Archive

Hi folks!

Yesterday afternoon featured one of the fiercest storms I’ve seen in Ottawa for a while. The water running down the street was so voluminous it leapt the curb, the sky so dark it felt like nighttime in the middle of the afternoon. Walking around, the damage is apparent: trees down across the city, whole neighbourhoods still without power, and countless knock-on effects. This, coupled with the unseasonable temperatures the last few weeks, has me thinking yet again about an era of climate unpredictability—adapting to uncertainty seems to remain, as ever, a key skill to learn.

Drained from the weather, but hanging in! Will be brief today, as family’s visiting and we’re off to see some friends.

• Building from last week’s issue, which included a few links on transportation on logistics, here’s Rachel Premack on the follies of the shipping industry, in which bigger seemed to be better until the economics became too unwieldy. (I also enjoyed Premack’s article on truck inspections—announcing inspections may actually increase compliance. I love observations like this that don’t quite make sense at first glance, but reveal their logic once slightly peeled apart.)
• I like the different angles in this story profiling a new fish supply business introducing Great Lakes fish to commercial and home kitchens. From Indigenous food sovereignty to novel ways of preparing and sourcing fish to pushing back on overly industrial food supply chains—fascinating!

Good afternoon!

While I’ve plenty to share, I’ve been slow today to write—something about the weather, maybe, the heat leaching energy, even while I chill in relative air-conditioned comfort. I’m conscious of falling into old habits, now amplified by my access to A/C, of staying inside and avoiding physical activity—which, of course, just makes me depresso and stresso, leading me to dislike the heat ever more. Ah, what a cycle.

Anywho, though, things are pretty good, really, so let’s get into it.

It’s a beautiful spring day in Ottawa—even emphasized with italics, “beautiful” doesn’t quote cut it, which, I suppose, is why we have poetry. Life, in other words, could be much worse.

On the other hand, spring heralds the return of heat, with all its pleasures and stresses. Voyaging out on the bike has been a highlight of the season so far; I’m hoping for as gradual a start to summer as we had for the spring, to keep those rides as cool and comfortable as possible.

Evenings are stretching on, filling each day with possibility—let’s make the most of the days, shall we?

Good morning!

It’s May. Wow, eh?

This time last year, leaves were already out on the trees, and spring flowers were merrily on display. We’re not quite there yet this year, but I’ll take today’s sun and blue skies as a good sign that we’re well on our way.

Hi there,

I’m perched on the ladder of a tree fort in my parents’ back yard, here in Waterloo, soaking up some sunshine, fresh air, and unseasonably warm April temperatures. The birdsong is happy and so am I.

Being a public servant, I tend to believe that the state can be a force for good in people’s lives, visibly and invisibly. This belief is coupled with an awareness—a sometimes painful one—that the state can also be a force of, well, not-good—whether acting in harmful ways or not acting in the face of harm.

This intro is, as with so many times over the last two years, a reflection on the state response to COVID.

Hi there!

I’m experiencing heavy time dilation this week—my perception of days and hours is way out of whack with what the clock says. But I’m not complaining! It’s neat to experience things at a different pace.

I have been feeling particularly gloomy about the state of the future. Democracies seem to be on the ebb, struggling to withstand the strength of populism (including its southern theocratic flavour), our societal response to pandemic inequities seems to have returned to the usual shrug, and climate change remains an existential threat.

And I think, at many times, I will still feel that way.

T called me to the window yesterday, to see a heron flying lazily over downtown. There are many signs of spring, but I always take great, excited joy in this one: the great blue heron, beating its slow approach to warmer days. Welcome, friend—I hope you find both peace and bounty.

As we move into April, cognitive dissonance around the pandemic feels ever higher. Catching the virus is inevitable, some say, or an acceptable tradeoff for “getting back to normal”. I struggle to see how catching a virus with potentially significant long-term effects on the cardiovascular system and the brain is “worth it”, even as I do very much want to be more out and about—and understand that I may well catch it! I also don’t see how we can “evaluate our own risk” or “decide on our comfort levels” when testing and reporting have been scaled back, with public health authorities at all levels seemingly cowed into silence and inaction.

