A Pocketful of Leaves

Or Roots With A View

I always have leaves in my pockets. They are of the kind that never reach the ground when they fall, since they fall into the past. (They also resist absent-mindedness and the laundry, unlike the essential phone numbers scribbled on scraps of newsprint, or the important appointments carefully noted in margins of something else, which all suffer the same fate: the 60°C pre-wash into oblivion.)
I should say that these are not just any old leaves, drained of chlorophyll, weaned of sap, severed at the stem. These are leaves from the metaphorical world tree that upholds the roof of my nebulous Canadian pantheon and universe, like some lofty Yggdrasil poised just beyond 49°40 North. (It’s tempting here to attribute an identity to Nidhoggr, greedily gnawing and worrying at its cultural and economic roots, but that’s another story…)

But speaking of roots…

I pulled mine up, shook off the clods of sandy Okanangan Valley earth and packed them away in a knapsack many years ago.

There was a leaf sewn to that backpack too. Canadians never seem to be far from some reminder, some link to Canada’s vastness and youth as a nation. Because we have no Kalevala or Edda, no Don Quixote or Once and Future King, we must turn to those stronger, older symbols we can never truly own.
This lack of a national epic or a golden age (generally dedicated to busy martyrdom of far-flung lands) makes for an understated and introspective nationalism. (Of course, Québec is different, English Canadians have always mistreated their French-speaking relatives. When will my home and native land learn that a second culture is a supplement of wealth, not just a lot of extra words you can’t read anyway on Special K packages?. But that too, is another long story.) Canadians turn to their wide horizons and say “This is good.”, in contrast to our southern neighbours who say “This is mine.”

Thus, I trundled my roots across Europe, and since they have no earth of their own to anchor in, they have taken root in the air.

The air above the ground where I walk is filled with roots – and drifting leaves.

(So what’s all this got to do with being Canadian – or from anywhere, for that matter? Beats me. That something I hold so dear should so completely eludes my attempts to define it is more or less normal for me. Another one of those mercifully brief fits of inchoate percipience that punctuate my existence… People frequently ask if I miss Canada. No, I reply, Canadians are like trees – they thrive wherever the wind takes them and have long roots. Canada is a fabulous place to be from, and living there doesn’t necessarily mean living within its borders.)

The clues I find are those falling leaves.

That’s why I always have a pocketful.
One day, if I learn to read carefuly enough in their finely veined palms, they will tell me who I am.

LIFE AS I KNOW IT

This is where I’ve been spending (far too much) time recently, tethered to the computer on a short lead. Putting a book together used to involve piles of colour slides (remember those?) but nowadays it’s all digital…
From left to right:
Nice portrait, eh? I swiped it from the Fellowship Festival. (I also got Karl Urban’s portrait, so I figure if I do them up with straps, me in front, Karl in the back, I can wear them like these walking billboards, which will finally get me a bit of attention especially given that when I have walked past, people will go “Wow, that was Karl Urban, what’s he doing in Neuchâtel!?”)
Moria orc helmet.
Printer (eats paper and ink cartridges).
Screen. Decorated with watemelon sponge (don’t ask why) and the little aliens from Toy Story (go figure).
Yes, that’s Gandalf as wallpaper – principally because when that little timepiece briefly replaces the mouse arrow while the Mac boots up, I can place it on his wrist and it makes it look like he’s wearing a Swatch. Right. Small pleasures for small minds, but right now I need all the help I can get.)
Empty cups, once containing industrial quantities of caffeine.
Piles of CDs
Scanner, portable hard drive.
That thing in the corner that eventually stops ringing if I don’t answer it.
In the background: millions of pictures of the world outside I don’t see any more…

LORD OF THE STINGS

Quite a while ago, I was contacted by some event organisers for an event in Washington state. How very nice, thought I, and not far from Vancouver, where I was planning to be around the same time. I tentatively agreed to go.
A little later I was obliged to cancel, but agreed to a video appearance. The organisers promised they would sort out a team for an interview. Shortly after that, I received an e-mail (which probably wasn’t really destined for me) which began: “Hey! Live near Geneva and wanna meet John Howe?” and was basically urging any eager fan with a camera to turn up on my doorstep. Hmmm, thought I, this is perhaps not such a good plan after all, and said I was a little too busy to tape an interview after all.
Then I forgot about the whole thing.
But, it appears the saga is now a book with the fetching title of “When A Fan Hits the Sh(torch or small pig in front)t”:

There’s more info here
SPARE TIME

Obviously, some people do make use if it, and here’s the proof:

Someone sent me these recently, I have NO idea where they are from. I do recognize that castle, but who put the fire out?