“Look at all the space this paper takes up!” exclaim my thirty-somethings. “There is an invention called the laptop, you know, Ma.”
They refer to my journal, not on scraps of paper but on lined, 3 hole- punch paper. Decades of journal, in boxes, in envelopes, in bags, in closets, in the garage, the current year on my desk.
Never mind that writing by hand is a different posture and thought process than writing on a screen, technology changes. Consider this:
If I had typed my journal thoughts onto the word processor I used when my son was 4, I would have saved it on one of those hard plastic squares. I would no longer be able to access this treasure:
“Today John kept jumping on my bed and refused to stop. Finally I said,
‘If you don’t stop jumping on the bed I’m going to breathe bad breath on you!’
He stopped jumping on the bed.”
Now really, where would we be if that tidbit of family lore were forever inaccessible on obsolete technology?
It was a lovely day. Sunny and clear but cold. A break from what felt like an endless series of storms in the weeks leading up to Christmas when the atmospheric river pouring in from the southwest was temporarily pushed southwards into Oregon by an Arctic high. Possible Arctic outflow winds warned the tv meteorologists. Record low temperatures! Bundle up!
Ellrod walked briskly past the hockey rink, towards Chinatown. After weeks of dreary, dark, rainy days, Ellrod was dazzled by the bright sun. With the cold he did not think to wear sunglasses; with the sun he did not think to wear a toque. He kept his gaze down, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his overcoat, his breath forming a small cloud in the cold air as he walked along.
As he approached the skateboard park, Ellrod noted the tent city that had sprung up the previous summer was mostly gone. There were only a couple of tents remaining of the dozens that had been there a few months earlier.
Ellrod was not sure what to think of the tent city. Initially he was sympathetic. It was public land he thought. But then the law, he reminded himself, forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal their bread. Or not.
But then, as the number of tents swelled, residents of the neighbourhood began to report being harassed by occupants of the tent city. There were complaints of noise and open drug use. In the end there was a story, widely reported in the media, that two men from the tent city had assaulted an elderly woman who lived in the neighbourhood. Whether true or not, the cops were mobilized, warnings were issued, a few arrests were made, and ultimately the occupants of the tent city were moved on. A few - too few for the powers that be to concern themselves with - had returned.
As he passed the tents, Ellrod noted a scrap of paper on a small patch of grass next to the sidewalk. There was writing on the note, in blue ballpoint ink that had smeared on the wet paper, and Ellrod, bending over slightly, read the following words: “I will send u a couple of packs of cheap smokes and maybe cookies”. He paused and read the note again. A mother worried about her child? A lover atoning for some offence? Checking on the welfare of an old friend? Did someone ever send the smokes? Can you buy cheap smokes? Is someone still waiting - hoping - to receive cookies?
Ellrod considered the possibilities as he stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. At precisely that same moment he realized the approaching car was not slowing down. Ellrod froze. The driver honked and swerved, narrowly missing him. Ellrod caught his breath as the car - a white BMW - sped off.
“Fucking assholes,” someone said. Ellrod looked behind him. There was a young man standing beside one of the tents. “Fucking assholes,” the young man said again. “They think they fucking own the place.”
In Favour of Paper
A. Whitmore
“Look at all the space this paper takes up!” exclaim my thirty-somethings. “There is an invention called the laptop, you know, Ma.”
They refer to my journal, not on scraps of paper but on lined, 3 hole- punch paper. Decades of journal, in boxes, in envelopes, in bags, in closets, in the garage, the current year on my desk.
Never mind that writing by hand is a different posture and thought process than writing on a screen, technology changes. Consider this:
If I had typed my journal thoughts onto the word processor I used when my son was 4, I would have saved it on one of those hard plastic squares. I would no longer be able to access this treasure:
“Today John kept jumping on my bed and refused to stop. Finally I said,
‘If you don’t stop jumping on the bed I’m going to breathe bad breath on you!’
He stopped jumping on the bed.”
Now really, where would we be if that tidbit of family lore were forever inaccessible on obsolete technology?
I always believed that those stories --
those memories held onto so tightly between
balled up fists and the blankets and pillowcases while
falling asleep --
was for the sake of convincing others
those persons of interest
which is why we make such a conscious effort to
not betray the sequence of events in our minds,
those words spoken and actions taken to convey
the context through which
we first encountered our demons
But what if the reason why we fight to
seize so strongly upon our reflections,
recreating the brush strokes so meticulously in our minds while
rendering ourselves vulnerable to error
is because the past is a story we tell to ourselves?
(inspired by a scribbled note on a boardwalk pier)
BMW
It was a lovely day. Sunny and clear but cold. A break from what felt like an endless series of storms in the weeks leading up to Christmas when the atmospheric river pouring in from the southwest was temporarily pushed southwards into Oregon by an Arctic high. Possible Arctic outflow winds warned the tv meteorologists. Record low temperatures! Bundle up!
Ellrod walked briskly past the hockey rink, towards Chinatown. After weeks of dreary, dark, rainy days, Ellrod was dazzled by the bright sun. With the cold he did not think to wear sunglasses; with the sun he did not think to wear a toque. He kept his gaze down, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his overcoat, his breath forming a small cloud in the cold air as he walked along.
As he approached the skateboard park, Ellrod noted the tent city that had sprung up the previous summer was mostly gone. There were only a couple of tents remaining of the dozens that had been there a few months earlier.
Ellrod was not sure what to think of the tent city. Initially he was sympathetic. It was public land he thought. But then the law, he reminded himself, forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal their bread. Or not.
But then, as the number of tents swelled, residents of the neighbourhood began to report being harassed by occupants of the tent city. There were complaints of noise and open drug use. In the end there was a story, widely reported in the media, that two men from the tent city had assaulted an elderly woman who lived in the neighbourhood. Whether true or not, the cops were mobilized, warnings were issued, a few arrests were made, and ultimately the occupants of the tent city were moved on. A few - too few for the powers that be to concern themselves with - had returned.
As he passed the tents, Ellrod noted a scrap of paper on a small patch of grass next to the sidewalk. There was writing on the note, in blue ballpoint ink that had smeared on the wet paper, and Ellrod, bending over slightly, read the following words: “I will send u a couple of packs of cheap smokes and maybe cookies”. He paused and read the note again. A mother worried about her child? A lover atoning for some offence? Checking on the welfare of an old friend? Did someone ever send the smokes? Can you buy cheap smokes? Is someone still waiting - hoping - to receive cookies?
Ellrod considered the possibilities as he stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. At precisely that same moment he realized the approaching car was not slowing down. Ellrod froze. The driver honked and swerved, narrowly missing him. Ellrod caught his breath as the car - a white BMW - sped off.
“Fucking assholes,” someone said. Ellrod looked behind him. There was a young man standing beside one of the tents. “Fucking assholes,” the young man said again. “They think they fucking own the place.”