I’d be less upset if there was even acknowledgement of what’s happening, with practical advice tailored to changing conditions—Ramadan, Easter, and spring mean April will likely see elevated levels of social contact, but I’m hearing little to no updated public health messaging to reflect this. Maybe it’s there, but I’m just not getting it. Sigh.

It also seems that governments are overlooking meaningful changes that’d help not only with COVID, but with all airborne viruses, like higher quality ventilation standards and in-room filters for older buildings. A right to clean(er?) inside air seems like a huge win, with the related benefits to general health worth the cost. Nor is it a new idea—see the campaigns against public smoking as an example. But is there space in our political discourse for new rights? I’m not so sure. (Must resist the defeatist urge! Better worlds are possible, worth striving for!)

Good afternoon!

The city put out street sweeping notices this morning, a sure sign of spring in Ottawa. I gathered numerous links this week—thanks in part to some tab cleaning—so let’s get into it:

• The cover story (ish—it was featured on the cover) in yesterday’s Globe and Mail is a fairly in-depth discussion of Canadian healthcare inefficiency—that is, directing existing money toward providing better care. I particularly liked the call-out that Canada does not have a healthcare system, but public health insurance—with patchy coverage at that. (I didn’t like the logically flawed line that “[COVID-19] restrictions were needed to protect hospitals, even though Canada’s per capita hospitalization rates have mostly been lower than those in Britain, the United States and France”, but I’ll leave that criticism as-is.) Thinking about structural solutions, yes!
• Two more interesting pieces on economics and public finances (can’t believe I’m writing those words): one, on the effects of inflation on higher education student loans; two, on who actually pays for roads (gas taxes are but a small part of the story—non-drivers actually subsidize drivers’ road use!). (The latter led me to CAA’s driving costs calculator, which seems to me a helpful input for reckoning about car ownership when budgeting.)
• Some good Twitter threads this week (threads aren’t really a medium, but also they’re kind of a medium?):
  • Wells Lucas Santo on why Fahrenheit is probably better than Celsius for day-to-day purposes (in temperate climates, that is)
  • Luke Simcoe on public sector salary disclosure (the sunshine list!) and how journalists cover power
  • Deb Chachra on “random infrastructure and infrastructure-adjacent tidbits”
• In a concerning turn for freedom of information, a town in New Jersey sued a woman for filing about two records requests a month, saying they were “voluminous” and “burdensome”. An absolute waste of public funds to try to shut down attempts to access information like this.
• Researchers investigated modern-day buildings in Florence, finding remnants of San Pier Maggiore, a church deconstructed in the late 1700s—fascinating to see how its architectural details persist today, hundreds of years later, in the buildings that grew to replace it.

In non-web reading, I started Human Acts by Han Kang, for a book club with friends. It’s a good illustration of why we ought to be hesitant to call in the military for domestic operations—though the police aren’t really a better option. Sigh. Violence solves nothing. On a more optimistic note, the book’s also a good illustration of the importance of community—of stepping up to help others. Thank goodness for that.

Good morning!

I was up late playing Cities: Skylines last night (no regrets), but I bounced back with a triple espresso to start my day—it’s hard to predict where the afternoon will take my energy, though, so I’ll write to you quickly now and hope for the best.

Some links for you today:

