ears were working overtime. Even partially submerged they fought to catch snippets of conversation. I heard many languages; German, Japanese, possibly Mandarin or another Asian language, some Scandinavian language and the language of a lower mainland city dweller who has just discovered and fallen in love with the Kootenays. "What are the house prices like? How big is the hospital? Do marijuana growers really make up that big a part of the economy? Are the hippies a problem?" My answer, go home. There isn't enough work for those of us that live here, it is because of the lifestyle immigrants that our house prices are so high, and no the economy is mostly driven by tourists like you, and what exactly do you consider a hippie?
Anyway....
There is a vast difference between eavesdropping on an intimate conversation and being subjected to the opinions, ramblings and profanity of those who are simply loud talkers; those who don't have an inside voice, those who need to speak at top volume whether they are in a bathroom, on a bus, or across a lake or a hot spring pool. Perhaps these people are unaware of the properties of water that makes it an excellent sound conductor. Perhaps because of our awareness of sounds around us, my husband and I tend to hushed tones, or silence if the venue demands it.
We talk about air pollution, water pollution and even light pollution; what about sound pollution? To me it is a demonstration of extreme arrogance to believe that everyone and everything in the campground, or neighbourhood wants to listen to your music, let alone your conversation. I remember laying in bed listening to a house party, feeling almost nauseous as Cher bellowed out her third song in a row. My husband I like to listen to music too, but we are almost hyper-conscious of keeping it to ourselves. I wonder what makes us so different from those who feel it's okay to crank up the satellite radio's country station, open all the doors on their overly large, probably diesel pick-up truck (which they will idle for what seems like forever in the wee hours of the morning) and force everyone within a huge radius to listen to their music. The crowning touch on one camping trip was when they finally turned the music down, they cranked up the diesel generator for the next two hours.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Fishing Report
My daily drive takes me past a lake which in another couple of months will be a destination swimming hole, a picnic site, a leisurely canoe spot. It also provides reasonably good fishing. The lake sits at the same elevation as another superior fishing lake, just beyond my destination. Consequently every evening I am required to report to my fly-fisher husband how much ice is off the lake.
I have been watching the lake, the patterns on the thinning ice, for almost six weeks. When I began the drive I could see evidence of cross-country skiers; lines and holes. From my mobile vantage point, which provides only a fleeting glimpse, I could see the tracks of animals taking advantage of an ice bridge and cutting the corners of the trail around the lake. However the weather has been getting steadily warmer, and with the exception of one day, which saw a good dump of snow on the road and on the bluing ice, each day has seen more open water exposed around the shore like a fringe of thinning hair on a balding man. Curiously the patterns on the currently exposed layer of ice appear to be the tracks of a vehicle, perhaps a quad testing the limits of stupidity by driving across the middle of the lake.
There is a second lake I pass, a resort lake: larger, warmer, poorer fishing but better swimming and recreational boating. Yesterday as I checked to see how much higher the water level was compared to the cabins and houses on the shore, I saw a fish rise and sip off the surface. I too am a fisher. The first time my husband took me fishing he observed, "You've got the bug".
"I always had it", I replied, "It was just in remission".
I have always loved fishing. When I was young my grampa used to take my cousin and I fishing at small out-of-the-way lakes, rivers, and streams; I believe even then it wasn't so much about the fishing, we were occasionally successful, but about quality time. I have to believe my grampa would have been more successful without two children tangling lines. I remember watching my grampa casting, not understanding, but somehow recognizing the skill and beauty of an accomplished fly-fisher. I see and feel that again when I watch my husband casting, especially on a river. There is something inherently peaceful, graceful and natural about casting into a river. I have always loved fishing and I loved the time with my grampa and my cousin. How many ten year old girls get a fishing rod for a birthday present? I remember I had an old metal tackle box that I spray painted blue. I would go to the river that ran through town or the creek. I don't think I ever caught anything, but I believe I have always seen fishing the way some people see the lottery; I'm not going to catch anything if I don't have a line in the water. I don't remember when my grampa stopped taking us fishing. It was probably around the time when my cousin and I became teenagers more interested in hanging with our friends than our family.
