tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92029963024466291752024-03-05T14:49:54.807-08:00Why I May Still Be CanadianAn irreverent look at all things Canadian and Israeli by a Canadian expat who somehow ended up in self-exile somewhere in the empty expanse of the Negev desert.dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-38795635239569298492022-03-18T11:11:00.000-07:002022-03-18T11:11:48.801-07:00The Dark Side of the Web<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9HycJVk7ALZVS_JnqBJpqsSNs10b5i9r0P0FCDiYaZ7nAM43NVkif8oiwQ6HJ62GBkIjRkMpQa_DhrgD3fE0zqLzm8retWJj_I5X0_IE_j3W3uuV_DJdSJCa-GWZmF3PbEtkASUj76ZqsMeJwKFwCvch3FEcOXRLfrDh9THw9WF3yc6tPz9AKNwAj2A/s557/nobody_knows_dog2.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9HycJVk7ALZVS_JnqBJpqsSNs10b5i9r0P0FCDiYaZ7nAM43NVkif8oiwQ6HJ62GBkIjRkMpQa_DhrgD3fE0zqLzm8retWJj_I5X0_IE_j3W3uuV_DJdSJCa-GWZmF3PbEtkASUj76ZqsMeJwKFwCvch3FEcOXRLfrDh9THw9WF3yc6tPz9AKNwAj2A/s320/nobody_knows_dog2.png" width="287" /></a></div><br />As we discuss the early years of the Internet, we will discover how, as with many things, it can be both good and bad, having both a bright side and a dark side. Many of its elements can belong to both sides, depending on their use.<div><br /></div><div>In 1993, Peter Steiner captured the spirit of the Internet at the time with his cartoon in the New Yorker: "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog." <p>People were realizing that the Internet could be used as a tool of liberation, allowing them to reinvent themselves and leave their bodies behind. At first, they made small changes, such as making themselves ten to thirty years younger when talking with others on chat. But they soon began experimenting with many more changes to their profile and soon realized that they could become a different persona, altogether. This raised many criticisms, regarding moral and security issues, thus sending this element to the dark side.</p><p>But others saw the situation much differently. Sure it raised negative possibilities but it offered some ground breaking positive possibilities as well. Take "school" for example. The school environment can be both harsh and psychologically damaging. The school society is divided into cliques. The head of the cliques are cool, popular kids: kids that look right. And grouped around them are kids who are physically pleasing enough for now.</p><p>So, where does this leave the kids that don't quite fit in: kids that stutter, for example, or are not physically pleasing enough? They are usually shut out, laughed at, bullied - all because of their physical appearance. </p><p>And this is where the Internet comes in. In 1991, we ran a program where a number of schools from different socio-economic areas were involved. Each student was paired with students from two different schools. They started out by introducing themselve through email. After they became fairly well acquainted, they discussed issues which were brought up. We soon discovered that the social framework of the class greatly changed as the kids related only to the writing without knowing anything about their physical appearance. As such, kids who were usuallly at the bottom of the social ladder often appeared now at the top because of their writing skills. What made it even more interesting was the day when the students from all of the participating schools got onto buses and travelled to a common meeting point. There was an awkward point when it was discovered that a girl student who was writing to two girls had pretended that she was a boy and the girls were apparently quite infatuated with her through her writing. But that won't stop us from sending this experience to the bright side.</p><p>In my first novel - "<a href="https://www.amazon.com/As-Died-Laughing-David-Lloyd-ebook/dp/B00WK86S9M/" target="_blank">As I Died Laughing</a>" - I took this one step further, where a husband invents a virtual character to seduce his wife. Why did he do it? We won't go into that here. Let's just say that things worked out much differently than he had expected. His wife fell in love with this virtual character that he invented and he discovered that he could now only find true intimacy with his wife through the eyes of his virtual character.</p><p>Do you have similar experiences that you want to share with us? You can write about them in the "comments section" down below or send me the description for a guest posting.</p></div>dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-85458100673780785222022-03-18T02:46:00.000-07:002022-03-18T02:46:18.183-07:00Back to the Future<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpQLp2SvOTPZFZ3o09YZt2CtUNSTGJDA70Lz5cXMPRAbCkt0FX2xXxy-sAGNTXeLGQ44xp3m5zhcEkv22NUUHPM7YvfRaJuqn4pbNVa4wadvYrU5zQN-JZYHv7OwWx4jPEMjB80CLG5KPjtmsq2rGaJV8GZnlVhiRoUvLo0iNujKGmKCk0qib93D8Zw/s600/back_to_future2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="600" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpQLp2SvOTPZFZ3o09YZt2CtUNSTGJDA70Lz5cXMPRAbCkt0FX2xXxy-sAGNTXeLGQ44xp3m5zhcEkv22NUUHPM7YvfRaJuqn4pbNVa4wadvYrU5zQN-JZYHv7OwWx4jPEMjB80CLG5KPjtmsq2rGaJV8GZnlVhiRoUvLo0iNujKGmKCk0qib93D8Zw/s320/back_to_future2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In the early days of the Internet (early 1990's) there was a group of visionary educators from around the world who realized that we were on the brink of a digital revolution. In those days, almost all of the K12 (kindergarten until grade 12) educators online either knew each other or knew of each other. All you needed was at least one Internet connection in the school and you could take off. <div><br /></div><div>Many exciting international, educational projects were initiated by teachers in the field during this time. Ministries of Education from around the world still had no idea what the Internet was all about and Bill Gates hadn't yet realized that the Internet was the next big thing. By the time he did, the Internet was already firmly entrenched as a grassroot phenomenon and noone was going to take it away. It was for the people, by the people and belonged to the people - where teachers were empowered in ways never thought possible before. They were no longer dependent only on those things dictated from above. It was an exciting time to be a teacher.<div><br /></div><div>I will try to recreate some of the excitement from these years in posts to come. I know that many of my old virtual colleagues are still out there - whether still teaching or retired. You are warmly invited to tell us something about your own initiatives during these years, either in the "comments section" below this post or by sending me a posting which I will post as a "guest posting".</div><div> </div><div>Looking forward to hearing from you.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-21880226749914384032022-03-16T08:17:00.000-07:002022-03-16T08:17:45.250-07:00The Dark Side of the Moon<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgX0EKQ2Co9QCMoqbCrn_EVnV-AXjfz5Jbi0v7gRslLKPLBAK4yo7J-JNMtujBoIJTx-T5HDzH173VWGqc0CpLotD0XUV5x9_mVDPoqmzvrR2jjFsv9UZs3r4NMMdHCu_oN2a0vCOse7xLNN_yoWg7doMcTYM3mCbD-vCP3gJvhuCZmcbb-xX-FhGzasg=s448" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="301" data-original-width="448" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgX0EKQ2Co9QCMoqbCrn_EVnV-AXjfz5Jbi0v7gRslLKPLBAK4yo7J-JNMtujBoIJTx-T5HDzH173VWGqc0CpLotD0XUV5x9_mVDPoqmzvrR2jjFsv9UZs3r4NMMdHCu_oN2a0vCOse7xLNN_yoWg7doMcTYM3mCbD-vCP3gJvhuCZmcbb-xX-FhGzasg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It's been a little over a year since I wrote my last blog post. Since then, the well has dried up. Is this connected to my slipping out of the workforce and into the dark side of retirement? <br /><br />To truly answer that question, I suppose I should first ask myself why I am writing a blog at all. In <a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">Where Ketchup Will Travel</a>, my first blog post written ten years ago, I described my original motivation as follows:<div><br /><i>"For all of you Canadians still out there in the mother country, and you Israelis who are still wondering how all of these immigrants made it in here, I offer you a slightly different look at identity mislaid, sometimes lost, and occasionally gained - here, and in further entries to come."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Most people who knew me were surprised at how someone as socially autistic as myself could open himself up in that way. What they didn't realize was that I had found the perfect medium for doing so.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, eighty-eight blog posts and ten years later, I ask myself where do I go from here. The emphasis, until now, has been on sharing. By sharing, we shed light on ideas and they become real. But these two last years, a worldwide epidemic has changed the world greatly, forcing us to adapt. And now we have seen how a despot can hold the world captive, turning millions of people into refugees, threatening world order, and perhaps leading to World War Three.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's the world. And we also have our own personal trials and tribulations where we can exchange notes,</div><div><br /></div><div>Until now, we have been travelling under the light of the moon. Now is the time to also visit the dark side. You are welcome to join me on the journey.</div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-60410788542223030452021-03-10T03:37:00.000-08:002021-03-10T03:37:00.395-08:00Last stop - Beer Sheva<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDVQtrxCuc3887OEp0Ft2ReqtmOR9FmYSD1nXd98IqI6NPG6CGY2oUlZG9EGP4g-L9ZSyksYzQka02T_LQxdtci3aMw2Qn1NedA3rV8aStpJ7zXl478hnMC8YnE9m3UBPSPNnxP5C0erQ/s650/BS_museum_of_art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDVQtrxCuc3887OEp0Ft2ReqtmOR9FmYSD1nXd98IqI6NPG6CGY2oUlZG9EGP4g-L9ZSyksYzQka02T_LQxdtci3aMw2Qn1NedA3rV8aStpJ7zXl478hnMC8YnE9m3UBPSPNnxP5C0erQ/s320/BS_museum_of_art.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />"So, this is it, then - the end of the line."<p></p><p>"Really? Can't I take a transfer? I hear that they are talking about setting up a separate line to Eilat." </p><p>"Not in your lifetime. Chin up, old man. You've had a good, long life (more or less) and there is still time for you to do more."</p><p>"In Beer Sheva?"</p><p>"What's wrong with Beer Sheva?"</p><p>"I don't know, it's..."</p><p>"It's come a long way since you called it a <i>cow town</i>."</p><p>"Shh! They may hear you. I have to live here now. I don't want to get off on the wrong foot even before I get going."</p><p>"So what are your plans?"</p><p>"For retirement?"</p><p>"Yes, for retirement in Beer Sheva."</p><p>"I'll play it by ear. I have started to explore Beer Sheva by foot, which should also make my neurologist happy as she claims that walking is the best exercise the body and mind can share."</p><p>"So, everything is coming up smelling of roses."</p><p>"Are you making fun of me?"</p><p>"No, of course not. Well, maybe just a little."</p><p>"Anyhow, watch this space. Beer Sheva will soon take its rightful place beside the others... Toronto, Scarborough, Kibbutz Palmachim, Midreshet Ben Gurion - from Lake to Sea to Desert to City"</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">I welcome tips from those of you who know Beer Sheva well or are just starting out like me. </p></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></blockquote>dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-33965828497211703332020-11-25T23:13:00.000-08:002020-11-26T04:58:18.848-08:00Is it ever too late to write love letters?<p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYPZUrhk8TqV-_P1OEiL0RQKhk765cFIpEekU_TOkhyphenhyphenvC7RIEOYSqG5cseFHQ0zOymdz1jB4VtuNkpYRXF_GQm7kdM2t3IHSOfhhl7AGMtiTU5-TnqWyEIDXku-TXbU4GDurENkv0xQI2/s585/love_letter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="585" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYPZUrhk8TqV-_P1OEiL0RQKhk765cFIpEekU_TOkhyphenhyphenvC7RIEOYSqG5cseFHQ0zOymdz1jB4VtuNkpYRXF_GQm7kdM2t3IHSOfhhl7AGMtiTU5-TnqWyEIDXku-TXbU4GDurENkv0xQI2/w200-h135/love_letter.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />Is this you?