Beautiful Cynicism III

While entomologists and arachnologists debate the origins of this web (possibly a large “communal” spider web, shared by several different species of spiders, possibly a “dispersal event” whereby different species of spiders build webs furiously to attempt to disperse themselves around an area, thereby avoiding their fellow arachnids), the fact remains: a 183-meter section of a Texas state park has been covered with a massive, thick spider web.

“‘At first it was so white it looked like fairyland,’ said park superintendent Donna Garde. ‘Now it’s filled with so many mosquitoes that it’s turned a little brown. There are times you can literally hear the screech of millions of mosquitoes caught in those webs.’”

Sam the squirrel has been stopping by to visit every day for the past few weeks. Although there are many squirrels scampering about in the neighbourhood, I feel quite certain that the one that keeps showing up on my fence is always the same one. (As I’m not a committed observer of rodent behaviour – or anatomy, for that matter – I’ve given this squirrel the sexually ambiguous name ‘Sam’ to avoid any potential confusion.)

Sam usually plants himself (herself?) in the corner by the bushes, sitting cautiously for a few minutes; he then stretches out along the narrow edge at the top of the fence, as if he was lounging about on the beach. He stretches his little arms out in front of him, and rests his head on one; he then stretches out his hind legs, one at a time, until he’s completely prostrate. (Quite frankly, I’ve never seen a squirrel do that, and it’s adorable.) He’ll usually lie there for about 10 minutes, sunning himself, then slowly get up, yawning all the while. Then, all of a sudden, he runs off in a flash, hurrying along the fence to the shed; from there he jumps up on to the roof, and then on to a low-lying tree branch; then he’s gone. Until the next day.

But why my backyard in particular? What strange magic keeps calling him back? After some observation, I believe I’ve found the answer: the other day, rather than being perched on the fence, Sam was on the lawn. Right at the base of the Japanese maple, there was a tiny collection of fallen leaves and random organic detritus piled up. I spied Sam rummaging around in there, his head completely buried in the grass and sticks. A few seconds later, he jumped back, with something in his mouth. He ran off to the fence and ate it, whatever it was. He then scampered back to his little pile and repeated the process. Apparently, it’s not my charming personality that keeps Sam coming back; my property is simply a storage area for his food, which he’s saving up for the cooler weather. (Oh, my wounded ego…)

It should be noted that Sam is rarely alone in my backyard; he has a partner in crime. The two creatures tend to show up together – either both arriving roundabout the same time, or one appearing right after the other. Whether these two are friends or foes, though, remains to be seen…

Je crois que je deviens l’incarnation de l’automne: il y a en moi des choses qui se taisent, qui meurent, qui tombent endormi. C’est comme une couverture qui descend doucement sur mon âme. Ou bien peut-être ce n’est que les temps pluvieux et gris de ces derniers jours qui m’ont rendu un peu maussade? Certes, ce n’est pas à cause de l’ennui ou d’un manque de travail – c’était la folie au boulot la semaine dernière. Maintenant, une semaine après la rentrée scolaire, les étudiants se sont calmé un peu: les fêtes de la semaine d’orientation sont fini; il n’y a plus de barils de bière sur le campus, plus de rock’n'roll dans le cour intérieur, plus de petit déjeuners gratuit dans le parking. Peu à peu, chacun trouve son rythme. Les nouveaux étudiants commencent à prendre conscience de la gravité de leurs études, pendant que les “anciens” se préparent déjà pour les examens de mi-trimestre.

Speaking of planning ahead, one has to admire the whims and fears of some. We humans are capable of so much thought and creativity, and we seem to put so much of that energy into negative possibilities. (Most would argue that only the bad stuff requires preparation; why prepare for happiness? I would counter that there seem to be plenty of people who simply do not know how to be happy.) One never plans to be happy; one always plans for the worst-case scenario instead. (Being somewhat cynical and jaded, I can understand this perfectly; but I still find it amusing.) Of course, some fears are well-founded; in the 19th century, for example, it was not terribly uncommon for people to be presumed dead when they were, in fact, still among the living. So it’s not so surprising that the fear of being buried alive was widespread. However, I’m willing to bet that not many people took this fear quite as seriously as Timothy Clark Smith, who died on Hallowe’en (the gods must have been in a playful mood that day), in 1893. So afraid was Smith of being buried alive that he had commissioned a special grave – one that was fitted with a window placed directly over his face, presumably to allow him to make funny faces at passers-by in an attempt to attract their attention, should he be mistakenly interred. A breathing tube in his mouth broke through the 6 feet of earth between his body and the fresh Vermont air. Unfortunately for Smith, he never had the chance to enjoy the creature comforts of his tomb – he lays there still. He was buried with a bell in his hand; alas, only silence surrounded his chosen corner of the cemetery.

