A Fine Romance

Passion is a double-edged sword. As deeply and wholly as someone can love another, equally deeply and wholly can that someone come to hate the other. Either way, when two souls are inextricably linked, what is it that holds them together? Love? Hate? Or passion?

I’ve just finished reading Therese Anne Fowler’s most excellent novel Z: a Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald. Aside from being a deliciously descriptive dip into the literary world of the Jazz Age, it’s the story of Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald as told by Zelda herself. And, boy, fictionalized or no, their relationship from first encounter to last vestiges was a wild, crazy, roller coaster ride through a rainbow of emotion that should have blown them apart—and almost did, except for one thing: as written by Fowler, they were utterly and completely devoted to each other. Despite the booze and excess, the flings and flops, despite her struggle to maintain a balance and his fight to remain famous at any cost, they stayed together for more than twenty years.

They never really stopped loving each other.

Nowadays, I suppose a divorce would be inevitable since it’s so easy. Back then, not so much. Zelda’s attempt to live her own life was thwarted by the laws of the time—if she left the marriage, she forfeited everything, including her daughter. So she stayed and lost herself instead, ending up in a series of sanitaria where most of the doctors declared the cure lay in devoting herself entirely to her domestic duties of wife and mother—“the centre of a woman’s happiness”. Forget that she was a creative soul in her own right, since everything she accomplished was perceived as an extension of or due to her husband’s influence.

Of course she resented it. She even resented him (with good reason, might I add), but she understood him, too. And she loved him, knowing that he loved her as well. It was a beautiful train wreck. The insanity of excess and the bittersweet ending, however, hardly detract from the romance. Something between them endured the chaotic run through two decades. It made the book’s ending so poignant that I needed time to process it.

Romance (and I may have said this before, so bear with me) might begin with chemistry and that giddy, unbridled riot in the heart. It’s brave and bold and daring—and it can, but often doesn’t, have a happy ending. True romance stays the course through rough waters and prevails against the darkest odds. It survives birth, death, and drama. It lasts beyond the final exhausted surrender. It’s the last man standing. Not a happy ending, perhaps, but a triumphant one if the pair involved can regard each other through jaded eyes and recognize the magic that drew them together in the first place.

Scott and Zelda had a great one.

Seen Through a Coffee Shop Window

not my view, but a reasonable facsimile

I took myself down to the local coffee shop one workday last week, fully intending on drafting this weekend’s blog post. I had no idea what my subject would be. Life of late has been more about living and less about musing—you might say I’m gathering material for future posts—but I reckoned that, surely, inspiration would strike once I assumed the position.

Armed with a Mumbai chai, I took a seat in the window, opened my book, uncapped my coloured Sharpie ... and nothing came. Nada. Zip, zero, zilch. The blank page leered up at me, daring me to mar its pristine whiteness with my purple genius. I stared back, immobilized, though not with fear. My mind was merely as blank as the page in front of me.

My Zen homework has taught me not to panic at a writer’s block. Sometimes it’s just not meant to happen. On another day, my genius will blaze brighter than the halogen high beams on an Audi. Just not today.

Sigh.

Rather than forcing the matter, I decided simply to enjoy my tea and watch the street action through the window. I kept the book open, though the cap went back on my pen. My cup was almost empty when I noticed something so typically incongruous of a First World society that I had to write it down: a white Porsche Cayenne pausing at a crosswalk while a homeless man pushed a shopping cart laden with all his worldly goods in front of it. Wealth and poverty in a single, poignant image. I wished I’d had my camera with me.

Then I realized I’d had a ton of impressions in the past half hour; seen countless vignettes worthy of note (to me, anyway):

A lapdog wearing a raincoat.

Tourists carrying shopping bags.

An older couple strolling arm in arm.

A sleek and shiny Tesla—twice!

The bus ballet (they really do a dance, merging around and into traffic from the stop outside 

the window).

A quartet of orange umbrellas bobbing in a cluster along the far sidewalk. They stood out so bright and cheerful in the grey drizzle, I christened them “orange blossoms”.

The faces on passersby: grim, worried, anxious, vacant, lots of frowns and not many smiles. Sad.

A toddler pushing a stroller while his mother steered him from behind, and the tiny hand lolling from the stroller itself as the occupant enjoyed the ride.

A hipster girl wearing a backpack as big as she was, pausing to read the “we’re hiring” sign in the coffee shop window.

Soft jazz on the shop’s sound system, followed by a cool cover of Roxy’s “Love Is The Drug”, then something by Florence and the Machine (her voice is so distinctive).

The store manager came by to tidy the tables behind me. “On your own today?”

“Just hanging out,” I replied.

“Killing time?”

“Nah, I was doing that in the office.”

He laughed. I said I’d see him tomorrow, then I packed up my stuff and went back to work.

It might not be genius, but I got my post after all.

“Diva XIV”

Naturally, Auntie disapproved. “What kind of church encourages dancin’?”

