Category Archives: stories

Remembering where your tether is…

From time to time, I realize that I feel lost, as if my grounding has given way, leaving my identity floating and vaguely unclear.

In these moments, I ask myself where my feet are, and I worry that I’ve lost or forgotten myself in some way.

This disassociation from my identity seems to come after I’ve spent time projecting myself into the middle of other people’s problems, struggles, or dilemmas. You put your mind and your compassion into play as part of your identity as a Helper. If you do that often, or too frequently, you may hit a saturation point where your needs have been eclipsed so often that you cannot find them when you want to use them. So, you say “I need a break, but what should I do?” I’m sure parents go through this reconnection dilemma every summer. I’m sure caregivers do too.

The story I tell myself, the narrative I’ve nurtured in the past ten or twenty years, is that I want to be a Helper, and being able to help others gives me satisfaction and feeds my pride and sense of worth. In the past five or ten years, my wife has convinced me that I am empathic, and tend to experience others’ emotions to the deteriment of my own. Basically, I treat others’ problems and feelings as if they are more important than mine.

Every family has some kind of drama, and occasionally, some very serious emergencies. My family is no different, and I will always be there to help in whatever way I can. My upbringing from about 3 years through 23 years kind of conditioned me to be the good, responsible kid, to help clean up messes when parents could not, to make the visits to hospital, and to be responsible around the home when nobody else could. Now, past 50, I find that in little ways, my recent moments of loving family support are really reflections and echoes of past events. I get triggered a bit, but in a good way – with a little voice that says “you’ve been here before, and you know what to say and how to act, and how to help”.

Thinking of those moments as positives, as evidence that my love and caring can be communicated and can make a positive difference, is one way my heart and mind feel rewarded and replenished. Another way I recharge my battery is to spend quiet moments with myself, reflecting, and sometimes just enjoying silence; allowing my mind to rest, and to just enjoy pure moment-to-moment sensation, without the personal, internal monologue. In those times, I recognize myself and appreciate the feeling of my existence. I give myself a hug internally, and reassure myself that I’m good and will always be good. Those are times to let the caring fold back around towards yourself, and charge your own batteries.

There are previous generations of Loves, Clarkes, Owens, and Markses who lived their own dramas, faced their own challenges, and left their footprints for me to find. The strongest example would be my maternal Grandfather, Ernest Huntley Clarke, my namesake and my beloved “Poppy”. He was a good man, and I need to believe that there are still good men in the world. My Dad’s legacy went down the family toilet posthumously, but Poppy’s legacy, for me, never will. That is a tether I can hold on to when I need to.

Finally, there is my internal imagery regarding my parents, which for forty years has wavered between sadness, fatigue, desperation, and worry, and in the last ten years transformed into bitterness and resentment. My father severely damaged both his families, and in the past few years, I’ve seen evidence that time doesn’t really heal all wounds. I feel heavy and tired in my resentment of them.

But their legacy doesn’t have to only br framed by loss and sorrow. I have also had a few beautiful moments remembering them at their best, brightest, and most virtuous. I can celebrate Angela’s inner and outer beauty, her idealism, and creativity. I can celebrate James’ tenderness and care, remembering calloused hands being used gently on me to heal an illness, or his strong voice going quiet to speak in gentles tones to a small child or the neighbour’s puppy.

Their unrealized potential, their unlived idealism, stands out for me like a reverse shadow, like a glowing aura. That is another strong tether to hold on to.

Sound: The next frontier…

I’ve spent many months helping my brother-in-law to complete his (mostly audio) online memoir. I reflected on the experience, I was reminded of the directness of speech and the power of sound; the way spoken words trigger imagery that sticks with you, and how the nuances of pace, tone, and inflection seem to add so much subtle yet evocative meaning. Content and context seem so much richer when you listen.

In my bro-in-law’s voice, I can hear his passion for his memories, his regret over his losses, his enjoyment of the good times, and his questions about what his future might hold. These can be difficult to write about even for a seasoned writer, but it can be simpler and more direct to just say the words out loud.

