Something Bigger

"No man can put a chain about the ankle of
his fellow man without at last finding the
other end fastened about his own neck."
Frederick Douglass (1883)

Last Friday, I received these witty vintage buttons and this fine postcard from a fellow blogger. Many weeks ago, she posted about the buttons, and offered to mail them to fellow bloggers. So friendly of her (and completely unnecessary). I love them. And I love her blog, especially for her book reviews, her humour, and her Friday Randomness. 

Across our countries, I estimate J and I live about 3000 kilometers (1800 miles) apart. Throughout my life as a Canadian, I've counted Americans as my friends, my colleagues, my neighbours and I've viewed America as sort of like my rich, famous step-brother, ha. My Dad had deep respect for Americans and loved visiting the US. If he were still alive, I suspect he'd be angry and confused by our current political rift but he would also likely consider it temporary. My fingers will always be crossed for that wish. 

Despite what's changed, I think J's neighbourly gift says something important about being a part of the blogging community: it's borderless. Yet her gesture also says something else. Something bigger. Note the three references in this gift. 

First, J may remember I recently wrote about encountering a Frederick Douglass statue in Belfast. He's one of my favourite Americans, yet his passion for literacy/reading/writing/arts (particularly photography) is something J and I both love as well. As they say, friends have common interests. 

Second, consider what George Orwell teaches about friendship in his (perpetually relevant) magnum opus, 1984. The novel's totalitarian state undermines authentic friendship, relegating it instead to "comradeship" to ensure that loyalty is first and foremost to the Party. Hmm, something about this sounds very familiar in 2026. Sigh. 

Third, what did Emily Dickinson say about friendship? In a personal letter she writes, "my friends are my estate." Now that's a legacy. 

Dear J, I'm sending you something in return. Because, friendship. Despite everything, cheers to ours and to the world's. 

1/8

Meanwhile in Saskatchewan 👊

You know that joke about Saskatchewan, right? Easy to draw, hard to spell. 😜 

But harvest-time on the prairies? Growing and gathering food for the world? No joke. 1 in 8 Canadian jobs are connected to agriculture and the agri-food sector. Dear friends, have you thanked a farmer lately?

Things that deserve your 𝚜̶𝚝̶𝚒̶𝚗̶𝚔̶ eye:

Caption: "You'll be kept awake during the operation." 
As a Scot I prefer to see this as a compliment, lol. 

Many people are quick to comment that they can't even draw stickmen. As I've said before: bullstick.

Meet Edward Steed, a singular cartoonist who is somehow simultaneously disturbing and hilarious. Plus his story offers a blueprint for how to live a fuller life. 

And with all due respect to his signature drawing style (I'm a fan), even he says this about his process: "It’s quite a bit of thinking and then a small amount of drawing.” In fact, he revealed in an interview that he didn't begin drawing seriously until he saw an ad seeking a cartoonist for The New Yorker!  Since landing that job, he also says he's starting to enjoy drawing more. 😀 Dude's got gumption.

Dear friends, this should remind us it's not too late. Perception becomes reality, often without evidence, and so if you think you can't draw stickmen (or whatever), well so what? Be a kid again and draw. Why not be a bit delusional? Put your work in someone's lunch kit. Post it online. Hang it on your fridge. The drawing process enhances memory, relieves stress, and acts like meditation no matter what ends up on the page. And if it's not drawing, do that something else that would fill your cup. 

Be like cats.

Still contemplating woolgathering, so when I noticed this patch of sunlight on my dining room floor, I thought of cats and how they will always find the sun and sleep. 

Cats don't need to be convinced but science says that 10+ minutes of sunlight exposure (especially outside, in the morning) has significant impacts on human mental health and well-being. Dear friends, why not sit in the sun or (better yet), lie down on the floor while woolgathering? We should be more like cats. Right? 