</div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> * * * * *</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;">Noises circling above us</div><div style="text-align: center;">faces behind bars of fear</div><div style="text-align: center;">waiting to cry, laugh, scream</div><div style="text-align: center;">looking any way</div><div style="text-align: center;">only not straight ahead</div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;">Pushing our way through the crowd</div><div style="text-align: center;">one of many</div><div style="text-align: center;">too much the same</div><div style="text-align: center;">trying to breathe</div><div style="text-align: center;">find a rock untouched to sit upon</div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;">Afraid that this is what matters</div><div style="text-align: center;">noises about us</div><div style="text-align: center;">waiting to take life away</div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;">Listen to the silence</div><div style="text-align: center;">unsaid, unseen</div><div style="text-align: center;">and taste</div><div style="text-align: center;">bitter sweet</div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;">Search for the unknown</div><div style="text-align: center;">beyond the noise and faces</div><div style="text-align: center;">below the fear and dry tears</div><div style="text-align: center;">where hidden secrets lie and beckon</div><div style="text-align: center;">for those who dare live among the living</div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;">Pay homage to your restless self</div><div style="text-align: center;">never lose sight of your beauty</div><div style="text-align: center;">and keep me close</div><div style="text-align: center;">if only deep within</div><p></p>dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-36060907294579793802020-11-23T03:23:00.002-08:002020-11-23T05:00:36.384-08:00You want it darker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjADWDOyohHm8M9KE6Bh8Cw2ksGfTT3SQSnJC_nM7HKd6O9zMUdLlgcwnenBAmCpUYL1MhFP-DONJXfY2v_0dEDH3LQhnYmatNhNvBrLITEW5taQP0ie-pUearGvDB00cgSLBJTh320VY/s600/you_want_it_darker2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="600" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjADWDOyohHm8M9KE6Bh8Cw2ksGfTT3SQSnJC_nM7HKd6O9zMUdLlgcwnenBAmCpUYL1MhFP-DONJXfY2v_0dEDH3LQhnYmatNhNvBrLITEW5taQP0ie-pUearGvDB00cgSLBJTh320VY/w320-h282/you_want_it_darker2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />So, where were we? Oh yes - <i>The beginning of the end. </i>No, don't look at me like that. We all know what the end will be. Is it time now for an intervention, you ask. Not for me. I am minding my own business. That is the difference between now and then. I am not writing for anyone else - just me. You may have stumbled by here. And you are welcome. Why publish as public, if at all? Let's just call it a whim.<div><br /></div><div>I am listening to Leonard Cohen's last album - <i>You want it darker.</i> Leonard didn't wait for me. We shared so much throughout the years, but in the end, you left me behind. I have a lot of catching up to do. Meanwhile, you have left a trail of bread crumbs in your last album for me to follow. How long do I have before the pigeons eat them up?</div><div><br /></div><div>"That's not an album you'd want to listen to more than once," my wife said. Meaning, that there is nothing there that you would hum to incessantly. Yet, I have listened to it countless times and I mark off the numbers one by one. The songs are no longer meant to be sung - two guitarists - running down through the sand dunes into the Mediterranean at the stroke at midnight. They are most profound when they are not sung at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>I still have some words left. Maybe they are meant for my ears alone - secrets whispered into the silence - only echoes, if anything heard at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Many of you have already written me off. A <i>disturbed</i> mind, you say. Especially after reading my last book: <a href="http://greenlloyd.com/when-winter-wind-wears-desert-boots-2/" target="_blank">When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots</a>. I wouldn't say disturbed. <i>Tortured</i>, maybe. We have reached The Winter in our lives. I once wandered into the desert and explored the hidden crevices, until my boots would carry me no more.</div>dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-4880270319788645902018-09-21T08:07:00.000-07:002018-09-21T08:07:17.246-07:00The Windmills of My MindI feel that I am surrounded. Surrounded by silence where even my voice is not heard.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWLmnCXc86ABTMmtxIP3k3MY3QjPLwSf70ZPPLmMTq2YdBZNHAsumnRRUZ_2yYrxgSrgVm6RNzzogH9MOxY-h24RGzfQ_AnMIlQLBuyGm2zRXvCmRtFL04tj43ERGEZ7COzVWu77FIS2i/s1600/david_beach_telaviv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWLmnCXc86ABTMmtxIP3k3MY3QjPLwSf70ZPPLmMTq2YdBZNHAsumnRRUZ_2yYrxgSrgVm6RNzzogH9MOxY-h24RGzfQ_AnMIlQLBuyGm2zRXvCmRtFL04tj43ERGEZ7COzVWu77FIS2i/s320/david_beach_telaviv.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I have never excelled at verbal skills, whether this be the reason for my being an introvert or the result of being one. And the more my verbal skills deteriorated, so did my social skills, until they became almost totally non-existent.<br />
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But there has always been my writing. There can be found my love for words and the key to opening up the hidden secrets of my mind. My writing has enabled me to live in a world which is bearable and allow me to express myself, for better or for worse.<br />
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But things have changed. A few years back, I started my second book - <a href="http://when-winter-wind.greenlloyd.com/" target="_blank">When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots </a>- on a low flame but it soon became all-consuming. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. My body and mind both told me this, but not in unison. They had gone renegade on me and this lack of coordination between the two would become my greatest enemy.<br />
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I became a man with a mission. I was now writing a confession. Not a confession of things past, or things that still hadn't happened, but rather a confession of what it was to be human. And to finish it, I only had until the end of time.<br />
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It was with a sense of release, then, that I finished the book. It was out there now and no longer haunted me from the inside. I know that many who read it, especially those who know me, found it difficult to read. For they couldn't detach their knowledge of me from the main character in the book and it didn't make any difference to them that the events had never really happened. One close friend who read the first draft of the book told me to never have it published. "It will be your ruin," he said. Another reader - an English teacher - said that the whole book was just <i>smut</i>.<br />
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Do I regret the graphic portrayal of desire and search for intimacy? No, I don't. The book was not meant to make you feel comfortable.<br />
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For better and for worse, I am leaving this part of me behind. Call it a legacy, if you must.<br />
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It was not long after the book was published that I was diagnosed with Parkinson's. It was as if I had been working in the dark and somebody had suddenly turned on the light. The good news was that they knew what was wrong with me. The bad news was that it was only going to get worse with no chance of a cure. One of the many things that I was warned about was increasing speech abnormalities and I felt myself going full circle.<br />
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A year has passed since I wrote my last blog entry. I must do better. For if I lose my ability to write, then I have lost all. Right now I am working on my third book - a work of dystopian fiction which mirrors the type of world we live in today. And no, you will find it difficult to find a character who strongly resembles me. How close am I to finishing? Let's say that I am rounding third base and am on my way home.<br />
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It is a journey. You are welcome to travel it with me. Maybe at times, I will cause you to smile or even shed a tear. I will be happy to have you as a travelling companion.<br />
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And one day, in the distant future, a grandchild of mine may pick up my second book and try to attach the written voice to a vague memory of an ageing man with kind eyes but a stern expression.<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-38983014900096380442017-10-31T04:52:00.000-07:002017-10-31T04:52:00.020-07:00Do the clothes really make the Man?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtAzKcLUbIY8x_LH9iASXN_WtXdFHeRDfEYdMGtUhT_1TWaMCs9jPwiZILibatojE_k0yngMMB6yidav6R1W-zjXTrfT8fmEBUjQxP0ML25mYVtM0ZIYijkISJqqaMz1PWe_06K_C_I09/s1600/penguin_walk2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="380" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtAzKcLUbIY8x_LH9iASXN_WtXdFHeRDfEYdMGtUhT_1TWaMCs9jPwiZILibatojE_k0yngMMB6yidav6R1W-zjXTrfT8fmEBUjQxP0ML25mYVtM0ZIYijkISJqqaMz1PWe_06K_C_I09/s320/penguin_walk2.jpg" width="273" /></a></div>
When I was a young brat, I abhorred going to church. This was not because of the empty teachings in Sunday School or the seemingly meaningless collection of different coloured stars for memorizing parts of the Bible. No, it was because of what I was supposed to wear. I dreaded the approach of Sunday, knowing that I would have to put on a suit and tie.<br />
<br />
"Doesn't he look cute!" my mother would remark. "It's a shame that he spoils it with his penguin walk."<br />
<br />
My <i>penguin walk</i>, as my mother called it, was walking with my arms rigid to the sides, trying to let the coarse garment of the suit touch my skin as little as possible. But my mother only saw this as an expression of rebellion, on my side. She didn't realize what a torture this was for me. God knows what psychological impairment in later years could be traced back to this Sunday ritual.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
It was only in my adult years, when I was diagnosed with OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder), that we came to the realization that this had no connection to my being a spoiled brat, but rather was a neurological disorder which had only gotten worse over the years. It was then that I publicly announced to family in Canada and in Israel that I would no longer put appearance first. I was now a cranky old bugger who had certainly paid his dues to family and society over the years and was now putting himself first.<br />
<br />
But of course, nothing is that simple. As the OCD got worse, I could not wear any shirt with a stiff collar (what I considered <i>stiff</i>). Which made shopping with me a real <i>pleasure</i>. First of all, to get me to go shopping for clothes was a challenge in itself. I still have shirts that I have been wearing the past forty years. For me, they are extremely comfortable, for they have been <i>worn in</i>, Adva insists that what I call comfortable, she calls <i>sloppy, </i>and I shouldn't be seen like that in public. I tell her that they are just for the comfort of the home. But then she catches me outside, wearing my old shirt from ulpan days, its colours extremely faded.<br />
<br />
"You promised not to wear this in public," she says.<br />
"I was just taking out the garbage," I reply, innocently.<br />
The next day I find the shirt in the garbage. It is days like this when you have to count your losses and take it like a man.<br />
<br />
"The clothes you wear to work is also a sign of respect,"Adva liked to say.<br />
"Respect to whom?"<br />
"To the people you work with."<br />
"I have to crawl under desks to check connections and schlep computers. I'm not your typical office worker choosing his clothes to beautify himself."<br />
"That's just an excuse," she says.<br />
That is a real show stopper. She doesn't recognize my situation when it interferes with what she deems <i>should be</i>. And I thought I was the master of denial.<br />
<br />
The thing is - Adva works in a high profile job and I am tucked away in a back office where most of my communication with fellow workers and colleagues from other parts of Israel and beyond is done mostly through virtual means. When I mention this to Adva, that most of the people that I work with don't even see me, she replies, "That doesn't matter. You see yourself."<br />
<br />
That's another cryptic comment that I don't quite understand and thus cannot effectively respond to. Which is probably what it is meant to do - knock me completely off-balance.<br />
<br />
So, what does all this have to do with the old adage: <i>It is the clothes that make the Man</i>. (Please note that this is the generic use of <i>Man</i>.)<br />
<br />
Well, Adva - whether it is connected to her professional life or not - is continually looking more and more distinguished, while I am becoming more and more <i>haggard</i>. If I were to come to work, dressed the way that Adva would want me to dress, co-workers would probably ask me, "What, are you going to a wedding or a funeral?"<br />
<br />
So, maybe I am beyond hope. Although, Adva would beg to differ. She views me as a modern-day Pygmalion. She would love to have the opportunity to dress me and make me into a real <i>mensch</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-51237842939722868382017-05-13T00:55:00.000-07:002017-05-13T00:55:24.069-07:00Holding virtual auditions for characters in my third bookI am presently holding virtual auditions for characters in my third book (fiction). You are welcome to virtually audition a character for a part in this book by <a href="http://www.boker.org.il/book/virtual_audition.htm" target="_blank">going to the following link.</a><br />