It was more than ten years before I fished again; I caught a 27 pound spring salmon while working for the summer in Rivers Inlet. It was another twenty years until the first time I went with the man who would become my husband. I have since taken a course in casting, learned some entomology, and re-discovered a passion. I know I am nowhere near the fisher my grampa was, or that my husband is, but I love it. When I received new wading boots and a sleeve for my G Loomis rod for Christmas I felt like I was ten again. I love the thrill when the reel sings, the challenge of landing the catch, the sun, the water, even the rain. I love the sense of accomplishment when a fish is caught on a fly my husband made, and when we're catching while others are merely fishing.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Bifurcated Houses
The hours between 6:30 and 7:30 are pretty quiet on the road I drive. There are a few other early morning commuters like me, but the majority of the traffic is transport trucks. There are the usual chip trucks, and other multi-axled delivery vehicles working hard to keep our consumer society happy. What has struck me though, since the first day almost a month ago is the number of modular homes heading east every morning.
You first know they're coming because of the flashing lights of the wide-load pilot vehicle; then comes half a house, balanced on a flat-deck, like an overweight diner perched on a picnic bench. Invariably it seems I meet them on a tight corner, or where the cliff goes straight up and straight down. The half is closely followed by its mate and the twin pilot truck at the back, completing the parade. There has easily been one of these almost every day, always going east.
Other evidence has made me think that somewhere to the east there is a suburb being built. Like the baseball fan in WP Kinsella's "The Thrill of the Grass" who secretly plants real grass in Wrigley Field, I think someone is surreptitiously building a subdivision. It isn't just the yin/yang houses but trees. The first time I saw the massive tree on the back of a truck I had no idea what I was seeing; something big, long, and lumpy swaddled under a tarp with branches sticking out the back. It was the third or fourth time that I realized it was a tree, or perhaps trees being transported from nursery to an adoptive home. I can see them pandiculating as the tarp is removed and they are set into the earth to continue their lives.
The obvious thought would be the construction of a neighbourhood to the east, but what if it is in fact the dismantling of a neighbourhood to the west. Perhaps a house by house exodus of disaffected west-coasters who have lost their will to keep up the fight. This thought arises with the third, frequent, and modestly unusual transport load I see on a regular basis, again heading east. Flattened cars. Every couple of days a I swap wind with a flat-deck loaded with flattened cars; their purpose made redundant only to be re-purposed in the spirit of ecology. When I was young I remember my dad talking about going to see Sam the car crusher at work. I don't know where the name Sam came from, but ever since then, when I drive by metallic graveyards I think of Sam and while watching this interrupted convoy I find a warm memory. It creates a pretty interesting picture when they are all put together, the houses, the trees and the pancaked cars; new beginnings, relocation, the end?
You first know they're coming because of the flashing lights of the wide-load pilot vehicle; then comes half a house, balanced on a flat-deck, like an overweight diner perched on a picnic bench. Invariably it seems I meet them on a tight corner, or where the cliff goes straight up and straight down. The half is closely followed by its mate and the twin pilot truck at the back, completing the parade. There has easily been one of these almost every day, always going east.
Other evidence has made me think that somewhere to the east there is a suburb being built. Like the baseball fan in WP Kinsella's "The Thrill of the Grass" who secretly plants real grass in Wrigley Field, I think someone is surreptitiously building a subdivision. It isn't just the yin/yang houses but trees. The first time I saw the massive tree on the back of a truck I had no idea what I was seeing; something big, long, and lumpy swaddled under a tarp with branches sticking out the back. It was the third or fourth time that I realized it was a tree, or perhaps trees being transported from nursery to an adoptive home. I can see them pandiculating as the tarp is removed and they are set into the earth to continue their lives.
The obvious thought would be the construction of a neighbourhood to the east, but what if it is in fact the dismantling of a neighbourhood to the west. Perhaps a house by house exodus of disaffected west-coasters who have lost their will to keep up the fight. This thought arises with the third, frequent, and modestly unusual transport load I see on a regular basis, again heading east. Flattened cars. Every couple of days a I swap wind with a flat-deck loaded with flattened cars; their purpose made redundant only to be re-purposed in the spirit of ecology. When I was young I remember my dad talking about going to see Sam the car crusher at work. I don't know where the name Sam came from, but ever since then, when I drive by metallic graveyards I think of Sam and while watching this interrupted convoy I find a warm memory. It creates a pretty interesting picture when they are all put together, the houses, the trees and the pancaked cars; new beginnings, relocation, the end?