A raw, straightforward storytelling can be powerful on its own, but I feel convinced that for my own uses, I need to make something a little more acoustically elaborate. I want something that uses background sounds to set the time and place. The best podcasts and radio broadcasting that I’ve ever heard have used place-sounds and ambient noise to create a soundscape – an acoustic landscape that sets the stage – an equivalent for being there. As examples, the podcast “Serial” did this quite well, as did another podcast about Richard Simmons. Each of them added just enough background tone and noise that you might visualise the immediate surroundings of the speaker: how sunny it was in a crowded mall parking lot, or how much traffic was on Rodeo Drive that day. it offers context that helps to build engagement and empathy.

I think a couple of tracks added like that would give my own stories so much more immersion for the listener – extra dimension and impact.

So, I’m searching for free (or creative commons) sounds and, ironically, visualising how editing and mixing might proceed using a tool like Audacity.

Update: I did make a little audio piece for my earliest story, “Peanut and Brittle”.  I will be doing more of this for other stories too…

Damaged, but reliable…

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It’s just a piece of hardwood. An old stick…

It’s held steady a couple hundred pounds of wrinkled, bruised, and broken old man. Like my old man, over thirty years ago.

This cane was James Evan Love’s kingly reward for completing weeks of physiotherapy and for surviving five strokes and a fractured hip. It was the stalwart sceptre he’d earned by graduating from wheelchair to walker to quad-cane to wooden cane. It made him look even older than he was, but it kept him on his feet, where he wanted to be.

It was a symbol of his triumph and recovery, but it was also a symbol of his hard-earned weakness and degradation. He would never walk without it again. He had become diminished and slow. He was finally, at sixty-four, an old man. The tiger was toothless…

Dad died a difficult death in 1989, pretty much coughing himself to death through pneumonia. I was hollowed-out and exhausted by losing him, and relieved for both of us that he was no longer in pain.

I was desperate to keep some of his belongings – the things he used most often or the things of his which I thought said the most about him. I kept Dad’s wheelchair for a while, later loaning it out to a different relative, and then to the grandmother of one of my wife’s best friends. Eventually, the chair came back to me and I wheeled it over to the care home next door. Dad’s beat up wooden cane stayed propped up in the corner of my room for more than thirty years as a silent echo of how we lose people and power.

A few months ago, I suffered a painful back injury, and as it got worse, I found myself unable to get out of bed or even roll over without blinding pain. After admitting myself to ER and getting some painkillers, I returned home and began to slowly get up and shuffle around. It would take me a few minutes of agonizing wriggling on my stomach to get to the foot of my bed, and then another 30 seconds to screw up the courage to push my hands over to my dresser where I’d lean, standing, and catch my breath before trying to walk to the bathroom. I measured the spaces between reachable surfaces and objects that could support my weight. Everything seemed so far away. Walking had become a highwire act with no net.

Walking hurt like hell and was a scary and tender prospect. My lower back could spasm at the slightest strain, and when it did it hurt like a cattle prod. I pondered the idea of buying a cane for myself. I didn’t want to be infirmed and incapable like an old man. I saw myself shuffling around our apartment in my sagging cardigan, talking to my cats, and sweating and swearing at the slightest effort. I stopped shaving, and white whiskers peeked out of my cheeks, reminding me of him, looking bristly-chinned on a Sunday morning.

I started to notice Dad’s cane again, and I accepted it once I began accepting my situation. I went practical and determined in my thinking: I was going to have to be able to walk if I was going to heal properly. Just use the bloody cane, I told myself.

So Dad’s cane became my cane, my centre of stability, and my most reliable tool. I did heal fully with the help of a Physio and some hard work. In fact, I’m probably in better condition now than before my back injury.

When I look at our cane now, I don’t just see a broken old man. I see the hard work that you must do and the help that you must be willing to accept in order to get back on your feet again.

Digital trash or snippets of associative memory?

Jesus, have you just Google image searched your name in quotes?

I found that after the first few images of my face, results became more representative of the pages that just contained my name. My name was a keyword connected by word density to other words and images.

This image-word association tracks beautifully with my personal mental imagery: anything my name was adjacent to online seemed to be an article about me, or a blog post written by me. Images from my employment activities – like conferences or workshops – were mixed in with historical photos from my family, and images from my art college days, or from blog posts that I’d written years ago about my inspirational teachers and beloved public figures.

Over twenty years ago, maybe as far back as 1996 or 1997, I had decided to document my family and my life on the web for the world to read. For me, that meant an organized, intentional approach to storytelling or journalling, and to digitzing film into pixels. The effort started in earnest in 1998, and has progressed in various forms on and off ever since.

