Jon Udell, whose words I’ve been reading for years, back to his days at BYTE, writes about his personal connection to USAID:

The great adventure of my birth family was the fifteen months we lived in New Delhi, from June of 1961, on a USAID-sponsored educational mission. So the destruction of USAID feels personal. I’m only now realizing that we were there at the very beginning of USAID, during what Jackie Kennedy later mythologized as the Camelot era. On a tour of India, at a meet-and-greet in New Delhi, she appears in this family photo.

We must have been at the embassy, she’s surrounded by Americans. You can see a few South Asian faces in the background. The young boy at the center of the photo, gazing up at the queen of Camelot, is five-year-old me.

It could have been a Life Magazine cover: “A vision in white, Jackie represents America’s commitment to be of service to the world.” As corny as that sounds, though, the commitment was real. Our nation upheld it for sixty years and then, a few months ago, fed it to the wood chipper and set in motion a Holocaust-scale massacre.

See also Hundreds of Thousands Will Die, an interview of Atul Gawande by The New Yorker editor David Remnick, which finishes:

But this is not just an event. This is not just something that happened. This is a process, and its absence will make things worse and worse and have repercussions, including the loss of many, many, maybe countless, lives. Is it irreparable? Is this damage done and done forever?

This damage has created effects that will be forever. Let’s say they turned everything back on again, and said, “Whoops, I’m sorry.” I had a discussion with a minister of health just today, and he said, “I’ve never been treated so much like a second-class human being.” He was so grateful for what America did. “And for decades, America was there. I never imagined America could be indifferent, could simply abandon people in the midst of treatments, in the midst of clinical trials, in the midst of partnership—and not even talk to me, not even have a discussion so that we could plan together: O.K., you are going to have big cuts to make. We will work together and figure out how to solve it.”

That’s not what happened. He will never trust the U.S. again. We are entering a different state of relations. We are seeing lots of other countries stand up around the world—our friends, Canada, Mexico. But African countries, too, Europe. Everybody’s taking on the lesson that America cannot be trusted. That has enormous costs.

It’s tragic and outrageous, no?

That is beautifully put. What I say is—I’m a little stronger. It’s shameful and evil.

Ira Tries Stand-up Comedy (For Real), wherein Ira gets stand-up advice from Mike Birbilgia, is pure joy to listen to.

Of all the physical relationships I’ve had in my life, among the most intimate is the one I have with my Golding Jobber № 8 letterpress. When I’m running the press, we are dancing, my rhythm matching its rhythm, making something beautiful together. On a good day, when we’re working well together, there is no better feeling.

The Jobber is, if not exactly inanimate, at least very predictable, always turning at the same speed, meeting me in the same spaces. If there is a dance partner that needs to bob and weave, it’s me, only me.

Of course I have a much deeper—and human—relationship with Lisa. 

While “on a good day, when we’re working well together, there is no better feeling,” can also be said of us, our shared humanity means that we’re both bobbing, both weaving, listening, responding, feeling, sensing, all the time. It’s a dance that’s alive, and wild, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

There’s something poignant, in light of all this, that my birthday gift from Lisa was this stunning relief print of the selfsame Golding Jobber:

To produce the print meant that Lisa had to become intimate with the geography of the press; not a dance, like mine, but a portrait-sitting that lasted for days.

The final print itself doesn’t do justice to the painstaking work that went into creating it: carving into a linoleum block, printing, carving more, printing, over multiple layers.

It’s only now, a month after I received the gift, after the enormity of the love, and sheer effort, behind the gift has sunk in, that I can sink into feeling the details of the print, and truly feel that it is, indeed, an intimate portrait of my longtime dance partner.

–––

There is something that happens sometimes in the print shop after the job is done, but the shop not yet cleaned up: you can end up with surplus creativity hanging in the air.

Lisa and I both know the feeling; it’s when some of the most lively things can happen.

One such instance, for me, came in 2014, when the printing of pieces for Brenda Whiteway’s Confederation Country Cabinet was completed. I had the words of Island poet Frank Ledwell still ringing in my ears, having just set and printed his poem Charlottetown Conference. 

I spent an extra hour in the shop and printed a broadside of a single line:

The piece remains among my favourites, in part because, rather than being the result of a careful and deliberate plan, it was conceived and born in the blink of an eye, in the “done” time.