Friday, April 23, 2010
Maybe Sparrow
My current job has a four day work week, Monday to Thursday. I learned quickly to relish my three day weekend, but I left my name on the call list for Fridays anyway. I have been called every Friday but have been unable or unwilling until today. Today I agreed to drive 35 minutes east in the morning. My regular job allows me to drive west in the morning and east in the evening. It's perfect; the sun is behind me both ways.
I pulled out of the driveway with the penultimate chapter of Nikolski playing on my Ipod, my coffee, and the sun in my eyes. As I neared the corner at the end of town, before I turned down the hill, I saw a young man with a tool belt and a skate board looking for a ride. I pulled over. As I came to a stop I suddenly panicked, "Crap," I thought, "I have a book playing." I listen to some good music and it is a point of pride for me to not appear like the mid to late 40 something that I am when it comes to music. I grabbed my Ipod off the passenger seat and there was the sound, the bloopy de bloop sound that means my Ipod has just shuffled away from what I was listening too. The indie sound of Neko Case fills my car.
The young man had slept in and was on his way to a construction job a little way beyond where I was going, so he got in. We chatted about my job, his job, the lack of work for both of us in the community in which we live; the past, the future. I realized before long that this was the second time I had picked him up. This winter, on our way home from a family Christmas on December 27th, my daughters and I picked him up. We had driven by, but turned around and got him because his sign said, "Please".
I pulled out of the driveway with the penultimate chapter of Nikolski playing on my Ipod, my coffee, and the sun in my eyes. As I neared the corner at the end of town, before I turned down the hill, I saw a young man with a tool belt and a skate board looking for a ride. I pulled over. As I came to a stop I suddenly panicked, "Crap," I thought, "I have a book playing." I listen to some good music and it is a point of pride for me to not appear like the mid to late 40 something that I am when it comes to music. I grabbed my Ipod off the passenger seat and there was the sound, the bloopy de bloop sound that means my Ipod has just shuffled away from what I was listening too. The indie sound of Neko Case fills my car.
The young man had slept in and was on his way to a construction job a little way beyond where I was going, so he got in. We chatted about my job, his job, the lack of work for both of us in the community in which we live; the past, the future. I realized before long that this was the second time I had picked him up. This winter, on our way home from a family Christmas on December 27th, my daughters and I picked him up. We had driven by, but turned around and got him because his sign said, "Please".
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Raven's End
Today it was squirrels, spaced at seemingly regular intervals, perched a couple of feet into my lane. They all made it off the road. The image of the squirrels brought to mind a scene from the novel, Raven's End by Ben Gaad. This is lovely book that I highly recommend to readers of all ages. There is a scene in the book where the squirrels are discussing the "ritual" of essentially playing chicken on the highway to prove their worth. (My daughter has the book at college with her so I couldn't get a direct quote.)
If I could choose, I would rather have squirrels at regular intervals than the small flocks of birds that gather in the centre of the highway in the early spring. I'll never forget one day while driving to the ski-hill I saw a truck swerve into a flock of those birds. I couldn't count the number left feebly flapping on the road. On one of my first drives home it was terribly windy. I was following a transport truck and suddenly a bird flew right into my windshield. It was a horrible, helpless feeling as I looked in my rear view. I had that feeling again the other day as I saw what appeared to be a bird weakly flapping in the middle of the road. I chuckled when I realized it was a paperback. Was it that bad a book? Had it been left on a roof after a roadside read beside the river in the sun? I am an avowed print junkie; it was all I could do to not stop and check the title.
When I was living in Montreal in the late 1980s I spent most of my time walking around that amazing city. One evening as I neared my home I saw someone kicking something down the sidewalk, much like one would kick a rock for blocks and blocks, except it was a 33 1/3 vinyl record. I couldn't resist. I followed this odd image until all that was left was a few shards on the sidewalk. I could read the label though, The Bay City Rollers. Somehow appropriate.
If I could choose, I would rather have squirrels at regular intervals than the small flocks of birds that gather in the centre of the highway in the early spring. I'll never forget one day while driving to the ski-hill I saw a truck swerve into a flock of those birds. I couldn't count the number left feebly flapping on the road. On one of my first drives home it was terribly windy. I was following a transport truck and suddenly a bird flew right into my windshield. It was a horrible, helpless feeling as I looked in my rear view. I had that feeling again the other day as I saw what appeared to be a bird weakly flapping in the middle of the road. I chuckled when I realized it was a paperback. Was it that bad a book? Had it been left on a roof after a roadside read beside the river in the sun? I am an avowed print junkie; it was all I could do to not stop and check the title.