Even though my overt effort at a personal online memoir has tapered-down to a rather occasional pace, it’s a bit comforting to me to realize that the artifacts I’m continuing to leave online are still there, even if they’re sometimes curated by Google’s search algorithm.

Trim away whatever you think is holding you back…

Here’s some unsolicited advice that an old man should have taken back when he was a young man:

Other people cannot and will not solve your problems. Most of ’em barely understand what’s going on within themselves, and few will invest time enough in you or put your needs above their own.

Basically, wherever you are, your mother doesn’t work here. Accept that, and then when someone does come along who truly shares and cares, feel fortunate for them and value them, because the odds of meeting them aren’t really that great.

How can you judge? Use your gut during exchanges with others, and decide over time if the other person is invested in you as much as you are in them. It’s great to be a good listener and all, but you should feel free to tell your own story too and enjoy moments when the two of you genuinely share an interest or feel a connection.

And if it ain’t there (or at least not anymore), maybe the mutual interest or emotional resonance has just run its course. It’s always your call to drop the reins for a while. Some people need you because of you, and some people just need an available sounding board.

Some associations are just temporary, fueled more by circumstance and little moments of shared empathy than by full emotional resonance or significant similarities.

Some people are treasures and some are only temporary shiny objects.

Be grateful and kind in any case. It’s still good fortune, and we still need each other.

Writing with sound

For months, I’ve helped my brother-in-law compose his life story into a blog. For him, due to accessbility and mobility issues, audio recording is the best way to capture his stories. It’s easier for him, but also it’s more personal. His words, his voice, are ringing in my ears – nobody else’s. It’s one-to-one.

As I’ve helped him edit his stories, I’ve thought a lot about the effectiveness of speech and sound. I used to enjoy listening to rebroadcasts of old-time radio dramas late at night, and I’ve gotten drawn into podcasts like “Serial”. It’s the atmosphere that’s created by the slightlest of ambient background noises or sound effects. It doesn’t take much to draw me into a moment.

So, I’ve been thinking of building little audio narrative pieces into the stories in my True Life project. It could use a soundtrack, some spaciousness, some emotion and personality. I’ll add what I can…

Turning that inner voice into an outer one…

Since about June of 2017, I’ve been helping my brother-in-law to record his memoirs into a web site. Working with him has inspired me to look at my own memoir project with fresh eyes.

Although he doesn’t focus on it to any significant degree, a big underlying aspect to his life story is the fact that since he was born, he’s had Cerebral Palsy and very limited mobility. However, in spite of negative prognoses from doctors when he was born, and various societal barriers in front of him as he grew up in public school and took his post-secondary education, he has managed to beat the odds.

With the support of his family and friends, today, at the age of sixty, he continues to beat the odds and make his own life. He gets himself to wherever he needs to go to run his life relatively independently, and remains able to communicate, socialize, and express himself.

His memoirs project…

In the last few years, he’d been slowly developing his memoir as a book with a local publisher. This process gave him an outlet for his many stories, as well as the satisfaction of knowing that one day, others could read his story and appreciate his life journey.

But his print publishing process was limited by his lack of funds, and had to be postponed when he became deathly ill in December of 2015. Throughout 2016, he healed, got stronger, and explored his options. He prepared for transition out of his father’s house and Pearson Hospital, and into an assisted living situation. Rather than dampen his spirits, facing his own mortality and adapting to a new lifestyle only seemed to harden his resolve to tell his story.

For him, typing seemed arduous and editing a long document by himself using a mouse and keyboard in something like Microsoft Word struck me like a distant goal at the end of a lengthy and frustrating learning curve.

So throughout 2016, we discussed his project and the ways he could benefit personally from surfing the web. I found a low-cost internet service so he could enjoy wireless at home, and bought him an inexpensive tablet. As I indoctrinated him to the web, and sites like Facebook and YouTube in particular, he took to it like a duck to water, motivated by instant access and immediate gratification. Information, entertainment, news, sports, and even people now became available to him.

I encouraged him to go digital and online, instead of relying on (for him) costly paper-based publishing. I created a free blog for him, and as we worked together to write his story, it became apparent that text was really holding us back – the written word was not a good solution for someone with his unique challenges. Even Google voice typing was not really effective: we struggled to get his narrative translated into text, and finally had to give that up.