<br />
At this point in time, I will not reveal the book's title nor what it is about (already partly written) However, the inclusion of your character in the book after a successful audition will have a definite effect on the further development of existing characters as well as additions to and changes to the plot and sub-plots.<br />
<br />
You may suggest characters based on yourselves or characters you have made up or are loosely based on people you know. As such, you may give the character your own name or a made-up name. (If you are basing the character on someone you know, do not give that character their real name.) Your character description can be as short or as long as you wish.<br />
<br />
This is the first time I am writing a book this way and I think it may bring about some interesting results. You will be given credit in the book introduction for inspiring the writing of the book (unless you request not to be mentioned) and I will send you a paperback and ebook copy of the book when it is published.<br />
<br />
If interested, please send me your character audition by <a href="http://www.boker.org.il/book/virtual_audition.htm" target="_blank">filling in this form</a><br />
<br />
Thank you,<br />
<br />
David<br />
<br />
dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-42453640387041342152017-05-06T05:58:00.000-07:002017-05-06T05:58:14.530-07:00How many ears does it take to renew a Canadian Passport?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlzP26vwoHjlZ3vBz4Flz0czk4shFXuu-PQ2fv84KtM-DX_IsMmux1EXRA_jCgXRIgzTelgR9_EmiBUwUWG2USNXsdXms3K2YesnAZZ4xwU2_qVORyidv16TELify98WtHUU-fEVrwuJI-/s1600/rejected_photo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlzP26vwoHjlZ3vBz4Flz0czk4shFXuu-PQ2fv84KtM-DX_IsMmux1EXRA_jCgXRIgzTelgR9_EmiBUwUWG2USNXsdXms3K2YesnAZZ4xwU2_qVORyidv16TELify98WtHUU-fEVrwuJI-/s1600/rejected_photo2.jpg" /></a></div>
Those of you who have read my two previous posts:<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://stillacanadian.blogspot.co.il/2011/05/canadian-passport-blues.html" target="_blank">The Canadian Passport Blues</a></li>
<li><a href="http://stillacanadian.blogspot.co.il/2012/10/canadian-passport-blues-revisited.html" target="_blank">Canadian Passport Blues Revisited</a></li>
</ul>
<div>
will know of my <i>Love Affair</i> with the <a href="http://www.canadainternational.gc.ca/israel/consular_services_consulaires/index.aspx?lang=eng&menu_id=2" target="_blank">Canadian Embassy in Tel Aviv</a>. But, as with many relationships which seem so simple at first, things have become complex over the years. And the chief culprit in complicating this relationship is the <a href="http://www.cic.gc.ca/english/passport/apply/eligibility-questions.asp" target="_blank">Canadian Passport Photo</a>, which caught us all by surprise when the new photo requirements were released many years ago. Take a look at how complex they have become:<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Photo Requirements</b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>required height and width of photo and height and width of face in photo</li>
<li>be clear, sharp and in focus</li>
<li>show a neutral facial expression (no smiling, mouth closed) and look straight into the camera with eyes open and clearly visible</li>
<li>have uniform lighting - no shadows, glare or flash reflections</li>
<li>show a full front view of the face and top of the shoulders squared to the camera (face and shoulders centered in the photo, head not tilted or turned)</li>
<li>reflect natural skin tone and be taken against a plain white or light-coloured background with enough contrast between the background facial features and clothing, so that your features appear clearly in the background.</li>
<li>be originals that have not been altered in any way and not taken from an existing photo;</li>
<li>be taken within the last six months from the date the application is submitted and reflect your current appearance</li>
</ul>
<div>
There is more, but I don't want to lose you, if I haven't already.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shorty after the new photo requirements came out, so long ago, my son had his Canadian Passport photo taken in Beer Sheva. I took his filled out and signed application form together with the photos to the consular section of the Canadian Embassy in Tel Aviv. As usual, I started passing the form, pictures and cash through the protected window apparatus (back then you could still pay in cash). </div>
<div>
"Whoa," the consular official said, "Not so quickly."</div>
<div>
That was when everything sacred about our relationship changed.</div>
<div>
"Your son's mouth isn't closed."</div>
<div>
I had no idea what he was talking about.</div>
<div>
"It looks closed to me," I said, "and he isn't smiling."</div>
<div>
"There is a small gap between his lips. You will have to get new photos taken."</div>
<div>
Taken again? And then back again from the Negev, leaving very early on a Friday morning to beat the lineup? And still not sure that the new pictures will meet all of the requirements?</div>
<div>
"I can hardly see the gap," I said, Canadian to Canadian which is supposed to mean something.</div>
<div>
"There is nothing I can do," the official said, "I can't accept them now, knowing that they will be rejected in the end."</div>
<div>
So I took the pictures back and gave them to my son, explaining the problem. He took them back to the photo shop where they had been taken. This time when I took them back to Tel Aviv, they were accepted.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After this traumatic surprise, and with the date of my passport renewal and my daughter's passport renewal approaching quickly, I turned to my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/31737970668/" target="_blank">Israeli English Teachers group</a>, asking for the name of a photo shop which already knows how to successfully take a Canadian Passport photo on the first try. I was sent the name and address of <a href="https://easy.co.il/en/?p=3367326" target="_blank">Photo Zion</a> in Renaana and was told that the consulate unofficially recommended this photo shop. Since then, over the years, I have made a number of trips to Renaana (a two and a half hour drive, one way) to get a Canadian passport photo taken. A long way to drive, I know, but worth it for peace of mind.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, let's move to the present. Over ten years have passed since my first trip to Renaana for this purpose. I figured that, by now, there must be at least one photo shop in Beer Sheva that knows how to take a Canadian Passport photo. So I put out feelers to a number of facebook groups where Canadian expats were lurking and requested any info that someone might have about a photo shop in Beer Sheva that knows how to take Canadian Passport photos. Someone recommended <i>Photo Life</i> in Beer Sheva, stating that they knew how to do this. Buoyed by new hope, I set out for Beer Sheva. The Russian at the store - let's call him Boris - said that he knew how to do this. I am used to the photographer taking a number of photos, making sure that he got everything correct and then showing me the final photo for my approval. But, exuding confidence, he appeared satisfied with the first picture taken and then set about setting it up for printing. I was then given the two photos. Everything, in the long list of requirements, was apparently correct and I was ready to make the two hour drive to the Canadian Embassy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Adva told me that she would go with me to provide moral support. We left early on a Friday morning and were at the consulate at 07:35. (It opened at 08:00 and I was already the third in line.)</div>
<div>
"If the photos turn out okay," I told her, "I will make the <i>Photo Life</i> photo shop famous. I will let everyone know in the relevant facebook groups that this is the place to go in the Beer Sheva region."</div>
<div>
"Why wouldn't everything be okay?" Adva remarked, the eternal optimist.</div>
<div>
"Why are you taking your computer?"</div>
<div>
"Oh, just in case it takes longer than expected." (Maybe she wasn't as optimistic as I thought.)</div>
<br />
<br />
I am a natural worrier, but I did feel that everything was on board this time.<br />
Pushing through my <a href="http://www.cic.gc.ca/english/passport/forms/pdf/PPTC482.pdf" target="_blank">Adult Abroad Simplified Passport Application</a> to the other side of the window, I followed with the photos. The consular official momentarily placed the photos aside and went through the form to make sure that all was there. She then went back to the photos.<br />
"Just a second. I have to check something," she said, leaving with one of the photos. After a few minutes, she came back. "The automatic photo check is not up, but I see a problem with the photo."<br />
That is when my stomach fell and the trauma returned.<br />
"You are not totally squared to the camera."<br />
"I'm not?" It looked kosher to me.<br />
And then it came, after worrying all about smiling, mouth closed, proper contrast and measurements...<br />
"I can only see one of your ears," she said.<br />
Ears? When did <i>ears</i> enter the equation?<br />
"They won't accept it," she said, "you will have to have it taken again. You should be able to have it taken for free at the same photo shop."<br />
I carefully studied the photo.<br />
"There," I said, "I see a part of the missing ear."<br />
"That's just a little dust on the picture."<br />"No, I really think that is an ear."<br />
She did me the favour of peering over at the photo again.<br />
"Even if it is, we need to see both ears equally."<br />
<b>(You can see the passport photo at the top of this page.)</b><br />
I began to wonder whether they keep making these things up. The idea of going back to Beer Sheva to get the photo taken again and waiting until next Friday to see if it was now okay was too much for me. I also was not in the mood to bring all this back to Boris at Photo Life. I don't do well with Russian authority figures. Check out my blog on this subject: <a href="http://stillacanadian.blogspot.co.il/2011/06/you-want-to-leave-moskva.html" target="_blank">You want to leave Moskva!</a><br />
"Is there a place nearby where I can have the photo taken? Where they really know what they are doing?"<br />
"Yes, at the other entrance to the building. They are good, but expensive."<br />
"No matter. I am not leaving Tel Aviv today until everything is done."<br />She put everything into an envelope with the Consular Section address stamped on it.<br />
"You can put the new photos into this envelope and drop it into the Consular Section box."<br />
"No, I will come back with them this morning to make sure that they will be accepted this time."<br />
When I returned with the photos, I was directed to another consular official. I told her the story and she authorized the new photos and continued processing my request.<br />
"What's wrong with these photos," she asked, referring to the old photos as she took the documents out of the envelope.<br />
"The other official said it is not squared properly. You can only see one ear."<br />
"Oh. Okay," she said.<br />
<br />
So that is it. I am not setting out to make Photo Life famous among us Southerners. And if you are eligible for the <a href="http://www.cic.gc.ca/english/passport/forms/pdf/PPTC482.pdf" target="_blank">Adult Abroad Simplified Passport Application</a>, which most of you should be, then I suggest that when everything is ready, you go and have your photo taken at the place by the Canadian Embassy and submit your application directly after that. Take into account, though, that it costs 80 shekel to have the photo taken there. (It cost 29 shekel at Photo Life, but then, they weren't worth anything in the end.)<br />
<br />
I am sure that other Canadians would be most interested in hearing about your own experiences in this matter and tips for survival. I know that I would.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-46676379633474032152017-02-12T23:20:00.000-08:002017-02-12T23:20:03.471-08:00Writing ourselves into oblivion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHVFTOxKIECOOBNck_5UsQCTw3_MkN1ez8tfQYoyMDrU7Eje60_mc98Au7Co3hmetD3IKjp_J505NVzbp5sBjKtCjlhEuHC-1Zv4n3teOtiMWNY3LDW09_OKkzmNZh0sF3mwNW093hxAP/s1600/brain_exercise2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHVFTOxKIECOOBNck_5UsQCTw3_MkN1ez8tfQYoyMDrU7Eje60_mc98Au7Co3hmetD3IKjp_J505NVzbp5sBjKtCjlhEuHC-1Zv4n3teOtiMWNY3LDW09_OKkzmNZh0sF3mwNW093hxAP/s1600/brain_exercise2.jpg" /></a></div>
"I don't want to get up. I can't go on like this," my character said, lying in the bed I had written for him. "How do you get up in the morning?" he asked me.<br />
"I pretend that I am you."<br />
"How does that help?"<br />
"For a moment nothing appears real."<br />
<br />
Ah, the luxury of being a writer. Writing yourself into a little oasis in an otherwise turbulent world. Or is it the opposite. Is it the turbulence you seek? Somewhere to direct the pain which would otherwise consume you. To help convince you to get up at least one more day.<br />