When I was living in Montreal in the late 1980s I spent most of my time walking around that amazing city. One evening as I neared my home I saw someone kicking something down the sidewalk, much like one would kick a rock for blocks and blocks, except it was a 33 1/3 vinyl record. I couldn't resist. I followed this odd image until all that was left was a few shards on the sidewalk. I could read the label though, The Bay City Rollers. Somehow appropriate.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
A Ration of Cheezies
I have recently started a job (a real job with a contract and everything) which requires me to drive 98km to and from everyday. When I tell friends and acquaintances and anyone who cares to listen about this they tend to shrink back in horror, "What a commute," they say. "I quite enjoy it," I reply. And it's true, I do.
When I got the job, one of the first things I did was download a bunch of Between the Covers podcasts from CBC. I listened spellbound to The Book of Negroes trying to mete out the episodes, allowing only three per day; trying to make it last like a really good cup of coffee. Still it was finished too quickly. Since then I have listened to multiple books including: Howard Engels, Memory Book (I would definitely recommend also reading his nonfiction The Man who Forgot How to Read in addition), Open Arms, Gently Down the Stream, and currently Nikolski the 2010 Canada Reads winner.
I see quite a lot of wildlife as I drive, and domestic life too. I love this time of year when I get to see all the calves in the fields with their mums. Every morning I look for the small figures, usually black, sometimes the colour of the foam on a latte, in the field beside the highway. Yesterday I saw a cow looking a bit distressed, kicking out and it appeared to be bawling. I wondered if perhaps she was going into labour.
Every morning for about a week I saw a Golden Eagle feasting on fresh road kill with a colony of turkey vultures nearby. I wasn't sure if it was a Golden Eagle until I saw it fly. I think it probably could have picked up my small, economical-yet-sporty, car and carried it away.
This morning a coyote ran full on towards my car. I made eye contact with him as I hit the brakes and he wheeled around and headed for the other side of the road. That was the second coyote in a week. Later this morning a small brown and white jack rabbit high-tailed it across the road without so much as a glance to either side. I'm thinking there wasn't a tortoise involved today.
As I drive home in the afternoon I eat an apple and a ration of Cheezies; Hawkins Cheezies, the only cheese snack worth eating. They are my weakness so, like listening to the books, I limit myself to a small handful each day. I munch thoughtfully listening to the quiet, expressive voice of who ever is reading that particular book. I drink my water and enjoy my drive, I really do.
When I got the job, one of the first things I did was download a bunch of Between the Covers podcasts from CBC. I listened spellbound to The Book of Negroes trying to mete out the episodes, allowing only three per day; trying to make it last like a really good cup of coffee. Still it was finished too quickly. Since then I have listened to multiple books including: Howard Engels, Memory Book (I would definitely recommend also reading his nonfiction The Man who Forgot How to Read in addition), Open Arms, Gently Down the Stream, and currently Nikolski the 2010 Canada Reads winner.
I see quite a lot of wildlife as I drive, and domestic life too. I love this time of year when I get to see all the calves in the fields with their mums. Every morning I look for the small figures, usually black, sometimes the colour of the foam on a latte, in the field beside the highway. Yesterday I saw a cow looking a bit distressed, kicking out and it appeared to be bawling. I wondered if perhaps she was going into labour.
Every morning for about a week I saw a Golden Eagle feasting on fresh road kill with a colony of turkey vultures nearby. I wasn't sure if it was a Golden Eagle until I saw it fly. I think it probably could have picked up my small, economical-yet-sporty, car and carried it away.
This morning a coyote ran full on towards my car. I made eye contact with him as I hit the brakes and he wheeled around and headed for the other side of the road. That was the second coyote in a week. Later this morning a small brown and white jack rabbit high-tailed it across the road without so much as a glance to either side. I'm thinking there wasn't a tortoise involved today.
As I drive home in the afternoon I eat an apple and a ration of Cheezies; Hawkins Cheezies, the only cheese snack worth eating. They are my weakness so, like listening to the books, I limit myself to a small handful each day. I munch thoughtfully listening to the quiet, expressive voice of who ever is reading that particular book. I drink my water and enjoy my drive, I really do.
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