Harrison, Arkansas: We are Racist and We Feel Good

Brought to you by the racist folks in and around Harrison, Arkansas. August 2016.

I visited Toronto in June 2016. Then revisited South Louisiana in July 2016. Today's post arose from my return drive to Missouri from the South Louisiana visit. I'll start the July Louisiana posts next, but this one is burning a hole in my pocket and can't wait any longer. 


South of Harrison, Arkansas, is the billboard:

"'DIVERSITY' is a code word for #whitegenocide." 

Go here for the usual drivel that accompanies such stupidity.

Strangely, above this billboard is one that extols the virtues of Harrison, Arkansas. It is in dilapidated shape, which belies the cheery soap-bubbly copy:

Welcome to Harrison
Beautiful Town Beautiful People
No wrong exits
No bad neighborhoods
...paid for, evidently by Harrison "business owners"

The link to this perky billboard is harrisonarkansas.info. Interestingly, the message in the upper sign  and the content in its accompanying website is more dangerous, in a way, than the hammer-head drek of the "whitegenocide" guy.

The tone and language of the "business owners" site are so congenial, so reasonable, so seemingly disarming in the acknowledgements of Harrison's flaws along with its charms - so well-written, in fact - that you might almost nod your head at this: 

[Gerald L.K.] Smith was in association with Charles Lindbergh, Henry Ford, Elizabeth Dilling, Father Coughlin, and others known for their pro-American activities.  Smith was an early supporter of local Boone county preacher Thom Robb and all have been labeled by some as racist. Though Lindbergh, Ford, Dilling, and Coughlin are all deceased, they maintained at the time as well as Thom Robb [national director of the KKK] does today, (He also serves as the national director of The Knights Party) to be pro-white only.

Harrison is most often mentioned in the news due to the location of the organization’s headquarters 2 miles from Zinc and 17 miles from Harrison.  [Thom] Robb had his office on Stephenson street just off the square in Harrison for many years as well as overlooking Harrison on Harrison Hill but moved it outside of the city to have room to build a church and family retreat to host conferences.  Some in the city resent the attention he brings while most are either ambivalent or quiet supporters.

Look how the author borrows authority from American icons such as Charles Lindbergh and Henry Ford. How he frames their activities as "pro-American." The suggestion that "pro-white" doesn't necessarily mean anti-someone else.

[Note: Being "pro-white" is NOT on the same playing field as being "for" groups who have experienced long-standing, systemic discrimination.]

Then the author proposes that "most" people in Harrison are either ambivalent or quiet supporters. ... So why should you, the reader, trouble your mind?

Very skillful propaganda that masks the malevolence beneath.

Toronto: Airport: Livestock Management

Cattle crossing near Spaceport America, New Mexico. March 2010.

I took the last UP train of the night from Toronto's Union Station to the airport, which was 1:00 a.m. So that put me into the airport about 1:30 a.m.

My envisioned itinerary

1. Arrive airport.
2. Move through airport security.
3. Move through US Customs
4. Find departure gate.
5. Plop down til departure time circa 7:00 a.m.

Easy peasy. 



Reality

Clusterfuck.



The three tests

In the age-old tradition of having to pass three tests of one's character, fortitude, or wit to reach one's destination, so it was at the airport. In this case, fortitude was the necessary quality.


Test 1

Feeling pretty good upon arrival at the airport - stage one complete: uneventful trip to airport, timely arrival.

Stepped smartly down to the security area.

Ohhhhhhhhh.

Not open. Wouldn't be open for several hours.

Virtually no seating options in the vicinity, other than a handful of chairs or the shiny floor.

I joined a tiny family of earlier-than-I stalwarts at the short bank of chairs. Blessedly, the chairs were just outside a restroom.