• Amil Niazi on ambition has left me thinking all week: ‘There’s an illusion with work that everything you give up now, all the stolen time commuting, working overtime, checking your email and Slack notifications after hours, will somehow earn you freedom and capital in your later years. But the farce of “work hard now, play later” has been exposed for millennials and Gen-Zers; most of us will be working until we die. It’s hard to maintain your ambition in the face of that reality.’ (I’ve never considered myself ambitious—this is a great articulation of my more recent reasons why not.)
• Despite our economic obsession with software and the like, the built environment remains central to our lives. A few interesting pieces on that topic, with a dash of disaster response thrown in (since it’s becoming increasingly central):
  • Flood response and the significance of insurance in shaping our future behaviour
  • Modifying building codes to account for minimizing the effects of disasters
  • Accounting for new technologies and techniques in firefighting to enable more economical medium density housing
• This story about an Alberta MLA confirming and reporting a security vulnerability, only to have to resign from caucus and face investigation by the police, is a great example of why governments need good vulnerability disclosure policies—and why those policies have to sit within a broader legal framework affording protection for ethically identifying vulnerabilities. (It’s important to consider who gets investigated for such “cybercrime”, in the absence of such a framework…)
• I spent some time analysing my walk data, visualizing my range in Ottawa in 2020, 2021, and thus far in 2022. It’s already prompting me to change up where I go for today’s walk!
• With Wellington closed to traffic (kinda), proposals swirl for how Ottawa’s parliamentary precinct might be redesigned or reimagined. For those seeking grand boulevards, I’m reminded of a Paul Wells column from a few years ago, putting into context why other cities have such grand designs—and why it’s totally okay that Ottawa doesn’t.

It’s here—we’ve gone from “springlike” to “spring”, at least officially. There’s still snow on the ground, and ice in the rivers, but it’s melting quickly. Indeed, on this morning’s walk I saw the ice breaker that’s a sure sign of spring in Ottawa. (It’s not quite an icebreaking hovercraft, but it’s neat nonetheless.) T and I both waved at some geese and said, “welcome back!” as we sat in the park the other day, glad to hear the birds making their return.

In too many ways, it feels like last year’s newsletter from around this time still holds up:

Yesterday was the first day of spring. I woke relatively early, layered up (these edge weeks are so odd—chilly mornings, “hot” afternoons), and ventured out, binoculars in hand. The birds are (coming) back, and I was glad to bear witness.

…

It feels like we’re racing ahead. Toward, on the one hand, as I wrote last week, a third wave here in Ontario. Toward, on the other, genuinely brighter days ahead. (I mean, the days will lengthen for a few months, so I suppose that’s not merely a metaphorical statement.)

With the lifting of mask mandates, erosion of local control, and “stealth Omicron”, it all feels like a “we’ve been here before” kind of situation. But never have folks been so on their own, particularly those at higher risk from the virus. Not to mention the pretty widespread, and poorly understood, risk of long COVID. Sigh. I have few words to share at this point—just a knowing nod of appreciation to those still doing their part to protect their community.

(A sombre reflection on the current moment. I invite you to skip ahead to the end for two beautiful links, if that’d do you best.)

Two years ago, with COVID clearly upon us here in Canada, I began thinking, “okay, let’s prepare for about two years of waves hands this.” Two years, based on some cursory reading on past pandemics, and early glimpses at our approach, felt about right: long enough to set expectations realistically (i.e., not to feel like it’d be over in a few weeks, but to be pleasantly surprised if it were), but short enough to not lose hope entirely.

What I didn’t expect at the time—though wouldn’t have been surprised by after a year or so of this—was to see governments simply… giving up, after those two years. As if wishful thinking and a rejection of evidence (COVID is airborne! masks work incredibly well! surface cleaning is only marginally useful against COVID!) would bend a virus to a desired timetable.

Alas, that damned virus is still here. While there’s some progress toward understanding long COVID and its risk factors (“some” is doing a lot, there), it’s largely absent from high-level government communications on the subject, or high-profile plans. Leaders have given up on protecting the community at large (which means protecting the most vulnerable within it, as a community is nothing but its people), favouring instead a rhetoric of personal responsibility (“wear your mask if you want to”, “if you’re not yet comfortable…”) whose logic is weak, to say the least, in the face of a virus transmitted by air (air being perhaps the quintessential common resource).

Good afternoon!

It was a tough week. And I was barely reading the news.

It feels weird to have a tough week when the world is on fire (literally, metaphorically, literally again). Then again, it’s important to remember how our context—the world is on fire!—affects how we proceed and respond to our own events. Things that’d be manageable during a “normal” week (but what’s normal anymore) will be that much harder, sometimes to the point of being overwhelming, during a hard week.

I’m doing better now. I was reminded, through the last week, of the importance of a few things:

Hi there. It’s been quite a week, eh?

