I published an article on local alternative press Fenylalanine Publishing in The Town Crier as part of its ongoing micro-lit review series. Have a look.
The vehicle makes us homogeneous.
We become distinguishable, not in ourselves, but only by brand, by model, by government issued license plate numbers. We pass one another and reveal nothing remarkable about ourselves beyond a personalized license plate, or a decal, or a bumper sticker, or a penchant for rolling through stop signs.
We should do without personal vehicles, not only to protect the environment, not only to encourage health, not only to save money, not only to increase community between us, but also for the simple pleasure of individuality.
One of the myriad roles I occupy on any given day is Managing Director of Friends of Vocamus Press, a con-profit community organization that supports Guelph book culture. The title sounds fancy, but it basically means that I’m the guy on the board who has to do the actual work, though there is a new Director of Communications, Sheri Doyle, who is taking on some of my duties, bringing new ideas, generating different kinds of interaction with our community, and generally doing a great job.
It wasn’t easy for me to admit that I needed this kind of help. I prefer to do things myself just to be sure that they get done, and I’ve had some bad experiences where people committed to help with something but never followed through on it. Even when I know a task doesn’t fall within my strengths — finances (hey, I got a 51% in grade 13 math), social media (I’m not really a fun person, and I’m not sure I want to be), or technology (I’m a selective luddite, becoming more selective all the time) — it’s often easier for me just to learn how to do it and get it done myself than to trust someone else to do the job, even if they’d probably do it better and easier. It’s one of my many issues.
I’m learning to accept this kind of help, however, and I’m learning that it’s often better to go about it just by tying in the people I know I can trust wherever they fit rather than posting an official job description to people who I might not know as well. Now, Sheri took on her role by responding to just such a job description, so there are clearly strong exceptions to the rule, but I’m finding it works best for me just to connect interested people, good people, people I can trust, wherever they happen to fit, even if they may not fit the preconceived roles that the board had in mind.
For example, a local author named Ryan Toxopeus has been very involved and helpful over the past couple of years. Among other things, he has split tables with other genre fiction authors at conventions that wouldn’t make sense for me to attend even if I had the time. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the experience with arts grants to fit the Director of Fundraising role the board is looking to fill, and it would be easy to focus too much on filling that role and pass him over, which would be a waste of a good, dependable, interesting guy who actually wants to be involved in what we do.
When I run into those people, I’m finding that I need to stop asking whether they fit the roles that we think we need to fill, and start asking whether we have other needs that could be met by their unique skills and interests. In Ryan’s case, he’s already started doing good work, organizing tables at conventions, filling a need that I’m unable to meet. So I decided to see if he wanted to take on that role more formally.
I sent him an email suggesting that we make him Special Advisor to the Galactic Senate on Issues Pertaining to Fantasy, Science Fiction, Horror, and Speculative Fiction in and around the Environs of Wellington County. He thought that Genre Fiction Coordinator might be a more suitable title, but he was interested in helping out in that area. He also thought it might be a good idea to have a meet up for genre fiction writers a few times a year, which is just the sort of thing that I’d love to see.
The point here, one I’m learning only slowly, is that you can’t pass over good people just because they don’t meet some predetermined plan. When you find them, you need to make room for them to use their strengths, even if you have to make up the job description as you go.
This is the third poem of Conversations with Viral Media, a series of publicly posted broadsheets that contain poems written in response to viral video, stills from those videos, and QR codes linking to the videos themselves. They are intended to comment on the way that viral videos can function as symptoms of our cultural dysfunction. They will be released periodically until I get bored. Links to all of the poems with their videos can be found on the Conversations with Viral Media page.
This was written at my brother’s cottage this past May 24 weekend.
Dominion Bay, May 21, 2016
The children shiver
the May water,
lay the foundations
of future nostalgia
Even the blackflies
swarm in slow motion,
as I read Buckowski,
my back to the sun.
My garden is getting there. It still has a way to go, but it is getting there. I can now sit on the porch and enjoy it for what it, even as I’m planning what it will be.
I can also watch as people walk it in different ways. Some stop and look at the plants. Some wander a ways up the paths. Some sneak fruit when they think they’re unseen. Some come to the door and ask about a particular species. The neighbourhood kids come to use the play equipment. The family picks fruit and vegetables.
All these people all walking my garden in their own way, and I love it. That’s what the garden’s for, even when someone steps on a plant by mistake or a kid dislodges a stone from the path. That’s all part of the garden being a place where people walk. I don’t begrudge it.
On the other hand, there are the Saturday night drunks who pull out random plants, break the fencing, and piss on my house.
It doesn’t happen every Saturday, but often enough to sadden me, not just because it’s stupid vandalism or because it means extra work for me, but because it shows they don’t understand a garden except to destroy it. For whatever reason, they aren’t able to walk the garden, only tear it apart, and there is a symbolic level about this that distresses me.
I feel viscerally that their inability to walk the garden is a symptom of things much darker.