Nonetheless, he was an effective oral storyteller, and a passionate speaker where his life stories were concerned. So it occurred to me that we should abandon text altogether and just post his stories as audio recordings, accompanied by pictures and some brief summary text.

This was the right choice for him: he loves to talk, and loves to listen to his stories. With production now aimed more at his strengths rather than weaknesses, he’s able to drive his project forward on his own terms: he hand-writes ideas for stories and records the audio himself whenever the mood strikes him. Then, we review it together, and he suggests which images might accompany it. I edit and post the completed audio files to his blog.

What this means to me…

What I take away from this are a few lessons:

  • Adaptability is crucial. Usability (and philosophies like UDL) promote technology that adapts to the needs of the user. Terms like accessibility, affordance, interface, and ergonomics relate to this, in my mind. Touch-screen mobile devices have levelled the usability playing field in a massive way.
    Lesson: Adapting a process and medium to fit someone’s strengths has changed the game entirely.
  • Digital is liberating. Paper and printing are not dead by a long shot, but the major drivers of online traffic (in our case, Google) have created enough free online services to allow people on a fixed or low income to create their own content.
    Lesson: Digital self-publishing is empowering.

For me, it feels like I should begin adding audio recordings to my own stories, here in my True Life project. It will open the stories up in a new way, allowing me to use music, sound effects and the emotion in my vocal performance to add a new dimensional depth to my stories.

Confessions of a Pack Rat

My memories are captured in thousands of files, folders, emails, and websites – and somehow, my pack rat nature has allowed me to preserve most of the digital evidence of my life since about 1998.

The Digital Studio Space

My desktop is a collection of hardly-used capturing tools: a flatbed scanner (that also does slides), a graphics tablet I used for one illustration job seven years ago, a digital camera that has been supplanted by my smartphone, and various bargain audio and video analog-to-digital conversion devices. I still have VHS tapes and audio cassettes that testify to past projects.

It must be something in the blood: my grandfather (and namesake), Ernest Clarke, was a prolific photographer, and I have his prints, negatives, slides, and 8mm film to prove it. His mission seemed to be to immortalize his wife and especially, his daughter Angela. He was somewhat compulsive about it, from the scores of evidence he left us, ranging from photos of native elders probably taken in the 20s, to colour home movies he shot in the 1970s. He’d have gone crazy with digital.

Recently, I upgraded my windows PC to windows 10, and bought myself a 3 terabyte external drive for backups. My desktop PC and all its peripherals and programs constituted my modern digital studio space – my personal workplace for explorations, communications, study, and networking. my grandfather Ernest had a little painting easel tucked in a corner of his basement for working in oil. The tools are different, but I suppose the drive is similar.

With the advent of mobile touchscreen devices, something happened that I didn’t expect: my tablet and laptop took me away from my desk, and kept me either on the couch or in a Cafe (and often digging through Facebook).

Soon enough, I found I was using my smartphone and tablet for almost everything, and rarely ever using my PC for anything (except for banking). That shift in behaviour seemed to change me from a creator into more of a consumer. For quite a few years now, I’ve spent more time surfing and consuming other people’s bytes than I have creating and promoting my own. I think. So, with the spiffed-up desktop environment, I’m probably now in a better position to focus on building my own content again.

So, that covers tools, but what about content? Who and what am I writing and imaging about?

Preserving People, Real and Imagined

I have worked, side-by-side or remotely, with hundreds and hundreds of colleagues since 1992, when my full-time career really kicked into gear. Each person I have met has taught me something about them, and about myself. Some of them were characters, and some of them are bound to become them one day.

Sometimes it’s true that “Hell is other people” . In some social groups, there are always manipulators and cajolers, liars and criers, who use your niceness against you, or use sympathy to gain your confidence and trust. If you don’t let these folks, damage you too badly, they can provide valuable learning regarding human nature. I’ve found that once I recognize the evils and virtues in somebody else’s character, I begin to see them in myself.

Thus, the memories of people you’ve known can be great inspiration for personal memoirs, or raw material for fictional characters.

Space, the Final Frontier

In my profession, I have treasured my semi-private offices or cubicle spaces. Having a little bit of solitude and at least some form of blinders provides an emotional and mental buffer zone, and helps one to concentrate.

