IN WHICH BEAR STOPS TO RECONSIDER

Bear has, for a very long time, been a writer, a broadcaster, a journalist. An award winning journalist, even.

So, from that perspective, Bear tends to treat his blogs as if they are journals of sorts.

Just the facts, ma'am, and stuff like that.

Solid, well-thought-out, well-expressed. Even the spelling is (usually) good.

Yada, yada, yada.

And kind readers leave the odd, thoughtful comment. Not that their comments are odd; they're not. They are delightful! (Then, there's the Blog Fodder, but that's another story entirely.*)

Anyhow, I did something different.

I published a light, fluffy piece, including a picture of Bear with a baby. (While I did that, I sat quaking, fearing my Writer's Licence would be revoked for doing such stuff and nonsense).

And what happened?

I've received more comments to that than to anything else that I've written. And, I've still got my Writer's Licence!

Well, then.

I understand that each literary type has it's own style, it's own conventions. Poetry and newspapers have very different styles. You know that.

Has journalist Bear not really understood the conventions of blogging? Has Bear be writing a blog like a journalist, instead of like a blogger? Should Bear be making changes? Should Bear work in multiple styles, on different blogs? Hmmmm.

I'm not sure where this will go, but it seems this is time to reconsider.

Footnote

The story is told of a career sailor, who eventually retired from the Navy.
At the time of his retirement he thought back on his time as a painter.
On board, he had worked in the aft section of the ships on which he had served.
So he said he had left no stern untoned.

__________________
*The Blog Fodder is the only blogger who has met Bear in person. And that was decades (yes, decades) before there were such things as blogs, or Facebook, or Twitter. Meaning that BF knows way too much about Bear. Though, to tell the truth, he has been very gracious.

PROBING (A-Z CHALLENGE)

Probing. Inquisitive. Thoughtful.

The doctor's hands run over my abdomen, checking here and there. He wants to know the source of my pain. When he knows the source, he can likely identify the cause. 

But he is uncertain. He has an idea, but the pieces don't seem to fit.

We discuss the options, the possibilities. Neither of us is satisfied.

Probing. Inquisitive. Thoughtful.

The journalist is less than satisfied with the answer he has received in the interview. It doesn't make sense. It almost seems dishonest.

He has never trusted this kind, with their slippery answers, seeping out like rancid oil. Like vultures, they make their living on the misfortune of others, others who have shrivelled up as their will to work, and to live, has flowed out of them, now they have lost everything.

Like the doctor, I keep probing, trying to find the answers.

But, again, the pieces don't seem to fit. I have to leave it at that.

------------

Also brought to you by the letter P:
• pewter
• pesky
• platypus
• palliative
• provinçal

And from the New Phonetic Alphabet: P for whistle.

HIROSHIMA REMEMBERED

Friend and fellow journalist Jim Taylor has an interesting and challenging piece on remembering of the use of the first thermonuclear weapon. That, of course, was at Hiroshima, Japan, on August 6, 1945. His comments can be found on his blog, amongst other places.

For me, two points were of particular interest.

1. Once you let the genie — any genie — out of the bottle, it's very tough to get it back in.

2. Hiroshima legitimizes international terrorism, by primarily targeting civilians.

It is not a horrific read, but neither is it comfortable.

I encourage you to take some time to consider it.

TAKING RISKS — HOPEFULLY SURVIVING

Sonia (over at Gutsy Writer) got me thinking about this topic a few days ago. I had some questions for myself. 
  
What does it mean do take risks?
Why should I take risks?
What kinds of risks could/should/would I take?

I've taken a lot of risks in my life. Changing jobs; changing careers; moving across a country for work; walking into burning buildings with nothing more than an inch and a half (diameter) fire hose; getting married; having children; writing, broadcasting and blogging; upholding unpopular beliefs and ideas. In each case, these were things I did because I thought they were the right thing to do. A couple of those proved to be really bad (two were health destroying); the vast majority were good, and I'd do them again.

Even though I'm hitting retirement, I don't expect my attitude will change much. I'm probably a bit old for walking into burning buildings and having more children. I'll probably spend more time upholding unpopular ideas, in a time when democracy, human rights, co-operation, citizen action, and faith are all under attack, particularly in North America.
   
I'd love to have you come along. And if you're coming along, I really hope you will chat with me about what you and I are thinking.

Do we have a deal?

LAMENT FOR MONDAY, JUNE 28, 2010

The G20 summit meeting wrapped up yesterday in Bear's home town, Toronto, Canada.  This was the gathering of the leaders of the 20 economically-strongest countries in the world, which account for about 85 per cent of global trade. (I could watch the action, and still, after all the years of being away, figure out roughly where the people were.)

Three images stood out for me.

1. The Presidents and Prime Ministers — heads of the G20 nations — smiling, and waving, and chatting. Looking like they had been on a holiday! Political showmanship at its best. 

They had been arguing among themselves about how to keep the world's economy on a level keel, and apparently reached some significant plans.