<br />
"And when you know what is real, how do you go on then?" " he asked,<br />
"I have responsibilities."<br />
"Family?"<br />
"Family, yes. Do you want me to write you a family?" I asked.<br />
"Will they be less dysfunctional than your family?"<br />
"My family is not dysfunctional."<br />
"Really?"<br />
"You have to get out more," I said.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
There is pain in writing. Most people don't know that. There is even greater pain in not being able to write: a verbal constipation where words remain locked inside, wanting to get out.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Writing, for me, is directly linked to survival. It wasn't that way once, but it is now. A very good friend of mine told me, "It is the DOING of it that matters." And she is right. I am first and foremost writing for myself. Facing my demons face to face. Listening carefully to hear if I still have a voice. But I also would very much like to be read.<br />
<br />
And now I will let you in on a little secret. Many of us make New Year Resolutions but rarely expect to carry them through. But I have made a New Year Resolution for 2017 which I have every intention of carrying through. And that is writing a new blog entry every two weeks. Since beginning this blog in 2011, it has never gone this long without a new entry. There are many reasons for not writing. And some may appear quite valid, but none are justified.</div>
<br />
When I was diagnosed with Parkinson's, the pivotal moment was whether I would decide to fight it or not. At first, I was stunned. But it only took a short time to make a decision. I wouldn't go out easily. I was left with body and mind and each had declared war on the other. It was for me to keep it all together.<br />
<br />
First I began with the body. I went to the gym for two to three weekly workouts. I joined a weekly Pilates class. We could clearly see what was getting better and what was getting worse, and adjust accordingly. But the mind is much more complex. When the body stumbles, you just begin to be a little more careful and put more work into your physical balance. When the mind stumbles, you aren't quite sure what to do, or where it may lead.<br />
<br />
The key, I have found, is in finding your rhythm. The more you physically exercise, the better you fall into this rhythm. The more you write, the better the words naturally flow through you. My New Year Resolution is meant to keep me writing, to keep to a rhythm which will keep me moving forward.<br />
<br />
And then there is my third book, a very different type of rhythm. It demands all of me at times and takes me to places that I didn't even know existed: some dark and others very bright.<br />
<br />
And now that my new characters have begun waking up, I find them beginning to speak to me, and not just through the pages of the book. They appear to have confused what is real with what is unreal and their place in it. I would try to show them their correct place, but that might simply lead to an all out revolt, leaving me with no voice at all. So, the only divisions I can form are by answering back.<br />
<br />
The one thing I haven't been able to escape, though, is their critique. I have found my characters to be my harshest critics.<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-20308813825943643942016-07-28T22:45:00.001-07:002016-07-28T22:45:47.853-07:00When Lolita meets Dr. Frankenstein<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsaRwBOvBUzWgWAoX20BAevH510gvMRq9JpD1rKnQFjDjnlTtdZ5kAYwJ7saHcLakJFrDWDI-rkLeRGzOitYROhYlipNBzphkq1syvyaanNspMhZiHn9P7hC6LFYr7Dq0F_yiyPJjZM-l2/s1600/Winter_Wind_Cover2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsaRwBOvBUzWgWAoX20BAevH510gvMRq9JpD1rKnQFjDjnlTtdZ5kAYwJ7saHcLakJFrDWDI-rkLeRGzOitYROhYlipNBzphkq1syvyaanNspMhZiHn9P7hC6LFYr7Dq0F_yiyPJjZM-l2/s1600/Winter_Wind_Cover2.jpg" /></a></div>
This was the original working title of my latest book - <a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Winter-Wears-Desert-Boots-ebook/dp/B011S6TMRQ" target="_blank">When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots</a>.<br />
<br />
Why is this original title - <i><b>When Lolita meets Dr. Frankenstein</b></i> - nowhere to be seen in the final published copy? Another story to be told. Perhaps if you read the book (if you haven't already done so), you will have a theory to offer.<br />
<br />
And today and tomorrow: July 29-30, you can still download the Kindle version of the book for FREE.<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Winter-Wears-Desert-Boots-ebook/dp/B011S6TMRQ" target="_blank">Click here to go to Amazon and download a FREE copy</a>.<br />
<br />
Your comments are more than welcome. You may find this hard to believe, but even scathing, negative criticism is far better than no feedback at all. For your comments and reviews feed my writing and give me reason to press on.<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-60224286632996941842016-07-15T08:30:00.000-07:002016-07-15T13:11:49.224-07:00Here's looking at you, kid.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNGjnEmPJFW2ycGH9a15yQe59DP1p5tILb_VEpFBp-cFYMusNyGM9gMuJdgruuU48c29VkCPb74FFsq7aVULm_qCEHuNzMxUu2Shp0An5-YuKoOU1zqlQ9DQAl2OptBx1LsvsjhVt86HJ/s1600/young_David_beach2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNGjnEmPJFW2ycGH9a15yQe59DP1p5tILb_VEpFBp-cFYMusNyGM9gMuJdgruuU48c29VkCPb74FFsq7aVULm_qCEHuNzMxUu2Shp0An5-YuKoOU1zqlQ9DQAl2OptBx1LsvsjhVt86HJ/s320/young_David_beach2.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>In my early years</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I like the early summer mornings, stepping out of the shower to feel the cool breeze on my naked skin. Slowly letting my body <i>air dry</i>. This is my hour, not to be shared with anyone else as I move through the house, still dripping wet.<br />
<br />
A few days ago, while nearing the end of this intimate moment of privacy, I stepped out onto the open balcony to hang up my wet towel. And, as is often their habit, a small herd of Ibex had collected on the lawn below, munching contentedly on the grass offering. I stood there quietly for a moment watching them, when suddenly an ibex, one of the younger ones, looked up and saw me standing there, totally naked. He froze in utter fright. Others sensed his fear and looked up, also. It only took a few seconds for the stampede to begin, the ibex making a hasty retreat, back to the wadi from whence they came. Should I have taken offence at this comment on my natural state of being? No, I have learned to roll with the punches and look on the bright side. I may have stumbled across a solution to thwarting their marauding ways: <i>the human scarecrow</i>.<br />
<br />
These are the same ibex that allow me to walk slowly and steadily through their ranks on my way to work. Seeing me approach, they will pause their munching for a moment, and then, registering no great danger, return to their early morning breakfast while keeping track of me through a corner of their eye. How do we explain the former chaos, then? Why should my not wearing clothes make such a difference? Could it be that they do not recognize me in my nakedness? Doesn't that conflict with our instinct? Shouldn't I be most recognizable when I have no masks to hide behind?<br />
<br />
As for the neighbours, I haven't received any complaints... so far. Most people are still not up by the time I complete my naked ritual. Although one morning, I thought I caught a few flashes going off from the neighbour's window opposite. Someone taking pictures? Collecting nude pictures of me, perhaps, that could be used against me in a future neighbourhood dispute? I doubt if they were doing this for their own artistic pleasure.<br />
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What is it about our bodies, then? Why do some bodies attract and others repel? Why do some look better covered up in clothing and makeup while others look best in their natural glory? Are we genetically programmed to find certain bodily structures more pleasant to the eye? Is this a part of our cognitive structure? And why do we describe one person as merely <i>attractive</i>, while we describe another as <i>stunning</i>? I must admit that I enjoy watching attractive women. One of my <i>guilty pleasures</i>. Come on... aren't we all like that? "You can look, but no touch," Molly told Andrew as he appeared excited by the Israeli female form - quite unlike what he was used to in Oregon. If we aren't flustered at times by a beautiful human figure, then it may be time for someone to check our pulse.<br />
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But it isn't all about the curves, all in the right places, is it. As a seasoned <i>armchair</i> woman watcher, I maintain that there is much more to it than that. <i>The eyes have it.</i><br />
"Oh no," you say, "you aren't going to tell us next that the eyes are the window to the soul. When all you are really interested in is looking at her butt."<br />
Well, call me <i>abnormal</i>. I have been called abnormal about so many other things. But while I may find a woman attractive upon first look, my interest quickly fades away if an attractive figure is all there is. And forgive me for harping on this, but it is in the eyes. If the eyes are vacant, she simply becomes another faceless figure in the crowd.<br />
<br />
*This is the time to remind you that I am married and this is merely an armchair sport. Especially since my wife and inlaws sometimes read my blogs, as well as my children, sister and mother...<br />
"You've been dodging the silver bullet for some time," my good friend says to me. "It may have just caught up to you."<br />
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. "They will understand," I say, but this time with a little less conviction.<br />
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But let's forget the attractive human body and go back to talking about mine. I do think that after that rather quick response of the Ibex to my naked body, I do deserve a second opinion: this time human. But how do I go about that without appearing to be a pervert? I don't want to make the morning headline - "Naked man shot by police as he reached for.." what exactly?<br />
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<br /></div>
If we look at my 19-year-old figure above, I once had a body worth keeping. But we can't, can we. Keep it, I mean. Nobody can. Not even those celebrity stars with their botox filled frozen faces. As if someone would really want to kiss that. Much scarier than my naked body, in my humble opinion. But then, I am subjective, aren't I.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>In my winter years</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The irony about it all is that I probably look better now than I have in the last ten years. I have lost <i>a lot of</i> weight, although I consciously haven't done anything to explain that change. My posture is much better than it has ever been and I am walking much more naturally. I guess I should thank Parkinson's for this. It threw down the glove and I am trying now to gain early ground.<br />
<br />
And I have two secret weapons to help me in this struggle: a badass Pilates instructor and a badass neurologist. They leave no room for self-pity. The Pilates instructor reminds me of an unwavering drill sergeant. Nothing gets past her. "Body straight, shoulders back! Do you think I don't see you slouching!" My Russian neurologist reminds me of the Russian woman officer at passport control at the Moscow airport where, at one point, I thought she was about to send me to a Russian jail. She didn't understand why I had only a visa for Kazakhstan when I was going to Kyrgyzstan, albeit through Kazakstan. And of course, she didn't speak any English.<br />
<br />
You see, that is exactly what I need. Not someone to let me cut corners and try to warmly encourage me. No, they have to be ruthless, within reason. So maybe the ibex had it right, all along.<br />
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<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-74797004657755183642016-01-15T07:58:00.000-08:002016-01-15T07:58:31.432-08:00The gift that keeps on taking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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They say, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." But when <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_J._Fox" target="_blank">Michael J. Fox</a> deemed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parkinson%27s_disease" target="_blank">Parkinson's disease</a> to be a gift, many people - especially those suffering from the disease - took offense at his choice of words. Nonetheless, Michael continued to describe Parkinson's as a gift, but with the following clarification:<br />
<br />
“Because Parkinson’s demanded of me that I be a better man, a better husband, father, and citizen, I often refer to it as a gift. With a nod to those who find this hard to believe, especially my fellow patients who are facing great difficulties, I add this qualifier — it’s the gift that keeps on taking...but it is a gift.”
