Rant - Liberty Village

 

A recent visit to my old stomping grounds of Toronto occasioned a meetup with two distant relatives for a nice meal and some catching up. I say distant relations despite their being very close in blood ties, because we are separated by great distance (Cape Breton and Toronto). I guess that’s a great cultural distance too, but I’m happy to report that we are similarly inclined in many things; our “distance” is not of the cultural sort.

                                                                                                         Two nice policemen on their handsome twin Percherons   stroll along King West in Liberty Village area of Toronto – the ironically named Liberty Village.

We met at a great restaurant near one of those relatives’ workplace, in the Toronto borough called Liberty Village, King St. West. The name was familiar to me from many years of visiting and hanging out in Toronto (and living there during grad school), but I’d never had reason to stop and look around that precinct.

Before I go any further I should name the restaurant, Caffino. Sounds more like a coffee shop than a dining room, but menu-wise it is primarily Italian, though I am not one to judge authenticity. But I can judge menu, price and setting. I loved it.

I guess Caffino is considered moderately priced by Toronto standards. Menu selection is not extensive, but it offers a good selection serving most tastes. The décor is “early eclectic,” but not in a bohemian sort of way. As I say, I really liked it and would definitely go again – let’s call that “highly recommended.”

Be careful if you’re trying to find it, though. Civic number 1185 is deceiving. Behind a simple but substantial iron gate that seemed to signal ‘closed,’ runs a narrow, but not claustrophobic, covered close leading to a dingy entrance. Because of my vision issues, I really had to concentrate to determine that I had the right address. So, 1185 is a gateway, not a doorway.

A vintage sign complicates the confusion by recalling one historical incarnation of the overall complex: “Carpet Factory.” Enough about Caffino, except to say that I loved it.

As I wrote, the general area is known as Liberty Village, and the name has an interesting provenance. The vestiges of the carpet complex mentioned above includes a maze of multistory stone and brick buildings that once served as a penitentiary. The less substantial buildings that evolved surrounding the prison was dubbed liberty village. Behind the walls was incarceration, outside was liberty. I imagine – perhaps romanticizing – that liberty village greeted loved ones’ release.

While I was biding my time outside the walls – waiting for the appointed hour to enter – I was thrilled to hear the clop-clickety-clop-clop of horses’ hoofs. Around the corner of the street that encircles the prison, came two handsome and perfectly matched Percherons ridden by two of Toronto’s finest. What a picture-perfect sight was that pair of crowd-control equines!

It was like a Toronto travel commercial. If they had been RCMP in red serge it could have been a proud Canadian travel commercial. But it wasn’t, as I learned when I rounded the corner onto Fraser St. I was drawn to walk down Fraser because that was the name of the street where I once lived, for about twenty years, in Sydney Mines, Cape Breton. It was like a step back in time, of sorts.

But almost to medieval times, not nostalgic times, for across the street from the former prison – the keep – stands a tent village. A 21^st-century liberty village, whose inhabitants seek or are forced into living rough. “Sleeping rough,” we say, though I can’t imagine getting the proper amount of daily sleep in such a place.

These are not the tents of medieval re-enactors camped outside the castle walls holding out for a pretend prince’s clemency toward wretches imagined in the dungeons. This is an encampment of 21^st-century wretches huddled outside a 21^st-century soup kitchen under the watchful eyes of security guards carefully controlling the flow of unhoused Canadians seeking comfort.

This patch of green that is Libert Village is known to prisoners of a different sort. They are held outside, but they are inmates nonetheless – free captives. In a strange “catch 22” the residents of this village of liberty are free of the constraints of a society that neither understands or restrains them. They rely on that same society that ignores them. They wait for handouts and hands up.

My moments of concern and consternation over the encampment of miscreants [sic] took me back to that romanticized view of the Percherons. Those great beasts, and their armed human handlers, I now processed in an entirely different light: from romantic to repressive, from grace, beauty and strength to power and control.