2. Vandals, calling themselves anarchists, destroying property. Our Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, condemned their action, saying it was "not the Canadian way." And he was right.

3. Probably the strongest image for me was also picked up by veteran CBC journalist Susan Ormiston. She was reporting from "street-level" about protests, violent and peaceful. The image she was left with was one of seeing, wherever she turned, rows of "battle-ready" police — heavy gear, shields, clubs — three deep, waiting. Then often charging, and beating and grabbing people, often indiscriminately. At last count, over 600 people were arrested. It's turning out that many were simply on the streets of their community, the community where they lived, minding their own business, or watching, in wonder and amazement, as things unfolded. The innocent were simply scooped up with the supposedly "guilty." This was because of sweeping new powers quietly granted to police, by the Federal Cabinet, but never made public. (So much for transparency and accountability in government.) I could say to the Prime Minister, "that is not the Canadian way," either. 

Except it is.  I don't like this new "Canadian way" that Stephen Harper is bringing us. It feels too much like a "police state," perhaps a new blossoming of fascism.

Lord, hear our prayer,
and let our cry come unto thee.

CHANGE. AND PAPER WORK.

This is the kind of thing I'd usually post on my Bears Noting blog. But I'm putting it here instead because, well, because here seems the right place for it. Don't ask me to explain that. Also, please disregard the note on my May 20th posting; that was then, this is now.


    In our lives we go through a variety of changes. Some of these are socially defined, and are known to sociologists as “Rites of Passage.”

    Today, every one of them involves paper work. Lots of it.

    It hasn’t always been that way, but it is now. And increasingly, we are know, not by name, but by the number that is assigned to our paper work. 

    Birth and death are the two universal events. Normally in Canada, you don’t leave hospital until someone has filled in papers for your birth certificate. When you die, you cannot be buried, cremated (or whatever) unless there’s a Burial Permit (which is issued only after the more extensive paper work is done).

    In between — perhaps Drivers Licence, High School Diploma, Trade Certification, University Degree. If you get married, a marriage Licence and Certificate. If you have children, their Birth Certificates. All involve paper work.

    And on the farm, there is paper work involved with the transfer of farm ownership. Back in the 1980s, when I was reporting agricultural developments on radio and in print, intergenerational farm transfer was complex. It needed very careful consideration.  I don’t expect it has become any less complex. If anything, there are probably more things to consider — and more paper work.

    What got me thinking about this is the fact that I’m busy filling in paper work. Late this summer, I will turn 65. That, somehow, doesn’t seem right. I don’t actually feel that old. I don’t think of myself as being that old. I’m 64 going on 46, maybe. But my Birth Certificate tells me I’m going to be 65. In this case, the paper work doesn’t lie.

    According to my long-time friend and colleague, Ralph Milton, 65 is the “age of certifiable decrepitude.” Supposedly, you’re old and worn out.

    That, of course, was not true in Ralph’s case. Nor is it true in the lives of many others. In fact, in my years of work with “seniors,” I saw that many seemed busier in “retirement” than they had been during their “working lives.”

    But turning 65 means paper work — for government pensions, or private pensions, or both, that might just wear me out. I won’t get my money until the paper work is done. Even if the money is sitting in some account, somewhere, with my name and number on it. So I’m doing paper work.

    And even after retirement, I’ll be participating in the economy and community. I’ll have an income. I’ll be buying things. I’ll be with my wife and family. I will continue writing. I’ll continue to serve on a variety of ethics committees, in our community and university.  I’m already facing health challenges, but they haven’t stopped me, though I do need medications. And all of those will require some sort of paper work.

    And I hope the economy in which I live will continue to have a place for, and honour the hopes, needs and contributions of,  young and old, male and female, rich and poor, highly-educated and less-educated. That it will be, simply, a Moral Economy.

========

This originally appeared, in a slightly different from, as an Op-Ed column in The Western Producer, last month. It's my latest contribution to our "Moral Economy" series.

I WRITE THE STORIES (4)

Back a while ago on this blog, in posts "And Where to Begin" (April 13th) and "Done the Deed" (April 16th), I shamelessly let you into my personal struggles to make sense out of something, and share my thoughts with the world. That's what we journalists try to do. Sometimes we do it well; sometimes, not so well. You readers get to be the judges.

I promised that, after it was published in the newspaper for which it was written, I would blog it (in a revised form). I have done that. It is on the blog which I use for ethical and journalistic writing, the one called "Bears Noting." You'll find the story as "Newspapers, R.I.P.??" Should you desire to comment, I'd be pleased to hear from you on either site.

In other news, a cheeky, chattery red squirrel has returned. As with the Dark-eyed Juncos this poses a dilemma. Is the squirrel part of the clean-up committee, or another mouth to feed? Such a deep, existential question is too much for the Bear tonight -- I can bearly get my brain to focus on it.

So, be cool, but stay warm.

I WRITE THE STORIES (3)

Stories. I've written and told lots of them.