So, here's one of the downsides of traveling solo. You can't just stake out your spot in the as-yet-to-be-formed queue and then wander off to sightsee in the airport or go get a cup of coffee or even go to the restroom. You've either got to make friends fast with your waiting neighbors, asking them to watch your stuff or your little turf, or you've got to tough it out with boredom.

When you've got a travel partner, you can tag team each other, which is quite nice.

Fortunately, the restroom in this staging area was right next to the little bank of chairs, and my neighbors were congenial. So I could leave my carry-on bag on my seat under their watchful eyes, and slip into the restroom as needed.

We were the earliest arrivals of the day, and at a certain point, airport employees raised a barrier strip that kept passengers from entering the area where my neighbors and I sat.

This resulted in some frustration to new arrivals, as they were stopped by the barrier strip, almost within touching distance, but on just the other side of the boarding-pass machines. Plus no seating. And no one available to answer questions. And no discernible precise spot to begin a queue.

Fortunately, my neighbors and I were not evicted.

Some scofflaws on the other side of the barrier crossed the border in search of answers to their questions. Power to the people, I say. As long as they don't get in front of me in the line that would eventually be born.

But why put travelers under unnecessary stress?

I can accept that an airport (even a large international airport in the largest city of Canada) doesn't  operate its security process 24 hours a day. But given that the downtime is the norm, and given that travelers act in predictable ways when they expect one experience and receive a different one, there is no excuse for the lack of:

• Useful signage about hours, when a door will open, where a line begins
• Seating for travelers, especially for those who have physical impairments, or who tire easily from standing, or who feel ill, or who are traveling with children
• Access to the nearest restrooms (which were on the wrong side of the barrier line)
• One employee in the vicinity who is ready to answer questions

Yes, I know that one employee costs money. But if that one employee can soothe anxious flyers, this will pay off down the assembly line when the queue does open, with more pleasant - and therefore more efficient - processing through airport security and customs.

Goats at market in Gonder, Ethiopia. April 2011.

Test 2

Eventually, the magic hour rolled around and we could line up outside the transportation security door.

There was a slight glitch for me when coming through, but it was quickly taken care of and because I was toward the beginning of the line, I popped through on the other side fairly soon.

Only to be poured into a blank corridor that ended in a locked door with no instruction about what to do or where to go next.

Hahahaha, you'd think that the Canadian airport transportation security and the US Customs folks would coordinate their opening hours, right?

Fuck, no.

Consequently, our herd found itself in a bottleneck paddock waiting for some cowboy to open the gate into the next pasture.

Test 3

Time passed slowly, as it always does in the land of uncertainty. When will this end? What if I need to use the restroom?

Furthermore, when trapped between airline security and border customs, we've got to mind our attitudes, body language, words, so as not to attract unwanted attention by The Man.

In due course, an official unlocked the door, opened it, and allowed us to clip-clop through.

To another corral, albeit with seats, a restroom, and a drinking fountain.

There was another locked door between us and US Customs, with no guidance about timing or process.

For awhile, we milled about curiously, while generally maintaining a cluster near the door that would lead us (hopefully) to US Customs at some unknown moment. You can be sure, no one of us wanted to lose our place in the line, when a line could, at some point, be permitted to form.

We emitted discreet baa's and moo's among ourselves about the whens, whats, and wherefores to come. We chewed our cuds quietly in a display of non-threatening compliance.

Presently an official arrived, who told us to find a seat while we waited. Some of us did so; others of us did not wish to give up our places in the as-yet-unborn queue, thus remained standing.

Shortly another official arrived who was kind of an asshole in her abruptness and lack of useful information.

Overall, the impression I had was that the officials acted as if this was a new and unusual scene for them, not one that happened every flipping morning.

In other words, no good signage, no good process, no respect for the human needs of the people passing through. All of whom have the basic need to urinate at various points in a day, some of whom have mobility challenges, some of whom have young children, some of whom have disabilities that affect interactions or movement or understanding.

No excuse for this.

Oh, so, finally that last door got unlocked and we could pass through to US Customs.