Lisa’s Peter’s Press piece afforded her a similar gift, an edition-following-the-edition, she’s titled &Colour.

The notion arose from a desire to see the original rendered in different colours (the original having been printed in combinations of white, silver, blue, and black).

She started with four: Hot Pink, Lime Green, Turquoise, and Pyrrolle Orange.

After some additional carving, she overprinted a different set of four colours—Prussian Blue, Hansa Yellow, Crimson Red, and Quinacridone Magenta—to produce 16 unique combinations:

The effect is striking, and the piece becomes something else again, as a collection of 16, each member of which plays off the other.

A month ago we gave our friend Jessica Fritz a tour of the print shop while we were producing the colourful edition of the prints (her handiwork is infused into the Turquoise layer); from that experience came an offer to exhibit the entire edition on the walls of the Black & White in St. Peters Bay, the café she co-owns. 

Which is how Lisa and I found ourselves, yesterday, hammer and nails and measuring tape in hand, carefully hanging 16 framed prints on a large wall at the back of the café.

Seen mounted together as a framed edition, the prints truly are “something else again,” rooted in Lisa’s original design, but, with the colourful combinations, also a study in colour. 

I love it.

It’s a special bonus round for what was already as heartfelt a birthday gift as I can imagine receiving.

(It also happens to be the first public exhibition of Lisa’s work as a printmaker!)

You can see &Colour—and the original print—at the Black & White Café and Bistro, 5549 St. Peters Road, St. Peters Bay, from now through summer.

I first became aware of the Sweden city of Göteborg (believe me, you want to pronounce it in the lyrical Swedish, rather than in the mealy English Gothenburg) when I met Olle 20 years ago (!), and learned it’s his home-city. 

So, there’s one great thing that came outta Göteborg.

Here are some more.

Earlier this year, at a family pizza supper at Lisa’s aunt and uncle’s place, we were having a chat with her cousin A. about what she was watching on TV.

“Oh, Married At First Sight: Australia,” she exclaimed with infectious enthusiasm (of the sort that she is uniquely capable of).

Of course we had to seek it out.

“We’ll just watch one episode, just to see what she’s on about,” Lisa and I agreed.

That didn’t work out. 

We got hooked.

While we were able to find most episodes on YouTube, using Dailymotion and sketchy grey sites when that didn’t work, eventually we realized that we needed a more reliable way to stream (there were, after all, multiple episodes every week).

A., who has her own Göteborg stories to share, suggested we use a VPN to pose as Australians and watch it directly from the source. 

She pointed us to Mullvad.

Which is made in Göteborg. 

From their website:

A free and open society is a society where people have the right to privacy. That’s why we fight for a free internet.

Free from mass surveillance and censorship. Free from personal data collection and business models where your online behavior is treated as commodity. Free from authorities mass monitoring entire populations. Free from big tech and data brokers mapping your life.

I signed up. I even paid with Bitcoin (residue from $20 I put into an ATM in Saskatoon a decade ago). Set things up on my phone. Set myself up in Sydney. Signed up for a Nine network account. And streamed away. (Ryan! Jacqui!).

So there’s another great thing outta Göteborg.

I always thought myself fully immune to Internet advertising. Indeed, I don’t see most of it, running my browsers with ad blockers turned up to 11. 

But Instagram (of course) quickly figured me out, and started promoting me sneakers. As it learned more about me, it knew not just any sneaker would do: I needed European sneakers. Preferably ones with a light carbon footprint.

Which led me to Icebug. 

From its Owners’ Directives:

While most private companies put the shareholders’ interest solidly first – Icebug choose to highlight Nature, Society, Customers, Employees, Suppliers and People involved in the supply chain. Of course, the shareholders have an important stake, but since Icebug’s business has great impact on so many other groups, all those interests are balanced. With a clear priority: Nature and Society are Icebug’s most important stakeholders.

The vision for Icebug is to be a changemaker for a society where people can thrive on a planet in balance.

This is our North Star on the horizon. It is a moral obligation to guide us in our daily work and our view of what the World needs.

I could get behind that. And I loved the look of their shoes.

Especially the Eide ReWool Biosole.