<br />
~ Michael J. Fox
<br />
<br />
A gift? Really? Can I return it then? Where's the exchange slip?<br />
But there is no exchange slip in the box. It even came without wrapping. No, it appears that it is mine to keep. But what do I do with it now?<br />
<br />
Michael certainly wouldn't have called it a gift the day he was diagnosed with what is usually known as an <i>old man's disease.</i> He was at the tender age of 29 and at the height of his acting career. He had wed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tracy_Pollan" target="_blank">Tracy Pollan</a>, the love of his life, a few years earlier and they had already started a family. One might say that he was living a charmed life at the time. That is, if it weren't for his excessive drinking and workaholic habits that kept him away from his family and fed on his constant worry that it all would somehow dry up if he didn't keep pushing himself.<br />
<br />
And then the sky fell in and the next day was the first day of his life.<br />
<br />
Michael's immediate reaction to the diagnosis was to drink even more and take on even more projects to bury himself in work. At that point, it appeared that he had entered the early <a href="http://www.parkinson.org/sites/default/files/Stages%20of%20Adjustment%20to%20Parkinson's.pdf" target="_blank">stage of <i>denial</i></a> - which lasted for the next nine years as he tried his best to hide this disease from the general public - even from his co-workers on the set of the hit TV series: <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spin_City" target="_blank">Spin City</a></i>, where he was filmed from every angle.<br />
<br />
What changed, then? What brought him <i>out of the closet?</i><br />
<br />
"Humility is always a good thing. It's always a good thing to be humbled by circumstances so you can then come from a sincere place to try to deal with them."<br />
~ Michael J. Fox<br />
<br />
Michael's coming out had a great effect on the Parkinson community. Parkinson's was a disease that was generally pushed into the background. There was no cure for it. The most you could do was to try and slow it down. It was a disease that many felt ashamed of, because it was so noticeable and socially ugly. And here was Michael, whose warm and expressive boyish features had once won us over in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Family_Ties" target="_blank">Family Ties</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Back_to_the_Future" target="_blank">Back to the Future</a>, now exposing the haggard features of his Parkinson to the world - no longer feeling the need to hide his symptoms.<br />
<br />
"Acceptance doesn't mean resignation; it means understanding that something is what it is and that there's got to be a way through it... I often say now I don't have any choice whether or not I have Parkinson's, but surrounding that non-choice is a million other choices that I can make."<br />
~ Michael J. Fox<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Michael was surprised by the strong positive reaction of the Parkinson community to his news. It was then that he realized that it was within his grasp to do much more. He set up the <i>Michael J. Fox Foundation</i> to provide significant funding for promising Parkinson research in the hope that it would lead to a cure. And he set out into the world, speaking at fund raisers and agreeing to give interviews to the media, so that Parkinson's might take on a new face in the public eye. He even continued his acting career, appearing in guest spots in many different TV series. All this, despite his being told at the time of his diagnosis that he might still have a good ten years of work ahead of him. And here he was, ten years later, about to set out on a crusade to find a cure for Parkinson. His work had just begun.<br />
<br />
What can we learn from all this? A good friend of mine once said: "It's not the disease which is at the heart of the matter, but rather how we react to the challenge." It is what it is, and we must decide what we will do with it.<br />
<br />
We never know how we will react to a situation until we are there. My father was diagnosed with cancer at the age of seventy-six, I was the first one to visit him in the hospital after he had received the diagnosis. "Well, I have had a good life," he told me. That moment has stayed with me ever since.<br />
<br />
I am a recluse. I admit that. No matter how many people surround me at times. I am invisible to most. I know that most of this is my own doing. And when it comes to medical challenges, my immediate reaction is to keep it all to myself. This is a result of my upbringing - or at least a significant part of it. But that is another story. I will tell you about it when we know each other better.<br />
<br />
As for now, it may be time to change. If Michael could change in his own way, so can I. For I am fortunate to be loved, and fortunate to be surrounded by such a beautiful family. And as long as I am not a heavy burden on them, there is still reason to pull myself out of bed on a cold winter morning. <br />
<br />
Humility. Acceptance. Can we do without <i>denial</i>?<br />
"How can you possibly leave yourself so open and vulnerable?" you ask.<br />
"Have I? But you must realize that this blog is not about me. It is about Michael J. Fox."<br />
"Yeah, right," pipes up a little voice from the back. "It's about you and Parkinson's."<br />
"Okay, since we are in a giving mood, I will give you that," I respond. "It's about Parkinson's."<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-77529313245495711432015-10-17T10:32:00.000-07:002015-10-17T10:32:13.735-07:00Why give Expats the vote?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There is nothing funny about Canadian politicians. They are a bland lot making their way (<i>plodding</i> their way, I should say) toward election showdown. Or is it me? I can't see the humour. The joke is on the inside, leaving the expat outside, knocking on the door.<br />
<br />
Which may be more reason why I, and other long-term expats, have no right to line up with <i>resident</i> Canadians on voting day.<br />
<br />
As a Canadian expat, do you bemoan the fact that the right to vote in a Canadian federal election has been taken away from you? Or are you even aware of the fact - never having had the inkling to vote while living abroad? There are approximately 2.8 million Canadian citizens living abroad and 1.4 million of them have lost the right to vote, as a result of a recent ruling in a Court of Appeal.<br />
<br />
Let's take a quick look at the recent history of the expat voting debate. In 1993, a court ruled for the first time that expats living abroad for longer than five years could no longer vote in federal elections. However, the five-year clock was reset for expats who returned for even short visits. Then, in 2007, Elections Canada began to enforce a requirement for expats to resume residency in Canada in order to regain their right to vote abroad. In 2014, two Canadian expats living in the United States launched a constitutional challenge to this law restricting their right to vote. A Superior Court Justice threw out this voting ban, thus giving long-term Canadian expats the right to vote again in federal elections. However, in July of this year (2015), a Court of Appeal, in a split decision, overturned that ruling and the right to vote was taken away from long-term expats yet again.<br />
<br />
And many Canadian expats are crying foul - among them, a number of well-known celebrities. Actor Donald Sutherland published an editorial stating that not only is he a Canadian through and through, but that he was honoured as an Officer of the Order of Canada - and yet he is not allowed to vote in Canadian elections. To stress their case, expats point to countries which do not hold such restrictions on expat voting. Poland, Venezuela, Russia and Japan provide polling stations at embassies and consulates. France and the United States allow online voting for citizens abroad. Italy and France have created members of parliament to directly represent their expats. India has even created a government ministry dedicated to its expats. But supporters of the most recent ruling argue that many countries do have similar or harsher restrictions. UK citizens cannot vote after living abroad for more than fifteen years; Australians are restricted to six years and New Zealanders to three years. Irish citizens cannot vote while living abroad at all. Nor can citizens of Zimbabwe or Nepal.<br />
<br />
And what about Israel? We can't forget Israel - my country of abode and the other half of my split personality. You may be surprised to hear that there is no absentee voting for Israelis, unless they are in the service of the State abroad. But Israelis living abroad can return to Israel at election time to vote. And many do so. Why doesn't Israel allow Israelis living abroad to maintain their ties to the mother country through voting? Maybe they don't want to encourage the mass exodus, or they are punishing those who won't stick it out with the country through thick and thin. Perhaps it is ideology. You can choose your own conspiracy theory.<br />
<br />
So, who do you think is right in all of this? Let's look at the reasoning behind this ruling:<br />
Canada's <i>social contract</i> entails citizens submitting to laws because they had a voice in making them through voting, the ruling states.<br />
"Permitting all non-resident citizens to vote would allow them to participate in making laws that affect Canadian residents on a daily basis but have little to no practical consequence for their own daily lives. This would erode the social contract and undermine the legitimacy of the laws," Justice George Strathy wrote for the majority of the court's judges.<br />
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I must admit that, despite my anarchistic tendencies, this makes sense. Sometimes being on the outside looking in offers a better perspective. But not here. Why should I have the right to vote on things that have little or no practical consequence for my own daily life?<br />
<br />
"Okay then," you challenge, "why should you be able to still hold Canadian citizenship? You have lived most of your life outside of Canada. What makes you think you can still be <i>Canadian</i>?"<br />
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"Ah, read my blog," I want to say. But I know they won't. How do you explain it, then, to a non-believer?<br />
"That is different," I argue. "Being Canadian is also a state of mind. Growing up in Canada is a part of who I am. You can't take that away from me. Being a Canadian is also something that I share with my children. I would like to say, "and also with my children's children," but according to a 2009 amendment to the Citizenship Law, automatic citizenship extends only to the first generation born abroad. What do I think of that? Once again, I can understand the reasoning. I just hope my legacy outlives that decision.<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-26468091274246479012015-10-01T03:38:00.000-07:002015-10-01T13:13:24.419-07:00Growing old gracefully<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One thing that we all have in common is: <i>growing old</i>. It can't be denied. Some of us go through it gracefully; others stamp their feet and pull out their hair. Some of us are in denial; others try to meet it head on.<br />
<br />
I, for one, cannot remember growing old past the age of 19. Yes, I know that there are smidgeons of memories. The first years on the kibbutz, marriage, parenthood. Milking the cows, becoming a teacher, taking on social responsibilities, leaving to live in the desert. Creating a meaningful environment by connecting the world through educational initiatives and then entering into cultural and intellectual stagnation. What is left? What might have been, what was, and what will probably no longer be?<br />
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There is no point in crying over spilt milk. Whiskey is a good substitute. But not even whiskey can fill the place of all of the things that have gone missing. Most people would say that the main problem is me. They may be right, but I am not willing to let the world off that easily: not quite yet.<br />
<br />
I don't recognize the face that I see in the mirror each and every morning. Nor can I imagine what people see who call me father, grandpa, husband and son. Do they recognize in me something that once really was? Or have I drifted away, leaving them with anything that they may want to paint into that image?<br />
<br />
I admit that I am not growing old gracefully. I feel the desire at times to kick and scream. Although I find myself gradually slipping further and further into passive acceptance, or better said: the desire to toss it all in.<br />
<br />
The problem with all this is that the memories get in the way. They creep up on you and pounce at the oddest times. Some memories make you feel invincible; others leave you feeling increasingly feeble. Sometimes we chase after memories in an attempt to rediscover misplaced nostalgia. But more often, we seek to avoid them. Although there are things that can never be ignored. Why is it that we have this obsessive urge to connect the dots, as if we can harness the neurons in our brain and make them do our bidding? When all that we accomplish is a more fractured sense of self.<br />
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And there are times when our memories seek out our own self-destruction, as they did this Yom Kippur. Wandering down to the Volunteers' Beach at the kibbutz by the sea, I was reminded of midnight swims past, when we ran down the hill, discarding clothes on the way, following a ritual of song, chocolate milk and brandy. The calm midnight sea allowed us to walk deep into its arms, each of us seeking out a special niche, as individuals we still were, with no thought of growing old. It was called the Volunteers' Beach, as opposed to the Members' Beach on the other side of a stone cliff, as it was a place where almost only kibbutz volunteers would go. Perhaps because mothers didn't like their children, and especially their husbands, to ogle at the topless Scandinavian volunteers.Or maybe it was because of the strong currents and undertows at this section of the sea. But we could navigate those turbulent waters. We were invincible.<br />
<br />
And now it was Yom Kippur. The waves were sweeping in, crashing down upon the water's edge. I imagined myself to be 19 again and out I went. The thrill of riding the waves. Water sweeping over me. The sea flirted with me and drew me out further, until I felt the undertow taking control of my legs, pulling me to where there was no bottom and to where there was possibly no way back. As a 19-year-old, I would have had no problem swimming out of it. But now it appeared almost poetically fitting that I would meet my maker on the Day of Atonement, when I had really thought that I could wind back time. But no, it was not to be this day. The human intervened and I was pulled to safety. And now there are two layers of memory, with one mocking the other.<br />
