Long term committed

With so many marriages ending in "I don't want to anymore", one wonders whether when women talk about being in long term committed relationships they are making an observation on how long the relationship has, as a matter of fact, lasted so far, or whether they set out with the intention of ensuring things got to that point. It's not that the men are off the hook in this state of affairs. After all, if men can't commit or won't commit or both at the same time (it makes little difference; the result is always the same), it is triumph even for women to achieve a long term committed relationship, something more traditionally guaranteed by prisons and mental hospitals. Impolite are inmates--those who rate a life sentence--who talk amongst themselves about having "got the bitch". What must their women make of them? Some bargains are not worth having.

The smart money has always been on Jean-Jacques Rousseau and proto and post anthropologists everywhere: it is incumbent on women to secure the cooperation of their men to stand by them for the raising of their young.

The only certain thing about offspring, Rousseau tells us, is the mother. Paternity, he thought, is a mug's game. Not surprising come from a man who was himself a serial philanderer with several illegitimate children, none of whom did he raise or support in any way. Of course a man other than Rousseau might be swayed to "do the decent thing" and settle down with the mother of a child on the way by some regard for his reputation, if he were at all motivated by other people's opinions. If not, there was always the chance that a woman might appeal to his vanity after the fact--announcing that the child looks like the father. Or when things got really promiscuous in the 1970s, there was the paternity test that could add credibility to the name recorded as that of the father on a birth certificate. But if he is without morals, even an order of child support can't ensure that his progeny will be looked after. Where have we heard a man say "The kid is not my son!"?

And to Dr Paterniti, with whom I had a fateful interview, I took the test, and, guess what? Oh those dead beat dads!

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Animals and aliens

When you think of Orwell's Animal Farm , you get stuck on the idea of some being more equal than others. But world peace, galactic harmony, the celebration of diversity and the active practice of inclusion are all achieved in science fiction by casting minorities in the role of animals and aliens. Star Trek comes to mind in this regard, where even hippies were disposed of, Federation style, as sensitive dissenting aliens, not forgetting Spock with his pointy ears! And then there were Wookiees, still man's best friend. Viewing animals as humans--anthropomorphizing--or treating different races as aliens, all of this is shape shifting. This shape is my shade, there where I used to stand--that's Steely Dan.

Day's eye

About a week ago what is left of the natural landscape in Ottawa--and a number of lawns that have been let to run riot--gave over to the annual dandelion pride. Dent de lion . The teeth of a lion bite a place for themselves and parade their yellow banner for a week before exploding into puff balls of parachuting seeds. But even before the seeds have blown to their new homes, their place on urban hills is taken by ever so slightly more respectable daisies that open most precociously at dawn. Daes eag . Day's eye. A suitable opening for a near Summer's day. Now these are honest bloomers--not sophisticated with heavy petals like potted mums. These showboaters of Summer overshadow their fleabane or aster cousins, who compete, blinking their eyelash petals when the sun is done, bundled in a royal mauve or a flirtatious pink. Also showing now are the heroes of the hedgerow, the bluebells or foxglove from which we have derived the heart medication digi...

Things always end in the Summer

In the middle of the second major heatwave of the season, the City cut the wildflowers along the footpath. I mean they cut everything 30 inches on either side of the pavement, but since the flowers were my friends, all I saw was that they cut the flowers, even though they actually mowed indiscriminately. And it must have been a chore for the labourer in this heat, so his feet were heavy when he made hay of the prettiest parts of the Summer. But I can't get to that right now; I'm still reeling from the loss of chicory, and the other pinks and yellows and blues whose names I was just beginning to learn. "Program, get your program", I heard the barker call on my way to the bleachers. I turned once and caught his eye, and looked at the program in his hand and back into his eyes--all the while his eyes following mine--but then he looked back to his hand, and again into my eyes and he said "You can't tell the player without a card"! Did it matter that ...

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