One more thing, a question; I'm stumped. But first, some context: I thought there must be a name for this cat-attracting "chunk" of a sunbeam. You know, a word that sort of means the opposite of a shadow. Or a technical word, something like "sneckdown" for example. The Internet must know, right? But nope.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered an uncharacteristic cyberspace void in this regard. Reluctantly, I asked AI (aka paste pudding, thank you Ray Bradbury): "There is no single, official one-word English noun exclusively for the bright shape cast on a floor by sunlight through a window, so people rely on descriptive phrases."

Well well well, you know I love to invent words so let's all remove our leashes and let our minds wander, shall we? Ha, here we go a-woolgathering....

What do you call the patch of sunlight on the floor? Or how would you describe it? Or...do you think any of my spitballs stick? 

• sun spot
• sun site
• sun puddle
• sun blanket
• sun throw
• sun haven
• sun oasis
• sun setting
• sun nook (s'nook) 🙌
• splace (sunny + place) 🤦

The Answer?

Bebe Rexha & Dolly Parton
(on my current playlist)

Today there's an old conversation playing in my head. 

We were attempting to get to know each other better, and he asked, "what kind of music are you into?" That was a mistake. I'm terrible at small talk. I suspect many people would say, "oh I like almost anything" or "Not jazz" but... music is just too paramount within me for any definitive synopsis. (I've written about my playlist before.) 

I'd compare musical tastes to explaining how one falls in love. How do you articulate those highly personal and abstract and fervid whatabouts? Intangible notions that sometimes trigger love at first sight or maybe bit by bit and then suddenly all at once. For me, music (the arts) is the lifelong love: my first love, a love longer than all the other loves. Lonely (Gen X) kids found love where they could. My early loves were all in books and on the radio and TV. 

Anyway, we had a bit of a meandering conversation; I tried to explain that the music I like is not just about the genre, or performer, or time period—it depends on the songwriting, the personal connection, and the self-expression. It's a relationship. He considered this, and asked one last question, "so, you like Dolly Parton then? I said, "absolutely." Suddenly, we understood each other! It's true: Dolly always has a way of bringing people together.  

Today I'm thinking about 1970s childhood me sitting on the floor in front of the TV watching Dolly perform, feeling connected, and yes, it was love at first sight. (She was like my cousins' dolls.) But it was also her trademark self-deprecating humour, her warm neighbourliness, her sincere optimism and over time, her incredible generosity and humanity. Today, I am also remembering some other members of my childhood TV family: Mork (Robin Williams), and John Candy. Sigh. 

If music is indeed like love, this week our sorry world lost love personified. Nevertheless dear friends, notice (and don't forget) that even after this world-wide collective grief fades, Dolly will always be the answer to many of life's most challenging questions. 

Le'ts be honest

Source: The Contrarian
Click here for more from Canadian
Political Cartoonist Michael de Adder.

Are we Canadians surprised by the latest trade negotiations shitshow with the US? 

Hmm...this is who he "wished well." Doesn't it just tell you everything you need to know? 

(Thank you, PM Carney.)

Things that deserve more stink eye?

Um, this was a surprise. Hmm...is it just a coincidence or is this some sort of (cryptic) response to my recent post (beef) about WORDLE?

Um, you know when you've been joking (shit-talking) about the Internet (wasteland) and sharing your totally unserious (serious) feelings about sentient (consciously malicious) technology and (hostile) AI and the INEVITABLE SINGULARITY SPONSORED BY BILLIONAIRES (the greed-based ongoing decline toward a hell-scape dystopia whereby us regular folks are enslaved by our phones/ technology in service to corrupt influencers and unrestrained plutocrats aka META et al).... Well c'mon Internet (LORD OF THE PINGS), all I did was challenge WORDLE to a battle of wits!

So, am I officially frenemies with WORDLE? Or is this a white flag? Or is this a threat disguised as a white flag? (Spoiler: YES IT IS.) Now that they've destabilized me, who knows what this means, and what's next?!

Let's be honest

Even those who live in Polar Night
still "find the light."