Tests survived.

Toronto complete. 

Toronto: To-the-Airport Travails

Flying geese, Bosque del Apache, New Mexico. November 2011.

After a splendid two weeks visiting friend Sandy in Toronto, it was time to return to the US.

Much to my friend's and my surprise, getting to the airport from downtown Toronto for an international 7:15 a.m flight requires creativity for budget travelers.

The UP train doesn't begin its daily operation until 5:30 a.m., arriving at the airport at 6:00 a.m. - far too short a time to negotiate both the transportation security maze and U.S. Customs (which occurs Canada-side for flights into the U.S.)

There used to be a downtown-airport bus which ran much earlier in the morning, but this ceased operation back in 2014.

Taxis cost about $60.

There were two options like this on craigslist's rideshare page:

Driving home from the cottage today. If you would like a FREE ride anywhere in the city, get back to me. This can be for anywhere from Barrie south to the Toronto Waterfront, even to the airport.
I will not charge for a ride, but hopefully open minded females can come up with another form of payment. Let me know if you're interested!

I chose to take the last UP train of the night preceding my departure, and just hang out at the airport til boarding time.

This would have worked out just fine if it weren't for the surprise I encountered at security. 

Toronto: The Little Thermos

Little Thermos. Source: Amazon.

Sandy's everyday carry for her Toronto oots-and-aboot includes a small backpack with a side pocket, in which she inserts a small Thermos.

She has a special ice cube tray that forms slender frozen rectangles. These fit elegantly into the Thermos.

The Thermos holds 12 ounces of cold liquid (including ice), and with the ice, the liquid remains cold for many hours.


Another feature I like is that it has a push-button lid opener to reveal the sturdy silicone straw. So with one hand, Sandy can retrieve the Thermos from the backpack pocket, pop open the lid, take a sip, snap the lid closed, and return the Thermos to its pocket.

Little Thermos. Source: Amazon.

Because the Thermos is short, it's a tad squat, which gives it stability on most surfaces. Also, because it's short, it's less likely to tilt out of the backpack's side pocket and fall onto the ground.

I had to have one.

Sandy and I searched several places for the same size and features, to no avail. Well to some avail, but for twice the price (albeit for twice the cold duration). However, Sandy's sister knew exactly where to find Sandy's Thermos and she hunted and gathered one for me.


Generally, I'm not into cute, and Olaf's relentlessly cheery self is a bit of an eye-roller. On the other hand, because it's a lowly little kid's Thermos, it doesn't attract covetous eyes. Nor does the cheap-ish, powder-blue backpack I use for my own EDC, in which I place Olaf.

Toronto: Three Bs

A little contrived perhaps, but below are pics that didn't reach the level of a separate post. Their common tie is the letter B.

Toronto baseball fans, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Bagpipes, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Bar and boutique hotel, The Rex, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Toronto: "Henry Moore’s Big Bronze Whatchamacallit"

"Henry Moore’s Big Bronze Whatchamacallit", Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

My hostess, Sandy, and I visited the Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO) during one of its free-admission evenings. While on a docent-led tour, we entered a gallery with work by Henry Moore.

I liked Mr. Moore's smooth, touchable, curvy lines.

Arguably, it's Henry Moore's work that pushed Toronto out of its allegedly-staid comfort zone in 1966. Fifty years ago.

His piece was a modern "whatchamacallit" which was to anchor the new City Hall plaza.

So much controversy surrounded the sculpture that the city posted a 24-hour police guard during its installation.


From the Torontoist, July 2010, which revisited a 1966 story about the new public art work in front of the new Toronto City Hall: Henry Moore's Big Bronze Whatchamacallit:

Shown a depiction of the sculpture, Controller Herbert Orliffe asked in puzzlement: "What meaning has the sculpture? What does it represent?"

