appeal to a worker for the public good

with apologies to Dylan Thomas

Do not fit neatly into that noble plight,
Civil servants should burn and rave in their cubicled way;
Rage, rage against the mindless service of what’s right.

Though wise plebeians often call upon their foresight,
Because their words are drained till dull and grey
They do not fit neatly into that noble plight.

Good minds, they dream and cry, lamenting the height
They might have attained in another way,
Rage, rage against the mindless service of what’s right.

Great leaps of thought, limned ’round with logic bright,
Might fail to make it in by end of day,
Do not fit neatly into that noble plight.

Clear minds, near lost, that can’t see true words from trite,
That’d otherwise command all there is to say,
Rage, rage against the mindless service of what’s right.

And you, pale servant, with th’aspect of a long-dead wight,
Curse, bless me now with your key messages, I pray.
Do not fit neatly into that noble plight.
Rage, rage against the mindless service of what’s right.

...are you there, dad? --it's you, Margaret!!

(...with apologies to Judy Blume)

Mel tells me this little beauty was born on Jan 30th at the Chester Zoo in Merseyside, which is pretty much the same part of the world from which dad hailed. Heck, if you're gonna come back, you might as well be a giraffe, right?

obituary

Thanks to everyone for their kindness - it means a lot to me and my family. Dad's obituary will run in the Saturday edition of the Toronto Star and the Globe and Mail, and in Sunday's Star as well.

McKenna, Robert Ivan (“Mac”)

October 4, 1942 - January 29, 2008. Died in hospital after a determined battle with cancer. He gave no quarter—it was taken from him with stunning rapidity by this cruel disease. As was his wish, he was at home almost to the end. Husband of Anne, father of Sosie and Addie, aka Sophia (Tom) and Alexander (Sue). Brother to Anita (Michael) Whelan, brother-in-law to Jennifer, Janet and John. Uncle to Rebecca, Dominic, Samantha, Jason, Josephine, Daniel and Thomas. Dear friend to Tony Barry, Findlay Sleigh, and Denis Clark. Deepest thanks to Robert’s dedicated team of naturopathic doctors, the staff at Sunnybrook, and the staff of the Temmy Latner Centre at Mount Sinai. Your exceptional care and compassion will never be forgotten. Funeral at the Carfrae Chapel, Mount Pleasant Cemetery, on Monday, February 4, 2008, 2 p.m. A wake to have a drink for Robert will be held in the near future (details tba). He loved roses. Donations can be made in Robert’s memory to the Robert Schad Naturopathic Clinic or the Department of Research and Clinical Epidemiology of the Canadian College of Naturopathic Medicine. www.ccnm.edu

so long, dad

Robert Ivan McKenna - Actor, writer, and loads of other things
October 4, 1942 - January 29, 2008

I'm so very sorry, but am so glad you're not hurting anymore.

You made your own choices, stuck by what you wanted, called the shots, and fought with every ounce of strength you had. Dylan Thomas would've been proud. You did not go gentle, and you raged right through to the end.

I'll miss you.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

fire in my head

Tom Cowan’s book, Fire in the Head, explores the independently-developed similarities in shamanic tradition across the globe. I read it a number of years ago, but elements of it are ingrained in my mind.

In many cultures, when someone is “called” to be a shaman, when they develop that fire in the head, they often fall ill. If they resist, if they do not heed this call within a period of time, they die.

In a parallel universe, I’m in a job interview right. this. second. Here and now, I’m not in that interview, and am feeling okay about it. I withdrew last night.

When I was 18, I made choices out of fear, and changed the entire course of my life with one sheet of paper. With one word. Instead of writing “English” on my blanket university application, I wrote “geography”, because I was afraid of a life of poverty—of literal death. As the daughter of a writer consumed by his craft, by the fire in his head, I lived in straitened circumstances, and I was terrified of that same poverty following me into my own adult life.

It was years before I realised that I’d traded one type of impoverishment for another. That single word was my attempt to smother the fire in my own head. I too had been called, and had refused to heed the summons. I was too young to realise the imperative nature of the call. I thought it could be turned off.

And so I find myself today with a fantastic salary, but no sense of comfort or security. I’m poor all the same. Impoverished, and burning up from the fire in my head. It’s true: ignoring the summons does lead to illness. I’ve spent years forcibly trying to separate myself from my nature, and now realise that it’s as cruel and horrifying a pursuit as physically trying to peel my skin from my flesh.

It’s time. It’s time to feed the flames, to stoke the fire, and to start, rather than waiting for my life to start for me. I’ve often expressed that I don’t know who I am, what I think, or what I like; last week, someone told me they think that, deep down, I do know, but that I have trouble reconciling this with my uncertainty as to whether I’ll be acceptable to others. I instantly knew this was true.

I don’t know what this will look like—or what I will look like for that matter, other than messy, filthy, and betimes bloody—but at least I’ll be wearing my own skin.

No more smoke signals, if I can help it. It’s time to let the fire burn true.

evener keel

That'd be a great name for a character in a novel, wouldn't it?

Today's a great example of medicine's effectiveness. I'm ready to fight crime...or at least get on with it. :)

I wish I had some telepathic way of doing stuff at home when I'm not there. I'm feeling inspired to sort stuff out, but by the time I return, the powerful tractor beam emitted by my computer will probably override the finest of intentions. At least I'm a Slayer of Giants in the electronic realm...

...and some levity

To counterbalance that last post, I offer the following, courtesy of Cristina:

articulating...

Even though I love playing with words, sometimes they fail me. It's impossible to capture certain thoughts or mind-states without penning an essay. That's where folks like the Inspiral Carpets come in. Oh look - they have a new album for the first time in over 10 years... Lately, watching myself and how I move through the world, I feel like Plutoman. Self-inflicted, self-caused, self-limiting, and somewhat schizoid or schizotypal.

Colours and music is what you will see and you live for
Take a ride with a stingray and you'll see the world through his eyes...

...You know what they say about the lady who talks with the fishes:
They say that she'll always have at least a billion billion friends
And somewhere there's a god who will grant each and all of her wishes
She laughs in the face of the man looking over the fence

I can see that you're dreaming
But I can't see the pictures
Sleeping in the light of
Starshine and goldfishes

Even out here where he sits drowning in isolation
He's stacking his bricks high and slowly walling out the world
She's sending him flowers and sunshine but he doesn't notice
On the stem of a rose she writes, "Have A Nice Day, Plutoman."

I can see that you're dreaming
But I can't see the pictures
Sleeping in the light of
Starshine and goldfishes

He feels like he's the last man alive, he feels like he's stuck on Pluto
Each day's a bad one, each day he's all alone

Colours and music is what you will see and you live for
Take a ride with a stingray and you'll see the world through his eyes
She's sending him flowers and sunshine but he doesn't notice
On the stem of a rose she writes, "Have A Nice Day, Plutoman."