George Bernard Shaw a dit que le silence est l’expression la plus parfaite du mépris. (Quelle vérité!) C’est vrai que c’est une façon définitive de reprendre le contrôle – d’une conversation, d’une relation… Au fil des années, je me suis rendu compte que je suis assez sensible à le manque de communication. Sans doute c’est à cause de mes propres insécurités. Peut-être également grâce à mon père et les disputes entre lui et ma mère, des spectacles auxquelles j’assistais assez souvent pendant mon enfance. Mon père employait le silence comme une arme, ne laissant presque jamais ma mère l’occasion de répondre à ses propos. (“Comment se venger du silence?” demandait Alfred de Vigny…) Je voyais à quel point elle était frustrée et blessée; et, me semblait-il, souvent mon père prenait du plaisir à lui faire souffrir comme ça, rien que pour montrer qu’il avait ce pouvoir sur elle. (Sans doute c’est pour ça que je vois toujours de la méchanceté dans le silence; bien que je suis quelqu’un qui a besoin du silence et du temps pour réfléchir! Vous voyez, la Cynique est une hypocrite.) Ou bien c’est parce que quelqu’un m’a laissé tombé comme ça: l’arrivé soudain du silence, précédé par aucune raison, aucune explication, aucun adieu; peut-être ce n’est qu’une peur que cela va se reproduire. Mais si le silence est cruel, il est aussi bénéfique. Le silence est plus fort que n’importe quelle parole. A une âme tourmentée, il peut approfondir la déprime et la solitude – mais il peut également apporter de la paix et la calme. Toute la beauté et la complexité, la tristesse et la réalité de la vie est rélevé par le bruit du vent dans les arbres, des vagues sur la plage, des feuilles jaunes qui tombent sur les toits. On ne peut réfléchir que si on est seul avec ses pensées. Le silence est ce qu’on entend quand notre coeur nous parle.

So says the signs posted at the front doors of the university this morning. It’s one of the more interesting ways to welcome people to an institution of higher learning. But then, it’s a Wednesday morning in September: the free pancake breakfast is in full swing in the parking lot, the band is setting up the stage for the noon rock concert, and the beer garden tents are being erected in the courtyard. Just another day in the first week of the new academic year.

It’s a cloudy day, with intermittent rain. The tables and chairs set up outside are empty, as mini skirt-clad kids huddle in groups under the awning, munching away on their free meal, always warily eyeing the competition. Chaos reigns in the hallways, as groups of new students arrive for their orientation session, wide-eyed and excited at the new level of freedom that lies before them. Teachers that don’t care if one shows up late! An administration that couldn’t care less how many times you skip class! Cute young professors! Free beer! The younger ones roam the halls in packs, dozens of them moving at once, as one small mass of humanity, bulldozing through anything and anyone in their path. They smirk at the others who appear lost or friendless; they glare at the older students who aren’t as painfully stylish as they are; they clog the stairwells and doorways, standing firm even at the most polite “excuse me”, as if the escalator landing has suddenly been declared their own private meeting space. Girls whisper excitedly about their first opportunity to gawk at men, as opposed to boys; boys sit silently on the benches lining the hallways, their eyes feasting on the bodies of young female professors. It’s always the same, year after year; while somewhat disappointing, such predictability can also be comforting.

I really shouldn’t be so cynical. I moved to Winnipeg eight years ago, and began attending this university two weeks later; I started working here the following year. With between 7000-9000 students, it’s a small university, whose campus is right in the city’s downtown, slowly extending its reach to overtake neighbouring buildings and storefronts. Every year it is ranked as one of the best undergraduate universities in Canada by students and by independent measures alike; class sizes are kept small so that students know their professors on a first-name basis. Once we all get over the September hump, it’s actually quite an agreeable place to be. I laugh when I meet fellow former students who work here; we all seem to stay for years afterwards, because there is such a friendly, personal atmosphere. I sometimes worry that I’ll be one of those people who never leaves university… But they can be addicting places, with their dynamism, thirst for knowledge, and eccentricities. Of course the bureaucracy moves at a snail’s pace, and some professors never leave just as some students never grow up, but on balance, it’s not such a bad gig.

I remember Aunt Mildred as an infrequent but constant person in my life. She lived in a small apartment in Vancouver up until just a few years ago, insisting on living independently for as long as was possible. My mother and I would stop and visit, sometimes staying for a day or two, on our way to and from summer holidays. Aunt Mildred was a stubborn old bird with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit. The table beside her armchair was always piled high with stacks of crossword puzzles and tabloids, and she enjoyed passing the days crocheting in front of the telly, cursing at the actors in bad American soap operas. When she was still mobile, she walked several blocks to the corner store every morning to buy her daily newspapers. She was fiercely independent and proud, undoubtedly necessarily so due to the years spent in the orphanage, where her father left her after his wife abandoned the family. (The boys, he deftly handled with a certain cruelty, but he had no idea what to do with a daughter: so he simply abandoned her, as her mother had.) It was only years later that she was finally reunited with her brothers. I don’t think she ever saw my great-grandfather again; she didn’t like to talk about that part of her life. Instead, she counselled me on how to handle my grandfather, and my father – indeed all the men in the family. She always told me never to let anyone tell me how or what to think, always to be brave, and never to be intimidated by any man – especially not one of our relatives! (Perhaps this may make her seem like a militant feminist who held a grudge against men; on the contrary, she simply learned the hard way how to protect herself from men who held grudges against women.)

I always enjoyed being in her company, even after her health declined and she moved in to the rest home. Since I no longer live on the coast, I didn’t have many chances to visit her; the last time was during my last visit home, in 2005. Her body was small and frail in her bed; the dementia was showing its strength, and it took her nearly 15 minutes to remember who I was. But once recognition set in, everything clicked; she talked of my aunt, who still visited her almost daily and who spirited in small bottles of whisky (strictly contraband in the home); she complained loudly about the provincial government, and showed off the large button she was wearing on her blouse (depicting the Premier with a Pinocchio-style liar’s nose); she still had her stash of chocolates and sweets hidden in her bedside table. (She always maintained that the secret to longevity was strong whisky and decadent sweets, taken daily in small amounts.)

Pendant la moitié de ma vie, je n’ai connu que deux autres femmes dans la famille: une cousine, et Mildred. Elles étaient seules jusqu’à mon arrivé dans le monde – un arrivé qui a déséquilibré l’ordre naturel des choses: car maintenant, chacun de mes demi-frères a une fille. Après ma naissance, la composition génétique de la famille a été irréversiblement changé.