"It is not representative of anything at all," Professor Arthur answer. "You don't look for meaning in a modern piece of sculpture - it's not like the Peter Pan on Avenue Road - you look for the beauty of form and mass. It is not supposed to have meaning [in that fashion]." 

The above is precisely what causes my friend, Sandy, consternation when she looks at some modern art. Lack of discernible meaning irritates her. Indeed, she, I, and her friend, Heloise, had an energetic trialogue about same as we walked past The Archer one day.

I subscribe to the belief that we humans are hard-wired to place meaning on everything we see. So even if Professor Arthur's analysis of modern sculpture is true - in theory - it fails in practice. We will always place meaning on what we see. When we can't fit any meaning to something we see, we become disgruntled.

As for me, its obvious that Henry Moore's The Archer is entirely phallic.
 

Flashback: Voluntary Simplicity

In October 2010, I wrote this:

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Voluntary simplicity

I began this post thinking to share an interesting archive article from O magazine, sent to me by friend Terry,  called  Back to Basics: Living With Voluntary Simplicity. There was fodder in there for a discussion about the "business" of simplicity. I imagine I'll get to that another day. 

This is because, in thinking of voluntary simplicity, I remembered Jessica Terrell.

When she served as the trails coordinator for the state of Missouri, Jessica and I worked together on a couple of projects. She modeled voluntary simplicity.

Jessica Terrell. Photo from www.MoBikeFed.org.

You only meet a handful of people like Jessica in your lifetime. She had a positive impact on others simply by walking her talk of living lightly on the earth while embracing its beauty. Good sense of humor. Beautiful smile. Gentle air. Excellent writer. Adventurous. Hard worker. She liked to take at least one trip a year with her mother, who lives in Ohio. She farmed a plot in our town's community garden across the river.
Jessica wanted to live small materially, but big in other ways. (She won a grueling multiple-week, motorcycling competition shortly after moving west.) It was Jessica who introduced me to the world of Tiny Houses. Living in a tiny house was one of her goals.

Once, I met Jessica at another colleague's house for a meeting. Jessica was emptying some items out of her car to give to our colleague. I asked about it, and Jessica replied that she'd been in the process of giving away many of her things. To live smaller. She offered me her one-person tent, which I took (and only recently passed along to Brother4.)

One of Jessica's professional goals was to move from Missouri to New Mexico or Arizona, and work in trails there. When she shared this with me, she calculated it would be five or more years before an opening and her professional "cred" would align to make this happen. It turns out that both occurred soon after, and Jessica moved from Missouri to Santa Fe in 2006.

You'll have noticed that I refer to Jessica in the past tense. This is because she died in a collision with a tractor-trailer on a wintry day in 2008. She was only 30.

Jessica was on her way to another town where she would give a workshop related to trails. Earlier that day, in her office, she talked enthusiastically with a co-worker about a book of essays she was reading, written by Barbara Kingsolver.

Another person who knew Jessica told me she called herself a "vagabond for beauty."

In 2002, Jessica participated in the Public Lands Journey. I'd read Jessica's fine journal entries before, but after she died, I revisited them, and this one stuck out for me. It embodies simplicity.

My Favorite Day  

… I know that when I return home, friends, and family will be asking “So what was your absolute favorite place on the whole trek?”

What will I tell them? I will start out by saying that every day inevitably seemed better than the last. “Seemed” is the key word, you must realize.

If I were to mix up all the days of the trek and do it all over again, each new day would never cease to “seem” better than the one before it!

So I have come to the conclusion that TODAY will always be my favorite.

The dawn of each new day has and will continue to reveal to me things that have never before occurred, and never will occur again, whether it be a beautiful cloud formation over a particular mountain, the call of elk on a cool morning in a national forest, or even the way rocks glitter in the brightness of the afternoon sun.

Jessica Terrell

1977-2008

Toronto: Subway, Part 2

Subway, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

My hostess, Sandy, and I went out to her friend's house for lunch. We took the subway.