Nothing says middle of August in northern Canada like a soon to mature sunflower. Why? 

The days are quickly becoming shorter here. In June we have close to 18 wonderful hours of daily sunlight, but in August? About 16. Near the end of September? Around 11. In December? A mere 7. But I'll take those seven and send good thoughts to the Canadians (and all northerners) who live north of the Arctic Circle.  

I don't mean to get ahead of myself, but if you live in the North, it's a bit like being a sunflower—everyday you notice, and you turn to the sun, with gratitude.  

Do you know the sunflower theory? It's a lovely story, unscientific, but warmhearted fiction. Young sunflowers do indeed turn east daily, seeking the sun (heliotropism), but the story tells that at night, sunflowers will turn to face each other, seeking the sun in a partner. Although a winning metaphor for how to find solace in each other during dark times, it is fiction. 

But finding the light in your (northern or elsewhere) surroundings (and friends) no matter the circumstances? Or blooming where you're planted? Let's be honest: those notions seem rooted in reason, wise, and like sunflowers, down-to-earth. 

Big

During our visit to Galway on Ireland's west coast, we encountered this 3-meter high "Seated Figure" along the Claddagh basin. It had just been installed as a preview for the city's annual arts festival, which we very much enjoyed during out 2023 trip to Galway. 

So who is this big, pensive man?

I have no idea, but if you're wondering, watch this short video about artist Sean Henry and his "Seated Figure." 

As an older white guy with a beard who favours darks colours who also happens to carry a satchel (ha yes, I admit that it's basically a murse), I felt a little too seen next to this dude. But as an art-guy who LOVES how this figure invites curiosity and toys with scale and perspective, I mostly felt giddy. 

This installation reminded me of the artwork of another sculptor: Saskatchewan-Canadian legend Joe Fafard. Renown for sculpting a multitude of multi-sized cows (there's a herd of them in Toronto) he also sculpted his friends and neighbours (farmers, waitresses, artists and teachers). 

Why do artists enjoy playing with scale? Why not? 

In particular, Fafard tells about a dream he once had where he had to confront a fearful figure but instead of escaping he stared the man down and the imposing figure shrunk smaller and smaller and smaller. It seems to me that in a way, artists can subdue, even master ideas by altering their size. 

Plus, similar to Sean Henry's art, I think Fafard invites us to reexamine the extraordinary ordinary and recognize that we average folks (and many other everyday things) might just be works of art too.

Small?

Irish writers? Extraordinary. 

C.S. Lewis...W.B. Yeats... James Joyce... Oscar Wilde...  Bram Stoker... Claire Keegan... Sinead O'Connor... Bono... Dolores O'Riordan... the Irish Rovers... Hozier...

Although Ireland has a relatively small population (about 5.3 million), the country, per capita, apparently produces the second-highest number of poets, writers, and songwriter-musicians (Iceland is number one). 

Why is this?

Clearly, Ireland has established systems for the arts to thrive, but it also speaks to the way the Irish value and elevate storytelling.

So when I saw this whiskey in Ireland, I chuckled, not entirely surprised by the cheeky name. Who hasn't drowned their tears in alcohol once or twice? But I also thought, oh yes, I know the struggle that is writing and communicating as I write and rewrite a lifetime of words like assembling Lego. Does this connect? What's missing? Is this forming something perceptible? Yet despite the struggle, writers gotta write, hoping to bring something into being—an idea, a release, a light in the dark? For creatives, tears (sad and happy) are inevitable. 

Today those tears continue to fall for another Irish singer-songwriter, Glen Hansard. In one of the many tributes occurring in Ireland and elsewhere, someone expressed his admiration for the artist this way: "he operated at the speed of love." Is there a better legacy (or sentence) than that? Tears indeed. 

Big

One last post about Northern Ireland. 

After some shopping in downtown Belfast, we were walking back to our accommodations when I noticed this statute. 

I thought, is that Frederick Douglass? 