However, too much isolation tends to raise stress levels in me, most likely my mind needs a break and a little interaction with someone every few hours. I often forget to do that. it’s important to listen to your heart and mind, to recognize when you need to be alone, or when you need to socialize.

The Real Undiscovered Country is Inside

(Well, I’m on some kind of Star Trek riff, now.)

The value of forming bonds with friends and family is obvious: we need to belong with and to someone, and want to feel part of something bigger and more secure (perhaps) than ourselves.

The hard lessons for me were learning to listen to the voice of my internal judge, to know how much sharing, emotional intimacy is enough with each person, to say enough, but try not to say too much.

Generally, I have a hard time discarding people and objects once I have assigned some sentimental attachment to them. So, I tend to collect people and things.

Interpersonally, I can’t always judge my emotional boundaries and moments quite right, but I tend to keep my doors wide open for anyone to walk in.

What would Angela have done…?

What would Angela have done with a day like this? What would she have felt here, now?

I feel her beauty when I taste the colours in the autumn leaves shimmering in the breeze above my street.

I wonder if she’d enjoy watching people pass by outside this cafe window. Was she a people watcher like me?

Would she like strong coffee? Would she prefer tea? Would she feel groggy and grumpy in the morning too?

I never knew her that well, but always wanted to. In my questioning kid mind, I’d guess blindly at her thoughts. She always kept them to herself. No clues, but she remains an archetype for me – a mold, a template – a model I can contemplate.

Would Angela have enjoyed this world today, so different from the one she knew? She would have been eighty six by now. If she’d been physically and mentally able, stronger, or had more help in her life, maybe this world could have been a happier place for her.

I can picture her in an alternate reality, a different world, maybe in her mid-sixties. Her grey hair would be short and curled, held aloft by some stylist’s magic. Angela would have her own sense of style, and clothes that fit, that she’d bought with her own money.

She walk with her nose tipped up just a little bit, looking back on some sort of career involving music. Maybe she would be going out to meet a lady friend for coffee or to shop.

Maybe she’d be unmarried, child-free, and okay with it. Over the years, she would have had many suitors and maybe one serious engagement, but she’d have remained her own person and now be happy on her own.

She’d go browse an art gallery on Granville Street, or go down to A&B Sound and buy some new vinyl. The Sound of Music, or something sweet by Burt Bacharach.

The good things don’t go out of style easily.

Memories are subjective, elusive, permanent, and recurring…

Memories are like dear friends, and bitter enemies. Both burrow down under your skin. They find your emotional nooks and crannies, remind you of your strengths, and expose you to your weaknesses.

Memories can seem as immutable as stone, as unchanging as the mountains, and as permanent as the Earth.

But I have learned that memories are more like chameleons: they take on the colour of your current outlook, and their themes and tone  reflect your own. They’re my own little constructs, my personal little fantasies, performances that I continually re-stage in my own private playhouse.

The stories that I’ve written for myself probably started in my head as soon as I could think. Like James Joyce’s “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”, the language and models that I built have evolved with me, over the years.

Memories age and mature with you, like your reflection. You just can’t trust them- they’re as slippery and subjective as you are. For me, memories are the ghosts I live with, the echoes of old events and past ideas, reflections of my life and past visceral emotions.

Some memories used to be exceptionally strong, but have waned with experience and considerable reflection:

  • The chest-puffing pride when I was eighteen and would talk about my Dad, or hear his words come out of my mouth. I demolished his pedestal years ago, and put the pieces to better use in rebuilding a platform for myself.
  • The bitterness and mistrust that I held against richer, happier kids, and their functional families. I secretly resented every other kid I saw, certain that they were so much better off than me. Eventually, after high school, I started to get over it.
  • That feeling that I was unique in my life experiences, wiser and more resilient than my peers, and just plain special. This was mostly my own defense against self pity, isolation, and misery. It worked sometimes, but it was mostly a mask behind which I hid my fear and insecurity. I don’t worry about hiding that much anymore. After the age of 45, me and my insecurities began to feel much more secure in each other.

Each of these little treasures have waned with time, going from opaque, well-rehearsed scrolls to delicate, dried-out parchments that have degraded with age, and worn down to near transparency.

I can see right through those old narratives now. They still have occasional influence on me, but most of the time they’re not very convincing anymore.