So I ordered a pair (with regular cash, not Bitcoin), and they arrived from the Icebug Canadian warehouse this morning. 

I am wearing them as I type. 

I love them.

Where is Icebug based? 

In Göteborg of course.

An essential step towards creating this was taken in 2016 when we moved from downtown Gothenburg to the old factories in Jonsered. We work next to a nature reserve, only 11 minutes by commuter train from Gothenburg Central Station.

Our office is where creativity and well-being are given space and time. We have a yoga studio, changing rooms with shower and sauna, and miles and miles of forest, trails, and lakes. We also have flexible working hours and a very generous wellness allowance. We are alone in Sweden (as far as we know?) with three hours of mandatory weekly exercise during work hours. But don’t worry! There is no pressure or requirement for performance. Fresh air and a little movement in your chosen form always make you better and more alert.

Otherwise? We light a fire in our fireplace, argue about which coffee we should have, play table tennis, run, walk, eat a lot of snacks - and work hard but smart. Since 2018, our work has been conducted according to an Icebug version of the Scrum model. Cross-functional teams work together. Agile and dynamic, always focusing on the highest possible value for Icebug.

Icebug is a privately owned company where it’s never far between people or roles. If someone in our customer service needs to know something about a specific shoe model, they can walk a few meters to the person who designed the shoe and ask.

Forget about the shoes: if I was looking for work, I’d signup right now.

Another great thing outta Göteborg.

I’m keeping my eyes out for more.

I haven’t worn a watch in 40 years, and I’ve no inclination to start. But the Pebble watch has always intrigued me, as has its recent rebirth.

I’m especially impressed by the degree to which the rebirth is being done out in the open, in particular the video series, Tick Tock, by founder Eric Migicovsky (see also Naming things is hard, by my friend Steven).

A comic about yoga, sketched this morning at The Cork & Cast, and finished at the Charlottetown Library.

Here’s a transcription:

First Page

My Auntie Fran was the first person I ever knew who did yoga. She was dogged by back pain and hoped it might help.

My scientist father thought yoga was loopy and a “woo-woo” distraction.

DID YOGA HELP HER? I HAVE NO IDEA.

But what stuck in my mind: yoga = WEIRD

When Auntie Fran took her own life when I was a teenager, it only served to cement “stay away from any of that,” deep inside me.

AND SO I STAYED AWAY (far, far away)

UNTIL 2018 when, feeling anxious and unsettled almost all the time, I emailed my friend Ian, who I’d seen heading to yoga in a nearby church every Thursday morning.

“Tell me about yoga,” I asked. AND HE TOLD ME!
Ian is a professional explainer, and he wrote me a 500-word missive on the value of yoga in his life. I WAS SOLD!! And so…

Second Page

I did absolutely NOTHING.

2019 → 2020 → 2021 → (6 years passed) → 2022 →
(still nothing) 2023 → 2024 → 2025 → until…

…this spring, Lisa started going to Ian’s Thursday morning class. She loved it. She came home (literally) SINGING. ♪♬

She invited me to join the class… (oh my…)

NO WAY!!

I rejected the idea out of hand.
Lisa felt shut down.
We got into an argument.

I came up with all manner of practical reasons why I couldn’t join the class. Scheduling conflicts. Interference with my workouts. “Honing in” on Lisa.

— AND. THEN. I. SAT. WITH. MY. FEELINGS. —

AND I realized that all my ‘reasons’ were rooted in a deeply-held childhood story. So I called bullshit on myself. I re-read Ian’s words. I took Lisa’s to heart…

AND I SIGNED UP FOR YOGA!

Third Page

Today was week number 4!

And…

YOGA IS WEIRD

But that turns out to be okay.

Every Thursday morning at 9:00 I join about 20 women, plus Ian, in the Trinity United basement for 90 minutes, led by Judith (who is sincere, welcoming, and funny).

I AM OKAY. IT’S OKAY. 

It’s okay. And confusing. And fun. And energizing. And connecting. It helps in all the ways Ian and Lisa predicted it would.

OM

The moral of the story? Listen to your friends. Listen to your love. Trust. Realize trauma for what it is.
Call bullshit. Lean in. Leap in. It will be (better than) OK.