<br />
So what is there beyond growing old and dwelling in the memories? Looking at the glass half empty, I suppose that my greatest fear is in becoming impotent: both physically and mentally, with all that that entails. For when we begin to question the reason for going on living, we question our very existence.<br />
<br />
"Write another book," some of you say. "Isn't that a part of the legacy that you want to leave behind?"<br />
<br />
Maybe. But what should I write about? Old-age? They say that you should write about something that you are intimately acquainted with. But I feel that I have said all that I have to say about old age. And now it is me, staring at the wall, wondering if I still have a voice, or why it should really matter if I do or don't.<br />
<br />
I know, it's starting to sound like I am dwelling too much in self-pity. That was not really my intent. But what was my intent? I am too senile to remember. As for you, what still provides you with the quest for life, despite your growing old, despite the inevitable? Are you willing to share your secrets with us?<br />
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<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-28420925242954022912015-08-15T02:56:00.000-07:002015-08-15T02:56:40.464-07:00We speak English, don't we?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The other day I started up a new WhatsApp group: <i>Lloyds English</i>. I announced it to my close family: Israeli-born offspring and Israeli-born wife, and stipulated that it would serve as a place where we'd communicate only in English. The immediate response to my announcement was: "What are you drinking and are you already drunk?" And then silence. The last words uttered in <i>Lloyds English</i>. So there was nothing left to do but fade back into the linguistic woodwork.<br />
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A friend of mine asked me the other day, over a pint of Guinness, what I regret in life. Normally, my response to such a question is that I regret nothing. I believe in learning from mistakes, rather than dwelling in regret. But this time, whether it be the result of my increasing age or growing egocentricity, I admitted to having one regret: that I did not speak English with my children.<br />
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Now, in an earlier blog posting: <i><a href="http://stillacanadian.blogspot.co.il/2015/03/curiouser-and-curiouser.html" target="_blank">Curiouser and curiouser</a>, </i>I defended my reasoning for not speaking English to my children, and in doing so, robbing them of a golden opportunity for becoming bilingual<i>.</i> If you haven't read that posting, or have forgotten what it is about, it would be a good idea to read it first. There I explained why my entrance and acceptance into Israeli society was not a simple one, and why much of it was dependent upon my acquiring a working competence in Hebrew. Speaking only English at home, at that time, would have prevented me from reaching the linguistic competence required to meet that goal and would have sent a wrong message - both to those in Israel and in Canada back home, who were waiting for me to come back to my senses and leave Israel - about how serious I was in my endeavour to fully adapt into Israeli society. So, I put my linguistic competence first, above that of my children. I thought that they would have ample opportunity for picking up English on the way. Wasn't this a small price to pay for not having a father who was a social outcast?<br />
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The irony is that, in the long run, all of my effort really didn't make much of a difference. True, I took university classes in Hebrew, wrote papers in Hebrew, gave lectures in Hebrew, carried on correspondence in Hebrew - but in the end I was still the odd man out. I would never really fit in. Not because of the language, but because of me. I am simply meant to be an outcast, whether I live in Israel, Canada, or on the moon. I reached the point where I felt that I had adapted as well as possible to Israeli society and had nothing left to prove. And it was then, that I began to regress. At times, I felt like I was speaking with stones in my mouth, and Hebrew was often like a hot blanket, under which I lay smothered on a hot summer day. Words only flowed in that ancient language when I felt emotion, and such moments became less and less frequent over time. My adult identity was slowly beginning to crumble. I needed to find a way to slip back into something which was perhaps lost forever: slip back into me.<br />
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Would speaking to my children in English help in any way? Or had that ship sailed forever? It's not that my children don't know English. They did pick it up along the way. A daughter who now speaks mostly English in her work. A son who is writing a 100+ page MA thesis in English on a very technical subject. And another son who decided one day, through his own volition, to speak to me only in English (and was the only one to applaud the creation of <i>Lloyds English</i> and not question my sobriety).<br />
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It seems that I never know when to stop chasing windmills. Don Quixote. It is my battle alone. And in the meantime, L<i>loyds English</i> still lies there, ignored, like an unwanted orphan. Why should I expect anything more?<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-62524182304487570252015-08-02T00:55:00.000-07:002015-08-07T00:36:30.521-07:00When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's exciting putting out a new book. It's hard to describe. It all begins with an idea, a small seed, which slowly grows and creates constant turmoil in my mind. The seed becomes a story - and then the story begins to write itself. It is then that I know that a book is inside of me. And I rush to get it out, get it out before the rivers dry up and I lose my way.<br />
<br />
But I do lose my way, many times, during the process. At times, I wonder who this is on the other side of the page. Whose story is this? Or can it belong to anyone?<br />
<br />
A good friend read the finished draft manuscript and told me not to publish the book.<br />
"You are risking too much by publishing it," he said.<br />
"But it is fiction!" I exclaimed. "Why would this be putting myself at risk?"<br />
"Because only you know what parts of it are fiction and what parts of it are not. And some people may see it all as real - an autobiography, perhaps - or maybe even a confession."<br />
"If this is in any way a confession, then it is Daniel's confession," I said. "Although I think, if he still had a voice, he would claim it to be more of a legacy, than a confession."<br />
"And he would want to believe that," my friend said. "As would you. Aren't you and Daniel the same person?"<br />
"No. I am the author. Nothing more. He is my creation."<br />
<br />
In my first book: "<a href="http://as-i-died-laughing.greenlloyd.com/" target="_blank">As I Died Laughing</a>", there appeared to be no clear borders between the real and the unreal, between fact and fiction. In a continually fragmented plot, the author found it much easier to hide in the background. But there is nothing for the author to hide behind in: "<a href="http://when-winter-wind.greenlloyd.com/" target="_blank">When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots</a>". I stand there naked. There is truth in what I have to say, but I choose its maner of creation. The characters are real to the book. They begin and end there. Some of you will believe that you see yourselves in the book, but you are who you bring to the reading. And if you take away much more, then I have succeeded as a writer.<br />
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I have written two novels, and this second novel - "<a href="http://when-winter-wind.greenlloyd.com/" target="_blank">When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots</a>" - is the one that I believe will define me as a writer. Why do I put such emphasis on this second book? Because it is something that has been waiting to be written for a very long time. You may understand this much better when you read the book.<br />
<br />
So, what is left? There was a time in my life when the act of writing, by itself, was enough. Just by putting words down on a page, I was in communion with self. But that is not enough, now. Not nearly enough. My words seek to be heard. They have lived in solitude, inside of me, for so long. And now, they no longer belong totally to me. They wander, seeking a new home, many new homes, as they live on and become real in the consciousness of others.<br />
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Another good friend asked me:<br />
"What's it like knowing that there are people out there reading your most innermost thoughts at this very moment?"<br />
I hesitated, but only for a fraction of a moment.<br />
"As much as this may sound surprising," I answered, "it is a relief."<br />
And I left it at that.<br />
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<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-19270738027470656412015-04-23T09:35:00.000-07:002015-04-23T09:35:01.861-07:00Tradition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How many of you are humming the tune from <i>Fiddler on the Roof</i> right now? Tradition. But I am not talking about tradition that reaches back through the ages to our ancestors. But rather small traditions that bring us closer to people dearest to us.<br />
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One of the special things about my trips to Canada each year are the traditions formed with family and friends. Traditions which grow in importance from year to year.<br />
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One such tradition is the celebration of my parents' wedding anniversary. Each year, Gayle, Paul and I celebrate this happy event with my mother, at a special restaurant mother and father once shared. Father is always there, in spirit. He would never miss his wedding anniversary. And the celebration is also a sense of coming home. For Gayle, Paul and I were childhood friends and our home was a second home to them. And it is still a home we all can come back to.<br />
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We grew up in a Scarborough suburb, which seemed so safe and polished at the time. It wasn't long after a war that we never knew. At times, we looked like we had stepped right out of an episode of <i>Leave it to Beaver</i> or <i>Father Knows Best. </i>Of course, nothing is as idyllic as it seems, but looking back - those were happy times.<br />
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But for Gayle this ended too quickly. When she was in the sixth grade, her family moved out West because of her father's work. And this wasn't the last time they would be uprooted because of his work. It may have ended there, a friendship which had hardly begun, if it weren't for Mr. Herrington: Gayle's father.<br />
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I remember that day - a day that would unexpectedly have such an impact on my life. Mr. Herrington was sitting at the dining room table in our house, talking with my parents. He was on a business trip to Toronto and was staying with us for a couple of days. Normally, at the age of thirteen, I wouldn't have paid much attention to an <i>adult conversation</i>. But Mr. Herrington had a gift of bringing you into the conversation. It didn't matter whether you were ten or sixty years old. He made you feel that you had something significant to say. So I listened as he talked about Gayle, about how lonely she appeared in her new home. And I then did something quite unexpected. I asked for her address and sat down to write her a letter. And I discovered the writer within me. Until then, the only letters I had written were thank-you notes that mother made me write after every birthday and Christmas.<br />
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And Gayle and I exchanged letters, sharing our thoughts and lives from afar, until Gayle moved back to the Toronto area with her family. And it was then that the stage was set for my two best friends and I to become <i>The Three Musketeers.</i><br />
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I don't know if Mr. Herrington knew what an effect this conversation had on my life. I think that in some way he did. For he knew that Gayle and I became very close. My mother told me that Bob (she knew him as Bob) once told her about a conversation he had with Gayle. He asked her if she and I were in a romantic relationship. Gayle apparently answered: "No, that would only ruin it."<br />
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For some things cannot have labels. We can only experience them and know that they are real.<br />
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And each year, I look forward to meeting Mr. Herrington again, at another one of our small traditions: the Lloyd / Herrington brunch at <i>The Blue Sea</i> in Whitby on the last Sunday before Christmas. But this year I will not see Mr. Herrington at the Blue Sea. For he has passed on and left us behind. But we won't cancel this tradition. For I am sure he will be there, the first one in. Opening the door for the others to pass through. We will sit around the table and hear his voice. And know that all is good in the world, if even for a moment.<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-2515182800033995162015-03-13T10:00:00.000-07:002015-03-13T10:00:48.007-07:00Curiouser and curiouser<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I think I have become somewhat of a <i>curiosity</i> to my children. Perhaps this is a part of losing relevance as we grow old. Or perhaps it is also linked to circumstance. A close childhood friend of mine - same age as me - started having children much later in life. His oldest child is in her mid-teens and he still plays a very relevant role in her life. But my children are all grown up and have <i>flown the coop. </i>When is it that we feel less responsible for our children and they begin to feel responsibility for us?<br />
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I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that my children view me somewhat as a curiosity. Most people do. It just took my children a while to catch up, perhaps. And I suppose I am to blame. I left them partly on the outside most of their lives, beginning first and foremost with the language.<br />
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"So, you didn't speak English with them at home."<br />
"No."<br />
"Why not?"<br />
"Adva and I spoke Hebrew at home."<br />
"But Adva knows English."<br />
"Yes."<br />
"And the English language is the greatest gift you could give them."<br />
"I thought that giving them life was."<br />
"That too."<br />
I sighed into the darkness.<br />