The overwhelming story, in print and online, has been Ukraine. “Overwhelming” applies, in every sense: it is overpowering, irresistible, crowding out most any other story.

We are confronted with war. And confronted with it visually, anecdotally, personally. “Thanks” to technological advancements in the hundred or so years since war artists depicted the First World War, imagery providing a sober dose of reality is so easily at our fingertips. We can watch war in real-time, as we’ve been able to since satellite broadcasts became practical, but it’s now more often than not through the lens and mouth of people on the ground, as with the popular uprisings in the Arab world since 2010. And it seems conventional media are in shock, showing their racism overtly instead of covertly.

But, because Russia is involved, disinformation is rampant. It is hard to know what to trust of what we see online. Real-time exposure from afar can also breed an immobilizing anxiety. There is a privilege to slow news, to turning off or restricting access to social media, to conflict being elsewhere and thus something to be consumed instead of something happening to us. As with any privilege, it can be used to effective ends, by redirecting that anxious energy toward pressuring politicians, toward supporting Ukraine and its people. I took a break from doomscrolling to spend some time this afternoon outside the Russian embassy, demonstrating for freedom in the right way.

Hello!

It’s been (yet another) interesting week in Ottawa. A few reflections, for posterity:

• Over the last few days, downtown Ottawa has looked very different. The view outside my window became one of police and tow trucks, instead of flag-waving occupiers.
  • Though police seem to have been successful in clearing out the downtown core, I don’t really believe in policing as a long-term solution to any of this. For one, as I expand on below, police action will likely serve only to victimize and radicalize movement participants. Now, I don’t think the solution here, as some politicians seem to suggest, would have been to go and negotiate with the occupiers. The movement was too incoherent in its demands, and the ones that did surface—abolish all mandates, replace the democratically elected government—were too extreme, too incredible to warrant the legitimacy that negotiation would offer.
  • But I also believe that policing—and its implication of force, of violence—simply can’t be the go-to solution for society. It causes more harm than good. Consider, as an alternative, the vision presented in the Choosing Real Safety declaration. And such a vision isn’t mere wishful thinking—look only at the success of the “Battle of Billings Bridge” last weekend to see what community organizing can do.
• While the week unfolded, municipal politics proceeded in a business-as-usual fashion—that is to say, mayor Watson continued to exercise poor judgement and play his cruel politics.
  • Late last weekend, Watson cut a backroom deal with the occupier organizers, to concentrate the trucks downtown (without, of course, consulting downtown councillors, or anyone, really).
  • Then, Watson and allied councillors orchestrated an odious overthrow of the police board, during a meeting in which councillor McKenney attended from ground zero of the occupation, to show to fellow (mostly unsympathetic) councillors just what conditions were like.
  • Councillor Meehan summarized well the shenanigans Watson wrought, the petty politics he’s long practiced.
• Even as trucks are cleared from downtown, this doesn’t end.
  • This moment will likely go down as one of radicalization and emboldening for far-right populism in Canada: while the “protest” was ostensibly related to COVID-19 protections, like vaccination and mask mandates, its main organizers have long been involved in hateful movements, and its methods—terrorizing the people of downtown Ottawa for weeks on end—were anything but peaceful. Not to mention the on-again-off-again support from even some mainstream parties and politicians. These positions aren’t going away.
  • This will serve as a test, to show how far white supremacy can go without being challenged (about three weeks seems to be the measure), and as a flashpoint. And now that police finally did intervene, this movement can victimize itself ever more, pointing to the apparent violence they suffered—nevermind the violence they themselves inflicted.

Despite all this, my week was decent. Plenty of long walks, good food, and time with T, family, and friends. I hope you found bright moments amidst the gloom, and continue to in days ahead. All the best for the week ahead!

Good evening!

I returned to my apartment on Monday to find the street below mostly clear of vehicles, and enjoyed, for the first time in a few weeks, a quiet morning in my front room. That’s mostly held since, though the nearby intersection has become a loud dance club on weekends, with music blaring and the bass buzzing my windows. Still, somehow, better than the honking.