A comic about my experience last week getting a Criminal Record Check:

I signed up to volunteer for “Cycling Without Age”, a project of Bike Friendly Communities to pair “pilots” to cycling a tri-shaw for those who cannot cycle otherwise.

To volunteer requires a “Criminal Record Check” from the police dept. I submitted mine…

A few days later:

“Hello?”

“Is this Peter?”

“Yes!”

“I’m calling from the police…”

The police called and asked if I’d ever been fingerprinted for a “Criminal Record Check” before. I HAD BEEN ! Three years ago to volunteer at a school fundraiser.

They needed to see my fingerprints. Why? Because there is a criminal who shares my EXACT DATE OF BIRTH! “People can change their name, but not their birthday,” he said. I showed them. I’m good to go.
 

From Karine Polwart:

My kids are half Canadian. Their dad grew up in Cape Breton in Nova Scotia on the maritime east coast. Indeed, he’s just been there celebrating the 80th birthday of his mum, my kids’ remarkable Grandma, Joella Foulds. 

This by way of introduction to her version of When I First Came to Caledonia, which is lovely.

Meanwhile, Alan Doyle has released his version of Joel Plaskett’s Hey Moon. This served both to redeem, or perhaps to reanimate, Alan Doyle in my heart, and to take another look at Joel Plaskett, heretofore dumped in a file drawer labelled “the one who isn’t David Myles.”

(This all came about because of the recent release of Songs From The Gang — A Celebration of Joel Plaskett, which has been on frequent rotation in the household, as Plaskett is much esteemed by Lisa).

(See also Sloan’s Chris Murphy is one of 22 artists celebrating Joel Plaskett with a special musical tribute, from CBC Q, which is a good introduction to both Plaskett and Sloan).

Also new is Bitter Ender, from Mary Chapin Carpenter’s upcoming album:

Pride is a curse but no pride is worse
And lately that’s just what it is
Whatever we’re told, everything gets old
Nothing changes it’s the same old shit

(Carpenter, you may recall, just to take this full circle, released an album with Polwart earlier this year).

Finally, new last month a new album, What It Takes, from May Erlewine. My favourite track so far is Forgot Myself.

(Erlewine’s arresting performance of Wild from 2017 helped me keep my emotional head above water through the dark times).

Friend of the blog Martin Rutte let me know about Moe’s Latte, a new coffee shop around the corner from us on Kent Street. It’s a Lilliputian place, with half a dozen stools, serving coffee and pastries, along with some savoury things. The vibe is chill, with a Phoebe Bridgers-forward soundtrack on the PA.

It’s nice to know there is still entrepreneurial energy in the Charlottetown coffee scene, and it’s nice to see low road spaces in downtown-adjacent Charlottetown filling out.

The front counter turns out to be an excellent place to sketch Central Christian Church across the street, which turns out to be architecturally more interesting than I’d ever paid attention to:

My friend Dave tells the great story of how he started at the CBC. He begins:

Have I told you the story of how I got into CBC? It’s ridiculous.

I was a CBC Radio listener in my late teens and early 20s. In June of 2000, I was listening to our local morning show host … introduce a contest they were running for Canada Day. He asked listeners to write a parody of a famous Canadian song. The best would win two first class train tickets to Ottawa for Canada Day, VIP passes to all the shows on Parliament Hill, and three nights stay at a hotel downtown.

Like many great “how I ended up” stories, it’s a topsy-turvy path of bravery, skill, and creating the necessary preconditions for luck.

I’ve had a similar journey.

If my mother’s college friend Heather hadn’t mentioned to me that a Victoria College professor was looking for volunteers to help enter Greek texts into a database?

If my high school biology teacher hadn’t taken us on a field trip to the Vertebrate Palaeontology lab at the Royal Ontario Museum, where they happened to need a FORTRAN programmer?

If my former Trent University professor hadn’t given me an office with a terminal that let me use the World Wide Web months after it was released?

If I hadn’t come across a copy of The Guardian in a Toronto library and found an ad for a job on PEI?

Every twisty turn was a doorway.

Every twisty turn involved help from others, enormous privilege, luck.

(My own story of “getting into the CBC”:  through Marg Meikle, I met Ann Thurlow. Ann took care of the rest.)