I read his pivotal autobiography in 2024, but I had no idea he visited the UK and Ireland (summarized here in a short video). My favourite Douglass quote? "Once you learn to read, you will be forever free." 👏 

Later that day, I read that after his book was published in the US it became widely popular and a big seller all over the world, but it triggered the demented possibility that he could be recaputured and enslaved again. So, he toured Ireland giving lectures on prejudice and liberation—something the Irish certainly know a thing or two about, don't they? 

Douglass loved Ireland and felt "transformed" there, "I find myself not treated as a color, but as a man." Inspired to erect his likeness, the Irish obviously loved him too. His statue, the only one of Douglass outside of the US, is located near where he spoke in Belfast (1845-46) and depicts him gesturing as he speaks to his listeners. Thankfully, his words live on and thanks to the Irish appreciation for art, one can also see his passion for human rights. 

In-between

On the same day we toured the Giant's Causeway, we visited another hot-spot for those fortunate enough to experience Northern Ireland: the Dark Hedges. 

This tree-lined lane and the canopy it forms is captivating. The Hedges reminded me of Robert Frost's mysterious poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. Borrowing Frost's words, I definitely found these woods lovely, dark, and deep. 

Planted about 250 years ago, these spellbinding trees are situated in-between flat wide-open fields on both sides, so their roots, trunks, and branches rise into the sky as though they were painted into existence by artists like Emily Carr or Piet Mondrian, whose renderings of nature invoke awe. Yet I did not expect such a rural setting.  

So despite my wonder, the Saskatchewan-raised kid in me couldn't help but think of the farmers on both sides who likely reflect more on the blasted weather as they plant, fertilize, and harvest their crops month after month, likely unmoved, (perhaps stoic, detached, or even irritated) as hundreds and thousands of moved visitors excitedly walk in circles down the road next to their crops. I encountered one walker who was Face-timing her experience. 

My point? Tourism is anthropology too, isn't it? One person's curiosity is another's indifference. Let's be honest, we humans are downright fascinating creatures, arguably batty, but fascinating. 

Big

Do you know The Giant's Causeway myth? Here's the gist: we men can be big babies and who saves us? 

Yup, it's women—the women who (roll their eyes and still somehow or at least 59% of the time) love us. 

We spent an afternoon hiking throughout this uniquely scenic area along the north coast of Northern Ireland. Although we did not have time for the official visitor centre, we loved exploring this geological wonder. We also hiked to view "The Devil's Middle Finger" whose name reminds me of a favourite dad joke: dear middle finger, thank you for always sticking up for me. 😄

Afterwards, we ate the best scones with jam and clotted cream at The Nook, a pub nearby. I'd never had clotted cream before! 🤯 Dear friends, what is this dream fluff and why is it sooooooooooo good?! Hmm, maybe it's the 643 grams of fat in each dollop? Worth it. 

Big

No pun intended, but Belfast has many eye-catching murals, all of them invite curiosity. Inevitably, some are political, hearkening back to those historical conflicts between the loyalist Protestants and nationalist Catholics. Although I read the Belfast history book I bought there, I feel I have only skimmed the surface of The Troubles. 

But if you look closely at this particular Belfast mural, made in 2025, you'll see it reflects a smiling child holding an ice cream cone. To me, it feels playful and forward-looking, a warmhearted nod to the Irish children who have inherited this history and might paint Ireland anew. And (to me) it seems to pose a question: who's looking at whom? 

Entitled "The Ice Cream of My Eye," I think the artist, My Dog Sighs, wants us to think about the future. Some quick research reveals that his work is inspired by Banksy: he aims to use street art to engage every demographic, particularly those who never seek art at all, a most worthwhile pursuit, iyam. I still encounter people today who think art is not for them, but art is distinctly intended for everyone. Art is not for intellectuals; art is not supposed to be genteel—art is a human impulse.