“I reckon one wantin’ to attract the younger folk,” Uncle Fred replied from behind the Gazette.

Ellie bit her lip at the sour expression on Auntie’s face. It wouldn’t do to laugh when the old lady was hemming her new dress. Already suspicious of Alfred’s motives, she was liable to put a stop to the rest of the summer if her niece disrespected her opinion. “Jesus is our chaperone,” she said instead, quoting the pastor who acted as the Lord’s proxy at the church dances.

The newspaper spoke again. “You’d think the Almighty’d have somethin’ better to do than mind a bunch of kids havin’ fun.”

“The Almighty don’t believe in anybody havin’ fun,” Auntie shot back. She put out her open palm. “Give another pin, Ellie.”

Ellie obliged from the pincushion clutched in her hand. “I really appreciate you sewin’ me this dress, Auntie.”

“It was supposed to be for Sundays.”

“I know.”

Uncle Fred, who had taken a shine to Ellie’s new beau because they shared a Christian name, put down his paper with a crack. “Vi, leave the girl alone. Lord knows there ain’t no fun in her doin’ chores from dawn ’til dusk. Besides, I’ve talked with Ike Rudd. The boy comes highly recommended—better than any of those other scraps who came sniffin’ around once word got out of a new girl in town.”

“Hmph,” Auntie grumbled.

Ellie flashed a grateful smile at Uncle Fred. He seemed to understand her struggle, relocating from the city to the farm after her first year of junior high. Now she was schooled in the community hall with a bunch of other kids as diverse in age as they were in their learning. She was helping the younger ones with their ABCs when, back home in Beaumont, her one goal had been aiming to be the homecoming queen in her senior year.

Alfred sometimes tested her on their outings together. He was smart (“Then why is he settlin’ to be a cowboy?” Auntie had groused) and recalled his lessons better than Ellie did. Still, she’d impressed him with her grasp of grammar and history almost as much as she’d impressed him with her kisses. He wouldn’t take advantage of her, though. No, sir. Ma Baynor had raised a gentleman, and though he turned Ellie’s knees to toffee, he never let her fall.

It was a little disappointing.

Stand Up and Be Counted

Tuesday is election day in BC. I hear on the grapevine that May 30 will see Nova Scotians headed to the polls, as well. Democracy is alive and well from coast to coast.

Or is it?

I’ve consistently voted Orange in provincial elections, mostly because they supposedly support working people and social programs. I won’t say I’ll never vote Red because, who knows, one day a miracle might happen and they’ll start caring about constituents over capitalism. And voting Green seemed futile to my jaundiced eye. Too young, too new, too untried. Too naive. Better to stick with the old guard and be assured of ... what? The same old song and dance, that’s what.

There was a time (wasn’t there?) when politics was about people, not power. Nowadays, the big guns seem more concerned with slagging each other than explaining to me how they intend on making my life better. The money spent on attack ads is sickening. Pointing fingers and proclaiming “Red’s not working for you” while neglecting to say how Orange will has me seriously considering where to cast my ballot.

The Orange candidate in my riding is a seasoned pro. She’s been around forever, and was even the leader of the party for a while, until some internal stupidity had them punting her in favour of blanc mange in a suit. I like her. I believe in her willingness to work for the folks in her riding ... but she’s old guard. They’re all old guard, and the future belongs to the young ’uns.

But how can the young ’uns get anywhere if they have no experience? I’m going Green this year, not just because they talk about serving the public instead of their own interests (I can hear the cynics now – “Ru, you starry-eyed dolt, they’ll say anything for a chance to serve their own interests!”), but because they are young and idealistic, and they need to get some experience before their party can pose a real threat to Punch and Judy.

Green has no chance of winning this election. None. Zero, zip, zilch. I know that. I hope, however, to help create an imbalance that results in a minority government for whichever of the usual suspects does win. I also hope to give the next generation some work experience before their party gains enough support to form a government because, eventually, I think they will.

Is there such a thing as a wasted vote? There is. A wasted vote is a vote not cast at all. It’s also a vote against democracy. Freedom may be our birthright, but too many in the world have been robbed of that right by those who seek to rule over them. Voting has become a privilege, hard won on the backs and by the blood of those who’ve gone before us, and opting out is more than copping out. It’s disrespectful both to them, and to the people elsewhere in the world who have no say in who governs them. Sure, your candidate may lose, but your voice will still be heard. And if he/she loses, you can complain with impunity. If he/she wins, not so much—but one might argue that you asked for it. At least you’ll have a say in the outcome.

Vote. Please. Vote to keep (insert colour) out. Vote to get (insert colour) in. Don’t like either of them? Vote for the independent candidate and tip the balance in favour of the opposition. Vote for the future. Vote for the generation who must solve the problems we’ve created for them.

Most importantly, once more with feeling, vote because you can.

Still unconvinced? Then let me introduce to you the President of the United States ...