Ottawa remains occupied, but the country has its focus elsewhere—on a single bridge which somehow carries a quarter of Canada’s trade with the US. But Ottawa is hardly in good shape: many downtown roads remain impassable, crowds continue to swell on weekends, and those here grow increasingly belligerent. Community reports of harassment and intimidation accumulate by the day, with the police continuing to prove their lack of fitness for the task at hand.

Packs roam, shouting “FREEDOM”, as if that word were a justification for their apparent selfishness, for their prioritizing of the individual—of themselves, that is—over the community. The Charter that some wave from hockey sticks begins by saying that the rights it guarantees are “subject only to such reasonable limits prescribed by law as can be demonstrably justified in a free and democratic society”. Measures to keep the public healthy—and, in particular, the most vulnerable of the public—are overwhelmingly reasonable limits. But for those unashamed to put their selfishness on display, such reasons hold little weight.

Good morning!

An opening note: when I sent last week’s newsletter, it was titled “Honk honk”. I later learned this is a dogwhistle phrase. There’s no need to keep that, so I’ve changed the subject of the archived copy to “Occupied”—which is, in retrospect, perhaps even more apt.

I wrote last week’s issue in shock. Shock that a fleet of vehicles had taken over downtown Ottawa, their drivers given seemingly free reign to roam and rile. I write this week’s issue angry, angry that those vehicles remain, that their drivers have effectively occupied the city, with little to no repercussions, and with seemingly no plan to get them out. People have a right to protest—their vehicles have no right to remain.

Indeed, there are now more vehicles outside my window than there were last week, thanks to the “hard perimeter” the police put in place—my apartment sits at the edge of that perimeter, so the street below has become a parking lot and refuelling station. A block away, a party rages day and night.

Note: When I sent this newsletter out, it was titled “Honk honk”. I later learned this is a dogwhistle phrase. There’s no need to keep that, so I’ve changed the subject to one that is, in retrospect, perhaps even more apt.

Hi folks,

I hope you’re doing well. I’d planned to follow up last week’s newsletter, saying “But we can’t do it alone” and examining where the public service does fall short, how we can bolster government capacity without falling prey to the outsourcing trap. Alas, events befell us, so we’ll save that for next week.

This weekend, Ottawa is hosting… well, it’s hard to know exactly how to describe what’s going on. There’s Nazi imagery, an anti-government manifesto, science disinformation, and more. I am, unfortunately, not surprised, nor do I think this is a one-time “letting off steam”. These currents of thought are increasingly finding political homes, and the political groups that reject these positions don’t seem to know how to deal with them.

Good evening! It’s been a lovely weekend—I hope the same for you.

This week, The Globe and Mail ran a number of articles on outsourcing by the federal government, by measuring spending on professional services according to my favourite part of the Public Accounts, Volume III, section 3, “Professional and Special Services”. (If you want to explore the data yourself, you can read the Public Accounts directly, or check out a script I made a few years ago analysing the Accounts. I focused on IT spending, but it’s all there.)

As sometimes happens, this story unfolded throughout the week: “Liberals spend billions more on outsourced contracts since taking power”, “Ottawa turns to consulting firm McKinsey to fix Phoenix pay system, doubling spending on outsourcing”, “Opposition parties call on Auditor-General to investigate McKinsey outsourcing contracts”. The reporting culminated in an opinion column, “A warning sign of government bloat”.

There are a few dimensions to the story as the Globe reported it, political and non-political alike. The scale of outsourcing (“contracting”, “working with vendors”, “procuring”, etc.) is so hard to grasp. The numbers for any given vendor may seem large, but there are almost always vendors with higher totals—with thanks to Ottawa Civic Tech for the contracting analysis, play with the selector and check out chart C16 in the “Aggregate data by company” to explore just how much goes to some (check out the Big 4 accountants and old-school tech companies, to start).

Good afternoon!