Art can be created without any conscious agenda, and although it often feels personal and individual, it can also open space for bigger conversations (discussions that might not otherwise every happen). Moreover it can open a gate and unify diverse peoples. History reveals that sometimes words conquer us, divide us, fail us, but art is a language without words and whether it yells or whispers, sometimes it says it best of all.

Small

I've shared a few graffiti based travel posts, so I thought I'd do one more, but I'd describe this one as low controversy, high importance. 

Dear friends, although I'm a bit confused by this graffiti artist's phrasing, I say yes, go hug your Nan. (Believe me, I would if I could.)

After taking the ferry from Scotland to Belfast, Ireland, our first visit was to the Duke of York Pub, (apparently) a famous party spot in the Cathedral district. This is not why we chose to wander inside but I'm glad we did. They allow you to write on the walls! 

I might be the only person to ever describe a pub this way, but it reminded me of a time-travel version of my childhood school with the wooden desks (the ones I desperately wanted to write on), albeit with a lot more Guinness than Mrs. Pochipinski's classroom ever had. 😄

Guess who always has a pen with him? Hmm...so where did I leave my small mark? Well, friends of a certain age, some agist pylon wrote "old people are weird," so next to it I retaliated with a stern, "no we're not." Sorted that out, didn't I? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

In-between

Dear friends, don't judge Inverness by what Macbeth did there. I found no weird sisters nor "damned spots." 

The truth is that this small city is pleasingly walkable with pretty views along both sides of the swift-flowing River Ness, er wait...? What's forming those ripples in the water? 😉

Inverness folks were talkative, kind, and considerate and perhaps similar to those in Edinburgh, a tad pissed off by the world. How so? Somewhere in-between the Griege Street suspension bridge (iyam a bit-too-bouncy of a pedestrian bridge, built in 1880) and the bustling Victorian Market, we encountered more Scottish graffiti. Local reviews were reportedly as follows: 1/10 for artistry 😂 and 9/10 for message.✊

Say, just how much does it cost to fund a war? Sigh.🤦

Small?

Eejit 1, 2 & 3 (me)

Our first full day in Edinburgh was a sunny Saturday in June, so we intended to take full advantage but we had no idea how our plans would unfold that day, my favourite in this favourite city.

In the morning we threaded our way through the city to (literally) a fairytale storybook location: Dean Village. This sublime and peaceful ancient community (12th century) in a lush green valley in New Town is impossibly charming. 

After exploring quietly (people live there), we continued along a tree-shrouded walking path next to the river Leith where we observed a mother duck teaching her ducklings to repeatedly swim into the waterfalls' current, then float backward and then push into the current again—vital life-lessons for us all these days. 

Soon we discovered a rickety rope swing over the river. I watched while each of my other three traveling companions, er eejits, temporarily suspended their frontal lobes and yoga-contortioned themselves onto said swing, while nearby I pondered, is 911 a thing in Scotland? 

Unscathed, we continued until we happened upon the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art where the first thing we saw was a large sign on the grounds declaring, THERE WILL BE NO MIRACLES HERE. Insert thinking face emoji here. Later, while navigating our way back to public transport, I thoroughly contemplated that sign. Is it irony? A quotation? Political protest? A reference to something historical? And what exactly constitutes a miracle...and who decides? Hmm. 

My conclusion? Scots artists are quite masterful at "making the masses muse," or at least this mass, ha. (Read more about the artist here, if you're interested). 

Soon we were on a bus to Edinburgh Castle (which we visited during our first trip to Scotland), so we grabbed lunch from street vendors in Grassmarket, aka where I first fell in love with fennel-seed sausage rolls. (They are a small but substantial miracle, ha.) 

We began to notice then that the crowds were quickly increasing along the Royal Mile... and suddenly we found ourselves in the middle of Edinburgh's pride parade! Middle might be a misnomer but with 40000+ people flooding everywhere, the sidewalks mostly disappeared. It was quite moving to witness and cheer on so many people singing and drumming and joyfully celebrating the freedom to be themselves.  