I've covered court cases. I remember an agri-businesses which wanted to set up a huge feedlot (cattle station/livestock farm) a few miles upwind from a town of several thousand. People took the business to court, claiming the stink of the feedlot would fill the town. They won. Some years later (I understand) another feedlot was successful, in spite of the town's concerns. I'm also told that, may summer days, the smell is so strong you can't have a barbecue (barbie/cookout) in town, because of the overpowering odor.

I've been at train wrecks, with toxic chemical spills. I've sat through a lot of long, tedious, boring town and city council meetings. I've covered "mock" disasters -- emergency preparedness exercises. I've seem a "little guy" beat the tax man in court; it can be done. I've seen high school students, from good homes, convicted for vandalizing a church. I've written stories on budgets, on government programs (remember the phrase: "I'm from the government, I'm here to help you"?), on farmers attempts to get just and meaningful farm policies put into place, or keep them once they're established. I've been on the lines when a farm family was putting up a fight to try to save its farm (i.e., business and home) from a banker.

They're stories of joy, possibility, hope, fear, success, frustration, justice and real injustice.

For a journalist, there are five basic questions: who, what, when, where, and why. The "why" question is always an ethical question -- a question of meaning, purpose, goal, intention. It's a question of how we are going to treat each other, the world, or both. It was an easy step to move from the ethical questions of a journalist to the ethical questions of the medical ethicist (as well as the who, what, where, and when).

"And," to quote the late Paul Harvey, "now you know the rest of the story."

I WRITE THE STORIES (2)

"Tell the stories" -- Herbert Marshall McLuhan

Ever heard or used the words "the medium is the message," or "the global village."? Those are just two of many concepts expanded by Marshall McLuhan.

Born in western Canada, educated there and in England, McLuhan spent much of his life as a professor at St. Michael's College, which is part of the University of Toronto. (For more about him, see his official web site, http://www.marshallmcluhan.com)

Among other things, McLuhan converted to Roman Catholicism while in England. He was active in his local parish in Toronto.

In the mid 1960s, the Second Vatican Council of the Roman Catholic Church brought major change, and controversy. Among other things, there was a new emphasis on better communication, particularly in homilies at Masses.

Subsequent to Vatican II, "the faithful" and the clergy in local parishes were coming to grips with all the changes. McLuhan was invited to have supper with the parish priests one night. The question at supper: "Dr. McLuhan, can you give us any tips on how to communicate better with our people?" McLuhan put down his knife and fork, thought for a moment, said, "Tell the stories," and went back to his meal.

In our churches, sometimes the teaching and preaching isn't that great. We preachers sometimes get wound up in explaining the transient vicissitudes of non-somnambulistic hypnopaedia. And people nod off -- mentally, if not physically. But tell a story -- a good story -- and everyone's "right there."

People understand stories. Stories from their family history. Stories from books, the theatre, and movies. Stories in the news media (if they're done well). Stories shared by bloggers -- the new media leaders. Stories that need no explanation (except some background, perhaps, to give them context). Stories are our life.

(To be continued)

I WRITE THE STORIES

"I write the songs, I write the songs." -- Barry Manilow

I'm writing in response to a question from "Musings from the deep" -- as in deep New South Wales, Australia. Natalie wanted to know what I wrote for these 30 years or so.

The answer -- stories. Not "the Great Canadian Novel." Just stories. And for ten years I read them on the radio. "Good (morning/afternoon/evening), I'm Rob-bear with the. . . ." Well, you know. The line doesn't change that much from time to time or place to place.

Stories. The basic building blocks of human experience and communication. Events captured in words, shared in verbal pictures. Sometimes cranked out like word-sausages from some infernal, deranged sausage machine. Sometimes crafted carefully, deliberately.

That is also the essence of blogging. We share our stories, our lives, our selves.

Same stuff; different day. But not entirely.

And that's the news. I'm Rob-bear.

(To be continued.)

BLOGGING

"There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them."

That's the famous signature line from the American tv series "The Naked City" (based on the movie with the same title). Both were crime dramas; both were set in New York City. The film was done in 1948; the tv series on ABC was 1958-63.

In blogsphere, there must be at least eighty trillion stories (and counting). Some are hilariously funny. Some are painfully real. Some raise significant public issues. Some are simply telling us about the "nuts and bolts" (and poopy diapers) of everyday living. Some are just plain rants (as in, "There now; aren't you glad I got this out of my system?"). Some are "earthy" (a polite way of saying "obscene," or close to that).

Some of the writing is pretty bad (needs a good editor -- good editors can fix just about anything); some is scintillating. Indeed, some of the writing is good enough to be published. There are people can open their hearts and minds (and souls) to total strangers in such a way that we are drawn into their experience -- the experience they have created. There are lots of Garrison Keillors and Margaret Atwoods out there. You can trust the ol' bear on this. (I say that as someone whose work has been published regularly over the space of about 30 years, on radio and in print.)

Except for the worst stuff, I find I'm amused and inspired by what you write.

So keep on blogging, writing. Please.