It’s blustery here in Ottawa, and it looks like we have an enormous storm headed our way. I miss snow days, whether staying home from school or leaving early from work, but I look forward to seeing the flakes (drifts, more likely) pile up outside my window tomorrow. Clementines are on sale, the Canal is open for skating, stepping outside requires a few minutes of layering—we’re properly in winter now, and I love it.

Throughout the pandemic, my philosophy toward local business has been to “support the ones you want to see through”. One of my go-tos to that end has been Brown Loaf Bakery, a spot on Elgin I’ve long loved. It seems like Brown Loaf was recently robbed and its owner attacked in the process. We went by this morning to show our support—though the shelves were emptier than usual (likely due to so many others doing the same), the friendly owner was there, cheerfully greeting everybody despite the incident. Support the ones you want to see through, my friends—Brown Loaf is a good candidate. I recommend the scones.

Some reading and other amusements from this week:

Good afternoon. Something about an overcast winter day, gloomily raining after a day of sunny but freezing skies, causes feelings of melancholy and drama. Hence “Good afternoon”, period, no exclamation point or comma. But things aren’t so bad, really, and I’m not so serious—thank goodness we can rise above our situation, that we aren’t solely determined by how the weather makes us feel.

It was a normal just-after-the-holidays January week, in which I found an urgent fire on my desk upon returning to work, one which, whether I was dealing with it directly or not, shaped and consumed the rest of the week. Fortunately, I’ve got a great team to work with, colleagues who make even the hard days manageable—and, often, fun.

Returning to work after a few weeks off (something I’m lucky to have had) makes you ponder whether your work is worthwhile. I spent some of that time reading Station Eleven for a book club. The story includes several jabs, overt and implied, at corporate work, pointing out how little such work matters in “the end” (whether after your career is done, or after the world as we know it has ended, take your pick).

This, coupled with a new year on the calendar, naturally has me thinking about “what matters”. We can’t look to work to fill that need in our lives—nor should we let it take too big a space—and, indeed, when I reflect on what makes me feel most at peace, work offers little of it: cooking, poetry, walking, connection. And that’s okay! Work can’t become our whole lives. May 2022 yield more of those peaceful activities.

Good evening, and a good new year to you! I just jolted out of bed, realizing I hadn’t yet sent this newsletter—blame it on a day of driving.

I haven’t had much time yet to reflect on the past year or the one to come. The pandemic’s effects on time are especially noticeable at times like these, as I can’t remember many specific events off the top of my head, but it feels like it was, altogether, a decent year. For me, it included moving to a new apartment, continuing at my job, enjoying a wonderful relationship, and visiting with friends and family.

As ever, I’m learning how to be, settling into whoever I am, cultivating new practices and trimming away old ones. This newsletter is one channel for that—a place to wonder aloud, to share, to document. It reflects, I hope, Ursula Franklin’s definition of thinking:

I think of “thinking” not only as a very enjoyable activity but also as something akin to taking your mind for a walk around a question the way you might take a dog around the block for a walk.

Good morning! Today’s the last Sunday of the year. It’s been a head-turning few weeks, capping off months full of ups and downs. I’m trying to take what little comforts I can, though even time off doesn’t feel so relaxing these days. Alas.

I’ve always used the pre-Christmas newsletter to share a few books from the previous year of reading (see the 2020, 2019, 2018, or 2017 editions). Last week, I wrote about this damn virus, so this week we’ll pick up the tradition, if slightly altered in its timing—fitting, I think, during a holiday season when so many are adjusting traditions to suit the times.

I read few books this year. I’m not sure why—other things were going on, I suppose, though not particularly moreso than in years past. Of the ten books I shelved as “read” on Goodreads this year, eight were from a book club with friends (which confirms the power of accountability to others for getting things done). I’ll also include a few books I haven’t “read” fully, but have turned to for comfort this year. As always, in chronological(ish) order, since it’s the arbitrary hierarchy that offends me least:

1. Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents by Octavia Butler. These are in no way cheery books—Butler’s depiction of the United States in the now near future (mid-2020s) hits close to home. But they offer a framework of sorts, for thinking through difficult times. (Indeed, adrienne maree brown uses Butler’s work for just that.) And Butler’s writing draws you right in.
2. The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N.K. Jemisin (part of her Inheritance trilogy, which I’m still reading through). A different feel from the Broken Earth trilogy (which I recommended last year), but good nonetheless. As ever, I find Jemisin’s world-building to be worth the price of admission alone, with the story along the way compelling you through that world.
3. Most anything by Mary Oliver—I recommend one of her anthologies to start (New and Selected Poems Volume One or Volume Two, or Devotions), though this year I particularly treasured Felicity, and my introduction to her came years ago with Swan. Oliver’s poetry has had mixed receptions critically, though her popularity is hard to deny—and properly so, I’d say. Read through a few of her poems, and notice how clearly she writes, how deeply she considers the world through such straightforward language. Oliver sat down with Krista Tippett of On Being for a rare interview, putting the range of her charming character on full display. (I excerpted a few favourite passages from that interview.)

This issue is just COVID. There’s a gallows humour quote at the end, if that’s your jam; if you’d rather keep your mind on other things, sit this one out and wait til next week’s, when I’ll do my traditional yearly reading roundup. Normally it comes the weekend before Christmas, but this week’s issue can’t wait.

Fiddlesticks, eh?

The last few weeks of the year are not shaping up to go as many expected, or planned for. But maybe that’s nothing new—this virus has shown us, time and again, the need to keep a keen eye and ear for changes, to be ready to shift our own behaviour and plans in response.

When the context changes, we need to reevaluate our situation—I think vaccination has weakened that reflex, but it’s increasingly clear that the virus has changed, so vaccination doesn’t mean quite what it used to.

The paper didn’t arrive five out of six days this week, so I didn’t read as much as I normally do. When this happens, I turn often to Twitter to feed my need for words. By nature, social feeds do little to support coherent thinking—instead, they leave us fragmented, floating in the current. So today’s issue captures fragments from my week.

Today’s a busy day—or, at least, the calendar captures a long list of hopes. But, who’s to say, the beautiful weather may wipe some of them aside in favour of a long walk.

Despite that, and a slow start to the day, I couldn’t help but take time to tend my plants before writing this. Our little living friends deserve care and attention. There’s no formula or guaranteed success with plants, which humbles me. It’s simply a treat to bear witness to their growth, day by day.

Hi!

This post is going out scheduled, as I’m on the road back to Ottawa today. T and I were up visiting her mom in northern Ontario, which was a splendid escape—it snowed here Friday night, which raised the spirits immeasurably. If any huge news has come out to which I thus fail to react here, well, sometimes slow news is the best news.

It’s been a busy week at and outside work, so I haven’t read as much as I’d like to, but I’ve collected a few tidbits nonetheless. All reflect, somehow, on what we lose or leave behind as we march “ahead” (chronologically if not otherwise):

• Did you know that big tech—Google, Amazon, Microsoft, Facebook, etc—are increasingly investing in (and building) internet infrastructure, like undersea cables? The first few don’t surprise me, given their cloud computing businesses; Facebook did, at first, but when you consider the scale of their operations, the economies start to make sense. Tanay Mahindru dives into big tech’s investments in physical infrastructure, challenging regulators to consider not just the software but the hardware of the internet, as they confront these companies of extraordinary size and power. Pairs well with Ingrid Burrington’s talk on ”Where the internet is located” (or, really, much of Burrington’s writing).
• Ottawa is great, don’t get me wrong—but, as Alex deVries writes, it could be so much better, and risks losing some of what makes it great, with many fingers pointing, quite rightly, at the mayor.
• Eric Liu, formerly of Ottawa Civic Tech, wrote a great thread on the pain that UI changes can cause, and the conflicts between tech’s relentless urge to iterate (which, cumulatively, results in massive change) and our ability to adapt to change, particularly for folks (e.g., older adults) who have trouble doing so.

Good evening!

I’m racing a rapid onset food coma, so will keep today’s newsletter pretty short, focused on the links, which we’ve aplenty. (Tonight’s food coma is brought on by roast chicken and a hearty salad; last night’s was homemade pizza. It was a great weekend of food!)