As we've now learned, Toronto is a little whack. The evidence to support this conclusion is here, here, and here.

It was on the subway that I learned Toronto is a gateway into another dimension. Yeah, I know, why don't we all know about this, right? I don't have the answer to that, but I could see with my own eyes that the Toronto subway system defies the laws of directionalism. My personal theory is that this is so upsetting to Torontonians and their visitors that they all live in denial.

There is precedence for this phenomenon. Douglas Adams, in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy s series, called it SEP - Someone Else's Problem: 

An SEP is something we can't see, or don't see, or our brain doesn't let us see, because we think that it's somebody else's problem. That’s what SEP means. Somebody Else’s Problem. The brain just edits it out, it's like a blind spot.

But look for yourself. I caught it in this video:

And isn't the woman's voice delicious? It's like every sci-fi remote voice.

Gosh darn, I love the incongruity of sitting in one direction while watching how my subway-future makes [will make][will have made] such deep turns and I don't feel [won't feel][won't have felt] a thing.

Toronto: Second City Comedy Club

Second City, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Sandy and I went to Second City Comedy Club one Sunday night.

I came of age in the Golden Age of Saturday Night Live - that era of Laraine Newman, John Belushi, Jane Curtin, Gilda Radner, Dan Aykroyd, Garrett Morris, Chevy Chase, Bill Murray.

Second City had cachet for me because it was the comedy cradle for several SNL regulars.

"Jane, you ignorant slut."

So there was sentimental value in going to a Second City performance with Sandy.

There were high points, mediocre points, shoulder-shrug points in the performance.

The most important take-away for me was the reinforcement that, to achieve our goals, we've got to:

• Practice, practice, practice
• In practicing, accept that we may not do things well in the beginning
• Be willing to fail in public
• Be willing to experience discomfort while learning
• Be confident that we will, eventually, succeed

I am mindful of lessons learned from the Food Network Channel.

And in learning to dance.

Toronto: Seeing the Homeless

Toronto Homeless Memorial, The Church of the Holy Trinity, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

I don't recall that I've ever been to a city that publicly "saw" its homeless residents by saying their names and acknowledging their deaths as individuals with names. When names are known.

The Church of the Holy Trinity sees the homeless. The church has a clear, succinct, easy-to-remember, actionable mission statement: "loving justice in the heart of the city."

Toronto Homeless Memorial, The Church of the Holy Trinity, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Toronto Homeless Memorial, The Church of the Holy Trinity, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Sandy, her friend Heloise, and I stopped by the church for a few contemplative moments. We sat in the shade. We also took a turn in the labyrinth walk in the pocket park by the church.

Toronto: Architecture

Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Source: Yoldasin.

 
Toronto comes in for some ribbing about its architecture.

The Royal Ontario Museum, for example. It's as if the historic mother building were harboring a neonatal alien in its belly, and suddenly said alien yowwen burst forth, ravenous, ripping open its host.

Then there's the preposterous pencil and eraser construct for the Sharp Centre for Design. Literal art.

Sharp Centre for Design, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Credit: CNN.

When I think of the buildings in downtown Toronto, troops of tall, blue, glassine structures come to mind, interspersed with sandy-colored block buildings.

I also think about new buildings that have sprung up, which interrupt the light that their older neighbors used to enjoy. "Shadowing" is not a new problem for Toronto. On one day, Sandy left her Toronto apartment for a far-away island; upon her return a couple of years later, a brand-new neighbor had shouldered itself in - a tall condo building that darkened her balcony.

Overall, however, I don't know that Toronto is any less lackluster than most other cities. And to tell you the truth, I'm still kind of impressed there is a statue of a businessman, dressed in a business suit, in one of Toronto's pocket parks. It's a real departure from the usual public statue fodder, such as warriors, whether modern or historic.

Toronto: Canada Day and Humanity Massive

Canada Day, Harbourfront, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. July 2016.