This new focus of my attention cast the overall scene into doubt when I took notice of two steeds of a different sort. I don’t even know what to call them – small ride-on vehicles with vacuum hoses that dangled over the curb and gutter like elephant trunks, ready to suck up the detritus of Toronto society. Two vacuums, but only one portable toilet visible.

The snapshots I include among these thought were taken discretely, from across the street in hopes I was not intruding, not adding to the spectacle. Then, thoughtfully, I returned to the heavy iron gate to Caffino and my appointment with family and friends whose warmth and comfort I find so liberating.

Virginia creepers cling to a façade as though to protect the building from contamination.

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Rant - The Aliens are Nigh

 

The notion that aliens are nigh, perhaps already among us – as sometimes depicted in science fiction – crosses my mind frequently of late when I contemplate humanity’s current phase of development. At least, we can hope it’s a phase.

Readers of one of my past blogposts may recall the confession that I sometimes mis-hear lyrics. Quite by accident I subsequently learn of my error and – with a private smile at my stupidity – commit the new information to memory in hopes I don’t embarrass myself at some future reference.

Much of my adult life has been spent finding the right words, so to speak. For the piece that follows, “Aliens are Nigh” is one such occasion. It’s from a much-played song on the radio here in Nova Scotia. In our current media milieux in which surely some people might conclude we are nearing the “end of days,” the song's title certainly seems appropriate. The Aliens are Nigh.

Like a good boy, I Googled “The Aliens are Nigh” in order to credit the work, only to draw a blank. Google was stumped. People I know who ought to know were also stumped. And THEIR Google was stumped. But Bill Roach and CBC Radio One Weekend Mornings (CBC Maritimes) weren't stumped. It turns out that the song is actually titled “Aliens are Nice” (Bette and Wallet, Électrique, 2014). It’s an excellent song, by the way –a cappella harmonies that are out of this world (pun intended), though the meaning of the song, if any, is obtuse to my old brain. Bette and Wallet are aliases, by the way. Not alien, alias.

To be honest, I really wanted to title this piece, “The Arse is Out of ‘Er, Byes,” but thought that was little too crude for a heading. I also thought to paraphrase that well-worn quote from Walt Kelly’s syndicated comic strip Pogo (1948-1975), which would also do nicely: “We have seen the enemy, and he is we.”

To borrow yet another quote: “hasten us all unto the city of God” (St. Augustine, 5^th century).

Take your pick, but I like “aliens are nigh” for, like the plot line of some dystopian video game, “the arse is out of ‘er, byes.” How do we know? Let me review a noteworthy sign.

Exhibit A: Elon Musk and other “Haves” (vs Have-nots). Musk is nothing if not outward-looking. Why he is so leaves me wondering.

Elon Musk is perhaps an extreme example, but as a billionaire spending gobs of money investigating space travel, he’s an easy target. I wonder if, like one of my favourite jokes, he is working on outrunning us all. Mind you, he’s not the only member of the billionaire space-race club, but he’s an easy target for a rant. The way I see it, outer space is not merely “the final frontier,” a tag line from Star Trek, it’s the “next frontier” for those who somehow know for a fact that this “mortal coil” (Shakespeare’s Hamlet) is pretty much used up and it’s time to look for something new. Whether or not that means something new to enjoy or to destroy remains to be seen, but it does seem like Musk’s penchant for outer space is telling.

The joke that comes to mind has two friends out for a hike in the Rocky Mountains. In addition to the usual hiking gear, one of them has a pair of running shoes hung around his neck – presumably a sensible option in case of wet feet. As (bad) luck would have it, they come across a bear posed threateningly in the middle of their intended route. The aforementioned friend promptly sits down and changes into his running shoes. “What are you doing?” questions his companion. “You’ll never outrun that bear.” Newly shod, the first hiker stands and begins to run, shouting over his shoulder as he did: “I don’t have to outrun the bear. I just have to outrun you!”