We continued down the street until we found a close that happens to have the same name as our oldest granddaughter, M, so we took a selfie, and then walked to the base of Arthur's Seat (elevation 251 meters/823 feet), an extinct volcano next to the city. On our first trip to Edinburgh, my spouse and I climbed the Holyrood side, an easy hike, but this time we climbed the city side, much steeper. 

Certainly by western Canadian standards, Arthur's Seat is no (Alberta Rocky) mountain, but you know that feeling when you've accomplished something challenging? Maybe like 1 part relief, 1 part pride, and 8 parts invigoration. Something like that. 

Did our sunny June Saturday in Scotland contain any miracles? I don't know for sure, but I do like that saying, "if life is a series of small miracles—notice them." 

In-between

On to Scotland. Six of my eight great-grandparents emigrated from this Land o' Cakes. I adore this country. 💓

From London we took the train north to Edinburgh and explored our neighbourhood. If you've visited, you know about the closes that enable pedestrians to move in-between locations along the Royal Mile in Old Town. One particular close featured (in my opinion) some very Scots graffiti, ha. 

This was my second visit to Scotland, so it would be stupid to claim I'm qualified to be an astute observer of Scottish folks. But my memories of my maternal great-grandparents and my travel experience suggests to me that Scots are typically witty, genuine, and straightforward, hence the succinct message here, lol, one I read with an exasperated tone. 

It's a sound message for the world, isn't it? Later, during a whisky tasting, a comedian phrased it another way for us tourists: "don't be a bawbag." 😄 Good advice. (Maybe don't google that, ha.)

Big

Watch a video
about "Babel."

We enjoyed several London experiences. This was my second trip, so I've done many of the tours: Tower Bridge, the Thames boat tour, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, Shakespeare's Globe, the Tower of London....

But this time, two art installations stood out to me. 

Firstly, I appreciated the National Covid Memorial Wall. Adorned with hand-painted hearts and an open invitation to write the name of a lost loved-one, it is maintained by volunteers. What are other countries doing to commemorate the 7 million+ people who died during the pandemic? 

Secondly, I loved the Tate Modern Art Museum. Mostly free, it features artworks by Matisse, Dali, Picasso, Warhol, Lichtenstein, but the one that completely captured my attention was "Babel" by Cildo Meireles. 

Entering the room from around the corner, the 8 meter behemoth at first seems like any other antiquated busted tower, inviting you to look up, but then you notice the materials—stacks of radios arranged upward from large to smaller, old to newer technology, and then you discover these radios are ON, tuned to different stations!

If you know the biblical story of the Tower of Babel, its meaning is obvious and then you slowly realize it is simultaneously meaningless as it floods the room with quiet and scratchy radio nonsense—discordant sounds, and voices, and languages from throughout the world. In other words, it's trippy and clever. Although constructed in 2001, it's also very 2020s.

Dear friends, art sometimes uses technology to ask us humans big questions: are we truly so advanced if we still can't understand each other? 

Small

I took this photo somewhere in London. Who am I to say, but "loo" really is the most charming name for what we Canadians typically refer to as the bathroom (or the washroom, the toilet, the can, the throne, the shitter, ha). 

As tourists, it's also quite a relief to find the loo, a small victory while navigating unfamiliar places. 

Various language historians hypothesize that "loo" is a diminutive form of words like "lookie-loo" and "gardyloo," which I've blogged about in the past. So I love the notion that a loo is not just a great human leveler, but also an invitation to pay attention. 

We all know modern life is endlessly distracting, competing for our attention, highlighting and monetizing clicks and likes and other nonsense that essentially interferes with the personal agency we once took for granted: living, being, discovering, experiencing, understanding, enjoying, appreciating.... 

Looking with intent is becoming a bit of a lost art. Dear friends, isn't the point of sightseeing to open and expand your mind? To be inspired and to learn? To cherish and be astonished? To have a good look at the world? To shake loose old thinking? To evolve?