Canada Day is July 1.  Canada Day commemorates the enactment of the 1867 Constitution Act, which united Canada, Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick into a single political entity.

Canada Day isn't the same as the American 4th of July, as Canada was still a "dominion" of the British Empire under the Constitution Act. Canada didn't become fully independent as a nation until 1982.

But I guess Canada Day is kinda like the USA's Independence Day in that it is a national holiday, there are millions of barbecues-and-beer, and fireworks.

Anyhoo, Sandy and I sauntered down to the Harbourfront on Canada Day to see the fireworks, et al.

I savored a brief connection between Toronto and Lafayette, Louisiana, upon seeing Nomadic Massive perform. This band had appeared at International Festival when I was in Louisiana.

Canada Day, Harbourfront, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. July 2016.

The most impressive experience of the night was when everyone left the Harbourfront. The energy, the voice-song, the movement, the alive-ness of so many persons washing over the city floor like a tide from the great lake, singular souls that, together, flowed like a wave.

A video below:

Sandy and I had delayed too long to get a comfortable, good viewing spot for the Canada Day fireworks. In the area between the water and the start of the Harbourfront shops, virtually every single square inch of space was occupied. We finally settled on a not-very-good-but-acceptable spot next to a fountain pool and behind an inconvenient tree.

I don't anticipate ever needing this brilliant tip in the future, but in case it is of use to you: A magnificent view of the fireworks is to be had - albeit standing - adjacent-ish to the Harbourfront Centre, steps from Queens Quay. This has the added advantage of being close to the public restrooms inside the building. Not to mention speedy egress at the end of the display.

I only discovered this vantage point because I had to use the restroom, and when I exited the building to return to Sandy and our ho-hum spot up toward the front (near the shore line), I saw the glorious views of the fireworks from the Harbourfront Centre.

A good lesson: Being up close isn't always the best seat in the house.

Toronto: Standing

Man Standing. Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Toronto, standing.

The Jury, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Toronto: Uneven Flooring

Uneven flooring sign, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Toronto was so solicitous to offer the above sign in a corridor somewhere, in which construction was occurring.


Some countries should have this sign at all of their border points.

Ethiopia.

Caucasus Georgia.

Guatemala.


And why not? The United States has this sign at one of its border crossings:

Beware poisonous snakes sign at US border, Antelope Wells, New Mexico. March 2013.

Toronto: The Beaches

The Beaches, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. July 2016.

Toward the end of my two-week visit, Sandy took me to the Toronto neighborhood called The Beaches. It was like a drink of cool, clean water after the grit and the noise and the hardscapes of downtown Toronto. I could take a deep breath here, appreciating the shading greenery of Glen Stewart Park.

The Beaches has everything. Beaches along a massive body of water. Greenspaces. Smaller-town feel. Proximity to the Big City proper. ... Of course, all of this comes with a mighty price tag for those who want to live here.

But it's free for the visiting.

The Beaches, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. July 2016.

Toronto: Cheese

Mmmm, cheese.

Has there ever been a cheese I didn't like? Nope, don't think so. Strong, gentle, pungent, mild, hard, soft, spreadable, crumbly, curdly, white, yellow, orange, shot through with blue mold. Doesn't matter. C'est good.

Remember the cheese, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

One day, Sandy and I walked, bused, and subway-ed to see her friend, Hilda, a woman who emigrated from Ecuador years ago. The photo above is of a bus stop near Hilda's place.

Hilda is a woman who takes pleasure in creating beautiful meals for herself and others; she prepared a three-course lunch for us in her petite apartment.

What pleasure there is in eating good food and drinking good wine in the company of vibrant people! Or, as I saw reference to recently: in the company of sparkling human beings!

Writing this reminds me of a lunch al fresco in Mtskheta outside of Tbilisi, Georgia. Sandy was there, too, along with another TLG comrade, Eberle - who, like Sandy, lives in Canada.