"Anyway," I said, in a meagre attempt to defend myself, "I was fighting an uphill battle. I was changing country, language and culture. It was very important for me to adapt."<br />
"Most new immigrants go through the very same thing."<br />
"Yes, but with a significant difference."<br />
"Which is?"<br />
"They are confident in their right to be here, and in others recognizing this right."<br />
"And you aren't?"<br />
"Not necessarily."<br />
"Why not?"<br />
I looked nervously around me to see if anyone was listening.<br />
"I'm not Jewish," I whispered.<br />
"Oh."<br />
"Is that all you have to say?"<br />
"Maybe I should go."<br />
"You can't go, you are my muse."<br />
"Yes, but wasn't there an escape clause about misinformation?"<br />
"When did I ever feed you false information?"<br />
"I don't know. I will have to have my lawyers look at this."<br />
"Lawyers?"<br />
"Okay, you've got me. One of the problems of living in Cyberspace."<br />
"Are you going to help me with this or not?"<br />
"Do I have a choice?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Okay, then I guess I am."<br />
Silence. She always liked the dramatic effect of silence.<br />
"So," she said, "you speak Hebrew at home, but with a Canadian accent. You are not Jewish, but your children are, because there mother is Jewish. They probably have no idea why you came to Israel in the first place and why you are still here... am I on track, so far?"<br />
"Knock yourself out," I said.<br />
"And you wonder why they consider you as a curiosity."<br />
"You are missing the point."<br />
"Am I?"<br />
<br />
"Was it as simple as that?" I thought to myself. What about the whole thing of getting old? Or was I trying to blame everything on getting old?<br />
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There are very few constants in life, things that I can state with certainty. But one is my children. They are the greatest part of my life. I would not take anything back. And now we have our first grandchild. And that is a real bonus to having children. They say that when your children are young, and they still don't know better, you are a superhero to them. But later they begin to see the flaws, and in their teens they wonder how anyone can be that stupid. Yet, in their early twenties, they are amazed at how much you have learnt in the past few years. And while you still have a very good relationship with them, you can never get back the magic. For they go on to create their own magic, through their own marriage and children.<br />
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And just when you are about to write yourself away, there is a grandchild. And you rediscover the magic through his/her eyes, letting you into a world you have almost forgotten. And I know that some day my grandchild will view me as a curiosity. But that doesn't disturb me. In the meantime, I will enjoy every moment.<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-84963161897929894902015-02-27T05:59:00.000-08:002015-03-09T01:34:26.040-07:00Looking the devil in the eye - An Ode to Adva<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am not easily impressed. Perhaps this is a part of growing old and grumpy. And I must admit that after being married for 37+ years, I take many things for granted. But there are times when something causes me to sit up and take notice.<br />
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Adva, my wife, is turning 60 this year. Many of us have already crossed this milestone and have the scars to prove it. But Adva isn't one to wallow in self pity. Nor wait in trepidation while counting down the days to this ominous date. Rather, she decided to grab the bull by the balls and look the devil straight in the eye. She would turn an ominous and unstoppable event into an opportunity.<br />
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I only knew about her plans to set out on the Magma Challenge to Costa Rica after she had successfully passed all of the tests and had been accepted as a participant. Was I surprised by her decision? Not really. Despite the rugged conditions that she was about to face, I knew that Adva was never one to refuse a challenge. Ever since we left the kibbutz, 25 years ago, she has sought out and faced many challenges, and never retreated from any of them. People can usually think of countless reasons to give up on the challenge of obtaining the things that they desire in life, but Adva is not one to fall back on such excuses, even when competing in a man's world. It was therefore fitting that she set out on her most recent challenge in the company of women - on a rugged adventure trip through the beautiful landscape of Costa Rica. Split up into teams of four, each team commandeered their own Land Cruiser, navigating their way through the challenges that awaited them. And to add icing to the cake, Adva's team was voted the best team by the majority of the participants. A one in a lifetime experience they won't forget.<br />
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Adva, in her own modesty, was surprised at the interest her journey ignited among her facebook friends. What she didn't realize was that her journey caught our imagination. For those of us seeking the courage to take back some control over our own lives, her journey is an inspiration.<br />
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I've always had an affinity for strong women, ever since my first girlfriend - a self proclaimed feminist - took it upon herself to show me the error of my ways. I imagine that Adva got much of her strength from her mother. Titi was a strong woman, albeit a little scary. There is a rumour that she told me, when Adva first took me to meet her parents, that she had a semi-automatic Uzi under her bed and knew how to use it. I took her seriously, for she was a no nonsense lady and knew how to get what she wanted. In her days in the Palmach, when there was no officer's course for women, Titi simply joined the one for men. No one dared tell her otherwise. And she was a true Sabra: prickly on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside. The key to being strong is also being a good person,<br />
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We learn a lot through 37+ years of marriage. We set out thinking what should be, but then continually rediscover what is. Moving in different directions does not necessarily mean drifting apart, but rather redefines our concept of companionship. And the key to companionship is still being able to encourage each other in our endeavours, especially in what is most important to each of us.<br />
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In reaching 61 this year, I said to myself, "Been there, done that, what's the point?" But then I realized that it was all up to me. Either I become my worst enemy or my best friend. And I have Adva to thank for inspiring me to realize that we still have journeys before us and wonders to explore.<br />
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<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-12436409619698949882015-01-31T03:33:00.000-08:002015-03-09T01:56:33.176-07:00Can beautiful people really feel the Blues?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I first saw the movie, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0095801/plotsummary?ref_=tt_ql_6" target="_blank">Bagdad Caf<span style="background-color: #f6f6f5; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">é</span></a>, long before coming to live in the desert, but even then its <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oCLpLWcX2cg" target="_blank">haunting sound</a> teased me with dark promises as to where a desert road might lead. When I first listened to the Blues, I felt very much the same way. I wasn't there yet, but it touched me in ways no other genre of music did. The Blues is like Guinness. Either you love its bitter taste, or you don't like it at all. And if Guinness is somewhat of a rarity in most Israeli restaurants and pubs, the Blues is almost non-existent on the Israeli music scene.<br />
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Why is it that Israelis have never locked into the Blues? It doesn't even appear as a genre on most Israeli music listings. The YES satellite music select station, which proudly offers over thirty music categories to choose from, does not include the Blues on its list. Nor does the Wikipedia page - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_of_Israel" target="_blank">Music in Israel</a> - mention the Blues on its long list of popular Israeli music genres. Perhaps an Israeli foundation - <a href="https://www.facebook.com/IsraelBluesSociety" target="_blank">The Israeli Blues Society</a> - will help spread the word. It's not that Israeli music hasn't considerably evolved over the years. It has: especially Israeli rock. Why is it then that Rock has become increasingly popular with Israeli youth, but not the Blues? Are there age restrictions to feeling the Blues?<br />
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Some of us are born old. <i>Old Souls.</i> We flirt with this all our lives. And then time catches up with us and we are just old. That's how I felt the other night while listening to <a href="http://www.lazerlloyd.com/" target="_blank">Lazer Lloyd</a> and <a href="http://www.ronniepeterson.com/" target="_blank">Ronnie Peterson</a> play the Blues at a pub in <a href="http://eng.negev-net.org.il/HTMLs/article.aspx?C2004=12732" target="_blank">Kibbutz Tlalim</a>. They had come there, down a long desert road, to this little oasis in the middle of the desert.<br />
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The makeshift desert pub was full of young people - <i>beautiful young people -</i> for this musical event. It's not that I have anything against beautiful young people. I was almost <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10150891373532319&set=oa.10151774076940305&type=1&theater" target="_blank">one</a>, once. But now my presence felt like a hiccup in the passage of time, as I appeared to be the only one over the age of forty.<br />
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My eyes slowly scanned the room as the young audience awaited the appearance of Lazer and Ronnie. <i>What were they expecting to hear? </i> I asked myself. Were they here out of curiosity or had they somehow developed a passion for the Blues, down here in the desert? And then Lazer and Ronnie appeared. They sat at the front of the crowded room, without the benefit of the buffer of a large stage that usually separated them in their larger venues. Perhaps it was this that knocked them a little off-balance at first, or the strange quiet of the desert setting. Or the shock of playing to a young audience: an audience of beautiful young people with expectancy still in their eyes, Ronnie appeared to have a bit of a problem synchronizing with Lazer's changing chords. Lazer appeared to improvize, at times, as if slowly feeling his way into this irregular setting. Some people soon started to sway back and forth with the rhythm. Some simply nodded. And others just sat rooted to the spot, as the music washed over them.<br />
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Ronnie and Lazer looked at first like I felt: aged and washed out. But it didn't take long until Lazer found the groove. One might even say that he caught fire, carrying Ronnie along with him. And everything else did not matter. It was the Blues again. Only the Blues. <br />
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The crowd was appreciative. I suppose each person took away something different. And for those of us who were <i>Old Souls</i>, we said hello again to old ghosts, and felt the music take hold and rip out our guts, leaving us exposed, the pain a welcome old friend. And for a moment, I did feel truly alive.<br />
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<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-85806057344357533852015-01-24T03:14:00.000-08:002015-03-09T01:49:11.579-07:00How much is a Canadian flag worth?<div class="MsoNormal" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first time I saw Andy, he was being pelted by stones by the neighbourhood kids in Belgium. He looked quite dishevelled and forlorn at the time, to say the least. We swooped down to prevent any further attack. Seeing that we had formed a buffer zone, the children lost all interest and drifted away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Thanks," Andy said. "You saved me."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I wouldn't go that far," I said. "They were small stones."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well, you saved me from the indignity of it all. I mean, what did I ever do to them?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"You're American," Hannah said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Andy took a minute to digest this fact, wondering how anyone could ever dislike an American.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"So how is it that they didn't stone you?" he asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"We're Canadians," Hannah explained. "Here," she said, reaching down into her backpack. "I have a Canadian flag I can sell you. Put it on your backpack. It will make all the difference. You won't see anyone being stoned with a Canadian flag on their backpack. Most Americans have one now."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"But you don't have a Canadian flag on your backpacks," Andy remarked.</span><br />
"We don't need one. We're Canadians."<br />
Andy struggled to make sense of the logic. But he took the flag from Hannah.<br />
"How do I attach it to my backpack?" he asked.<br />
Hannah pulled out a small sewing kit from her backpack.<br />
"I'll sew it on," she said. It will cost you a little more, but it's worth it."<br />
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I had met Hannah when hitchhiking through Switzerland. A fellow Canadian, she had been on the road much longer than me and had picked up many tricks of the trade. When you are travelling through Europe on a very tight budget, you have to be ingenious.<br />
<br />
So Hannah sold Andy a Canadian flag and her sewing skills. I couldn't help but feel that this was highway robbery. But Hannah defended her actions.<br />