I’ve previously used the following analogy of the pinecones, and include herein a photo for illustration (they’re spruce, but you get the idea). Folk science has it that the clustering of cones high up like that means we can expect lots of snow in the coming winter. That sounds plausible, I guess. The cones are assembled thusly to avoid freezing, maybe? But I sometimes wonder – and have always meant to test it – that not every tree is so configured in the same year, and there may be another explanation.

How about this: We know that a spruce tree in these parts has a life expectancy of approximately 60 years. Not every one lives that long, and some live longer, but what if the proliferation of cones is an indicator that the tree is nearing the end of its days. It produces a large concentration of cones in order to propagate, and I imagine them crowding the treetop trying to hog the sunlight and warmth, or even to somehow escape its fate, at the end of its days. 

This past (2023) growing season was unprecedented; trees, shrubs, flowers and lawns (damn them) have grown in leaps and bounds, encroaching on roads enough to obscure safe passage in rural areas. And people are complaining that larger than usual family groups of deer and bears are increasingly bold and are getting in the way more and more. I have often wondered if instead of complaining about more wildlife in our midst, we ought to be pleased that animals are finding it possible to recover from human intrusion and to share green spaces.

Anyway, the image of the cones clamouring for the treetop for some reason puts me in mind of a famous photo taken during the evacuation of Saigon, Viet Nam, as the Americans withdrew from that dreadful conflict. Like the spruce cones, people clamour for salvation and for a future. Another pictorial analogy might be the desperate lengths to which some go to escape ______ (fill in the blank), risking life, limb and family for a better life, for survival. If only they had more wealth! Like Elon Musk, they could escape this “mortal coil” (Hamlet again).

I’m further reminded of the Biblical story of the flood, and how only a few select people were deemed possibly worthy of saving, despite their labours constructing the darn thing. The image terrifies, does it not?

Does Musk know something we don’t know? Does he watch the news (floods, fire, famine) and think, “I’m so outta here”? Does the Bible story image of the flood terrify him as it was meant to, to keep us kids in line and in church? Can’t he swim? Couldn’t he take us with him to the moon, to Mars? Are we not worthy? Are we too dumb to save?

I’m being facetious. Yes, but have you taken note of the names of Musk’s children? The seven are: Techno Mechanicus, Griffin, Vivian, Kai, Saxon, Damian and X. Naming is a parental prerogative, of course, but Damian? Geez, didn’t they see the movie? And one of the twin arrivals is apparently named X AE A-XII (X for short), in May 2020. According to reports X, who is now two years of age, was originally to be named X Æ A-12, but “Æ” and “12” violated California by not being part of the English alphabet, and therefore requiring a name change.

Now do you believe me that “the aliens are nigh”?

NO? Coincidence, you say?

How about this one: From Human Rights Without Frontiers comes this Feb. 2022 photo of Russian President Vladimer Putin with Patriarch Kirill at the Cathedral Church of Christ the Saviour, who prayed, “God forbid that the present political situation in fraternal Ukraine so close to us should be aimed at making the evil forces that have always strived against the unity of Rus’ and the Russian Church, gain the upper hand.” Notice in the linked photo that Patriarch Kirill (or the alien posing as him) is either being blessed by Putin, or is himself an alien, with two right hands. If God and his Church are on the side of the aggressors, only aliens can save us. Perhaps Putin the believer thinks that Ukraine is all that stands in the way of the waiting aliens.

Of course, for religious scholars the Book of Ezekiel  is clear enough, but most of us missed the modern-day referent (Ezekiel, Chapter 1, Verse 4).

Is it possible that the term AI actually stands for Alien Intelligence? That has to be it. Why else would anyone of intelligence bomb the crap out of a country he covets if not to clear the way for landing crafts.

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Don’t ask me to explain air-conditioned beer stores; that one’s too tough to tackle. I’ll just continue to work on my thesis that aliens are nigh. The first step is to go across the road and flag that spruce tree to see when it dies, and if my theory is correct that aliens are nigh.

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