Lunch in Mtskheta with Sandy and Eberle, Caucasus Georgia. November 2011.

 

Toronto: And More Organs

Sandy and I walked down (up?) University Street on our way to see Jane Bunnet and Hilario Duran at the boutique department store on Bloor. The walk felt interminable.

As we proceeded up the congested sidewalk, I saw a wavery mirage on the side of a large building.

At first it made no sense. It was immense. It was some sort of graphic. Vibrant color. Undefined shape.

Heart on University Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Was it a huge photo that was actually inside the building and I was seeing it through a glass exterior? Or was it some sort of projection onto the side of the building? A reflection from another building that faced this one?

What was it? Gigantic, red, amorphous.

Finally, when we got close enough, I saw. A heart. Not a heart like a Valentine heart. Not a painterly rendition of a heart. An actual heart, as in ripped from a chest, heart. A real heart. Wha????

Heart on University Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Toronto! What kind of place are you?

And then there was this, I swear to God, on the sidewalk within sight of the Godzilla heart:

Across from heart on University Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Toronto?

Toronto: Swing, Swing, Swing at the Harbourfront

Swing at the Harbourfront, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

If I were a religious sort, I'd say that one must add swing to the list of dance and music that make a "joyful noise to the Lord:"

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth;
    break forth into joyous song and sing praises!
⁵ Sing praises to the Lord with the lyre,
    with the lyre and the sound of melody!
⁶ With trumpets and the sound of the horn
    make a joyful noise before the King, the Lord!

⁷ Let the sea roar, and all that fills it;
    the world and those who dwell in it!
⁸ Let the rivers clap their hands;
    let the hills sing for joy together

In the summer, at Toronto's Harbourfront, there are regular dance events, each time featuring a different style. One evening, Sandy, her friend Heloise, and I partook of swing. Video below:

A joyful noise!

Swing at the Harbourfront, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Toronto: Fish on the Underground Path

Fish, Toronto's PATH, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

A couple of times, Sandy and I walked the underground pedestrian highway (the PATH) to get from a point A to a point B.

As with Tbilisi and Istanbul, Toronto's underground system houses shops and restaurants. Ripped from this page are highlights of Toronto's PATH:

• According to Guinness World Records, PATH is the largest underground shopping complex with 30 km (19 miles) of shopping arcades. It has 371,600 square meters (4 million square feet) of retail space. fact, the retail space connected to PATH rivals the West Edmonton Mall in size.
• The approximate 1,200 shops and services found in PATH, employ about 5,000 people.
• More than 50 buildings/office towers are connected through PATH. Twenty parking garages, six subway stations, two major department stores, eight major hotels, and a railway terminal.

I liked a collection of steel fish laid into the floor at one spot.

I like the imagery of us humans swimming desultorily through the PATH air stream, poking our heads in, around, under small pebbles and rocks as we make our way.

Toronto: Canada's Dark Secret

Did you read Shirley Jackson's short story, The Lottery, in high school?

Before most of my readers were born, there was a suspenseful TV mini-series starring Bette Davis, in her aged time. And a very young Rosanne Arquette, pre-Executioner's Song. The movie was The Dark Secret of Harvest Home. Mmm, the Corn King.

Two stories placed in locales and cultures seemingly bucolic and healthy, where the people are so gosh-darned salt-of-the-earth, so nice.

But then we learn there is a sinister secret beneath the pastoral pleasantness.

You can imagine my shock at seeing this ... this ..... altar .... in Toronto's City Hall.

Ritual altar, Toronto City Hall, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. June 2016.

Suddenly, it all became clear.

Those Canadians, so polite, mild-mannered, gentle, on the surface. Citizens of a country that seems to be in the good graces of all nations.

Who knew Canada was under the dark protection of an alien god which feeds on regular sacrifices of unwitting tourists?

It explains the brains.