"I am doing him a favour. See how happy Andy looks now."<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And he did look happy. T</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">he first time I really saw him smile. Grateful for the intervention of two passing Canadians who welcomed him into their protective entourage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The irony was that when it was time to separate, it was I who left the entourage. Hannah and Andy wanted to cross the Channel and explore England. I had already had enough of Britain in Canadian History classes, which were really all about Britain. This was still before Canadians had developed any real lasting cultural identity. And before Margaret Atwood and my discovery of Guinness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was also shortly after I discovered that Hannah and Andy were sleeping together. Did I feel some sort of betrayal: Hannah crossing over to the other side of the border? Not really. Hannah was an attractive girl. But I don't think I ever thought of her in that way. At least, not until I realized that they were<i> tight</i> together (the amazing things you could do in one sleeping bag). And I doubt if she felt that way about me, either. Hannah and I had one thing in common: we had no desire to explore the obvious. My being clueless about women didn't help either. Still am. But we will leave that for another blog.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So Hannah and Andy boarded the ferry at Oostende for England, and I bade them farewell, after sharing a warm hug with Hannah and a strong handshake with Andy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"You take care of each other, eh?" I said, then watched as they walked over the ramp onto the ferry. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I never did make it over to England to see how an innovative Canadian might have found ways to exploit the British and whether the Brits were any more tolerant of a Yank in their midst. It was only about twenty-three years later that I finally made my way over to England, taking my son on a whirlwind tour of England, Wales and Scotland for his Bar Mitzva. We didn't hitchhike, so I don't know if Americans kept touting the Canadian flag on their backpacks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">* </span><i>Perhaps I shouldn't call them Americans, as Americans occupy a much larger area than the United States. But, as a Canadian, this is how we knew them then, and as a rather indescript exile, this is how I still know them now.</i><br />
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** <i>At the time, my Torontonian accent was also apparently a dead giveaway of my being Canadian, although I am told I lost it long ago. Canadians don't think they have an accent, but I have come to recognize the clear Canadian rural twang over Israeli television when a Canadian series comes on. </i><br />
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*** <i>There were a few times when I was mistaken for an American. <span style="font-family: inherit;">"Where are you from in the States?" a shopkeeper asks me. "I am from Canada," I dryly reply. "Sorry," he says, fearing that I have been insulted.</span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">**** </span></i><i>Israelis don't think that there is any difference between Americans and Canadians, or at least no difference worth getting worked up about. We will ignore them, for now.</i><br />
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dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-83050532122949840512014-11-21T02:32:00.000-08:002014-11-21T02:32:41.491-08:00Judge Me Not ... well, maybe just a little<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"You are a cold, mean, self-centred, unforgiving ..." she stopped to catch her breath. I thought it best to remain silent. "You told me not to hold back," she said.<br />
"Right. Knock yourself out."<br />
"And condescending, even ugly at times," she continued. I could see that she was still winding up.<br />
And this was coming from a friend. It was going to be a long night.<br />
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What is this obsession we have with <i>evaluation</i>? It starts at a very young age and never ends.<br />
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"I think we should hold David back a year," the kindergarten teacher told my mother.<br />
"Hold him back? In kindergarten?" My mother wasn't quite sure she had heard right.<br />
"Yes, he spends most of the time by himself and doesn't participate much in our little talks."<br />
"And that's a bad thing?"<br />
"Without developing the necessary social skills, well ... he's not going to go very far."<br />
"But ... it's kindergarten."<br />
"Mrs. Lloyd. I can't overestimate the importance of starting out in life on the right foot, no matter how much time it takes."<br />
I was impervious to all of this at the time. I was simply studying the land in my own time. I had time. I had my whole life still spread out before me.<br />
My mother later met up with another kindergarten mother for coffee.<br />
"How did your daughter do?" my mother asked.<br />
"I'm told that she spends too much time talking with her little friends."<br />
They both sighed. Not easy being parents of children who flunked kindergarten.<br />
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I got some of mine back, though, when I became a teacher. Or so I thought. Sitting in the driver's seat at my first teacher/parent meeting, it was now I who could create a stigma that would stay with someone the rest of their life. But I tried to be kind and original in my comments. It went well, at first. The parents felt that I had something to say and were willing to listen. But as the evening wore on, my voice turned into an increasing drone. And worse, I found myself repeating myself. But I knew I had reached rock bottom when I began using the P_Word.<br />
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"Your daughter shows <i>potential</i>."<br />
"Your son is not living up to his <i>potential</i>."<br />
"Your daughter has to recognize her <i>potential</i>."<br />
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Amazing how many ways the term <i>potential</i> can be used at a teacher's meeting. But the parents weren't fooled. For them, I had turned into another teaching clone. They would discuss me later with others over coffee. But I can say one thing in my defence: I never held a student back.<br />
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But if we ever entertained the fantasy that at some time we could eventually escape the need for evaluation, we were gravely mistaken. For it follows us until the end of time.<br />
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"You are a good father."<br />
"You are a lousy husband."<br />
"As a lover, you show potential."<br />
"You make a good corpse."<br />
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And if you are a man, don't forget the lists. Those ominous lists women make when they gather together for their ritual man-bashing ritual.<br />
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"Of all of the men you have dated, who was:<br />
- the best kisser.<br />
- the biggest loser.<br />
- the most clueless in bed.<br />
- the most totally useless in bed and everywhere else.<br />
- the best lover<br />
- the best husband material<br />
- the one who got away.<br />
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Of course there is one thing worse than being on one or more of these lists, and that is <i>not being</i> on any list at all. As if you were never really there and they wiped you totally from their consciousness. You might as well be invisible.<br />
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And don't get me started on self-evaluation. How many of us are any good at that? We will do anything to avoid coming face to face with our own demons. But denial can only take us so far. It all catches up to us in the end, most often in our dreams.<br />
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<i>Had my dream again where I'm making love, and the Olympic judges are watching. I'd nailed the compulsories, so this is it, the finals. I got a 9.8 from the Canadians, a perfect 10 from the Americans, and my mother, disguised as an East German judge, gave me a 5.6. Must have been the dismount.</i><br />
~ When Harry Met Sally<br />
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Sometimes, after a couple of glasses of whiskey, I try to evaluate myself as a husband, lover, father, son, teacher, innovator, scholar, human being ... and at some point my attention wanders ... until I decide it is time to sit down and write another blog.<br />
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<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9202996302446629175.post-57642099024609607212014-11-04T01:18:00.000-08:002014-11-04T01:18:26.697-08:00Wannabe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"So, you want to be a writer?"<br />
"Well, yes."<br />
She marked down <i>wannabe</i>.<br />
"Actually, I already published a book through eBook Publishers," I assured her.<br />
"eBook Publishers?"<br />
"Yes, they just publish eBooks. But this time I want my new book to be published by a more traditional publisher, both in hardcover and eBook."<br />
"Traditional publisher. You will need a literary agent for that," she said.<br />
"Yes, I know."<br />
She marked down <i>delusional</i>.<br />
"New York, London?"<br />
"What?" I asked.<br />
"Your literary agent. Where you want to get published."<br />
"Actually, I thought I'd start with Toronto."<br />
"Toronto? Isn't the Canadian market quite small?" she asked.<br />
"Yes, but I see it as going back to my roots. Coming home."<br />
<i>Sentimental loser, </i>she wrote.<br />
"And I also write a blog."<br />
She looked up, not too pleased with this news. "I hope you are not putting me in your blog."<br />
"No, of course not," I lied.<br />
Actually, I hadn't planned to until I saw that <i>sentimental loser </i>remark. I have been called many things: <i>cold, unemotional, detached, anti-social ... </i>and oh, yes - <i>loser</i>, but never <i>sentimental. </i>That stung.<br />
"What about friends?" she asked.<br />
"What about them?"<br />
"Are any of them writers?".<br />
"I think so. But most won't admit it."<br />
She nodded in empathy. <i>Friendless</i>, she added.<br />
"Okay, that's good for a start," she said.<br />
"When shall we continue?" I asked.<br />
"I'll call you," she said, with a sweet smile.<br />
<br />
A friend of mine, who is brave enough to call himself an aspiring writer, asked me over a pint of Guinness a short while ago. "Why do we do this to ourselves?"<br />
"Do what?"<br />
"Torture ourselves as writers. The process of writing is painful enough, in itself, but why put ourselves also through the pain of seeking someone to publish our writing?"<br />
"I'd put it down to the masochistic creative gene. Why does anyone want to create?" I asked. "Painters, musicians ... is it any easier for them?"<br />
"Some of them do quite well," he said. "Big houses in Beverley Hills."<br />
"Is that what you are in it for? The money?"<br />
"Wouldn't hurt. What are you in it for?" he asked.<br />
"The groupies."<br />
<br />
So, I have a new book coming out. Well ... I have a new book. The gods will tell whether it comes out or sinks into an abysmal bog. (I hope I didn't offend anyone with that <i>gods</i> remark. My shrink tells me I should stop doing that.) And talking about shrinks, here is another excerpt from my new book (in addition to my last blog posting). Some people may think the main character resembles me. I actually think that I resemble him. He came first.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Would you consider yourself suicidal?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">The psychologist studied me from behind her thick framed eyeglasses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Suicidal? No,” I replied, shaking my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA"> “You have never had suicidal
thoughts?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“No, not really. Except for wanting to jump off a cliff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“What!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Jump off a cliff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“I heard you. In what way is that not suicidal?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“I do not <i>want</i> to jump off a cliff,” I said slowly with
emphasis. “That is why I am probably still alive. But whenever I approach the
edge of a cliff with a sheer drop, I have a powerful urge to jump into the
abyss.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">She sat there watching me, as if trying to decipher something in my
manner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Are you depressed, when this happens?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Depressed about not jumping?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“You know what I mean.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“It doesn’t depend on the mood,” I answered. “Or the weather. When I
come close to the edge, I want to jump off.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“What happens then?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“I move back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">This was my first visit to the psychologist. Or was she a psychiatrist?
I keep getting my terms mixed up. I know, I told you I would never go. So I
lied. Or as a psychologist would say: I underestimated my sub-conscious.
Actually, it was mostly because of Rachel’s endless nagging. In the end it was
easier to go than not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">My psychologist was a woman. I had already viewed life from a male
perspective, so I thought it was time to see things from a female point of
view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">She was very officious looking, that first meeting. What I suppose
you would expect of a psychologist. The room was full of books: books on every
side. Somebody once told me that half of the books in a psychologist’s office
were just empty boxes made to look like books. I hadn’t given much credit to
such reports, although given the first opportunity, I would slip one out and
take a good look.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“What do people think about your desire to jump off cliffs?” she
asked, catching me drifting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Impulse.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Impulse to jump off cliffs. There is really no desire there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Okay,” she said, writing something in her notepad. “What do people
think about your impulse to jump off cliffs?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“They don’t know about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“They don’t know about it? Not even your family and closest friends?
What do they say when you are not willing to stand with them by the edge of the
cliff?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“They think I have a fear of heights.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“And that is all?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“That is all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Now I can see why it took you so long to come to a psychologist,”
she muttered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">“What?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 36pt;">“No, scratch that. That was very unprofessional.”</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />dglloydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07952724753847109831noreply@blogger.com3