• I shared stories about the BC rains and flooding last week, all of which are worth a read. This week, my brain dwelled on the infrastructure story—what it’ll take to rebuild, how we incorporate adaptive principles, and whether we have time do it. Also, huge kudos to BC’s Ministry of Transportation and Infrastructure for remembering that Flickr exists and maintaining an active album of flood damage and restoration work. Incredible photos.
• Another month, another well-argued piece advocating for change to Canada’s access to information regime. Rhetorically, it seems notable to me that we call it “access to information”, instead of the more American “freedom of information”—emphasizing the privilege we imply it to be, versus the more fundamental right implied elsewhere. (Also, props to whoever at IRPP put out this brilliant tweet about the article.)
• Ottawa’s downtown isn’t just office buildings—though our city planning and leadership often treats it that way. We have a chance to actually rethink how we plan for downtown—but a lack of imagination on the part of our city’s leadership may lose us that chance.
• Props to Chapman’s for supporting all their workers—while internet trolls overlook how they support even workers who aren’t fully vaccinated. (I followed a link in this story to one about how Chapman’s recovered from its devastating blaze, over a decade ago. Part of their success was to keep and trust their people, such as when they lost all their recipes but longstanding staff remembered the mixes. A lesson applicable anywhere.)
• IKEA has a digital museum, including an archive of its catalogue—going back to the 1950s. I love how text heavy the early catalogues were. We see the evolution in both IKEA’s design sensibility and graphic design itself.
• I don’t think the ball actually touches the ground in this incredible shot by Thiago Alcantara (though it skims the grass, in a mindboggling sine-wave motion).
• Going to find ways to apply the Ashleigh Weeden Principle in the weeks ahead.

That’s it from me—all the best for the week ahead!

(non-disaster links at the end of the email!)

If you’re in Canada, there’s a good chance you heard of the terrible rains, floods, and mudslides that came down on British Columbia late last week. Following this story was no small part of my week—disaster remains, as ever, a compelling sight, something from which you can’t look away. Disasters can also offer us many lessons. They show us humanity at is best, while we feel at our worst.

One event contains a multitude of stories—we can read it many ways:

• This is an emergency management story. Governance—how we make decisions—isn’t just an academic concern. In emergencies, who can make which calls when matters immensely. (Though blame shifting after the fact is a poor look for the provincial government, considering their previous and ongoing tight-lipped-ness on this issue.)
• This is a “we were warned” story. Indigenous knowledge, environmental history, climate science—these offer troves of signals from which to project and prepare for future disasters. If only we listen.
• This is a disaster response story. If you know me, you may know my mixed feelings about the military. In situations like this, though, I think parts of their model make sense: have highly trained operators with specialist equipment, cross-trained with local emergency response units, standing by throughout the country (and able to deploy to other countries to help, too, when need be), ready to respond to all manner of disaster. (A search-and-rescue tech dangled upside down out of a helicopter, guiding the pilot to land with less than a metre’s clearance on each side. WHAT!?)
• This is a healthcare story. We hear plenty of talk of supply chains, moving goods throughout the country. But we’ve also networked essential social services, like healthcare, often tying them to the same fragile links of our industrial supply chain. We can’t have all the specialized equipment everywhere, but we can think about how to nurture more resilient networks of care.
• This is an infrastructure meets climate change story. No doubt some of the dams, dikes, and levees overwhelmed in this week’s flooding have been underserviced for years, maintenance overlooked in favour of other capital works. It’s always about maintenance.

Richard Wagamese’s Embers, a book of meditations shared in beguilingly simple language, opens with a chapter called “Stillness”. It includes this passage (pg. 18):

There is such a powerful eloquence in silence. True genius is knowing when to say nothing, to allow the experience, the moment itself, to carry the message, to say what needs to be said. Words are less important, less effective than feeling. When you can sit in perfect silence with someone, you truly know how to communicate.

This celebration of silence immediately brought to mind Ursula Franklin, who, in writing about the Quaker meeting practice of defaulting to silence, describes silence as “an enabling environment”—it is potential. Wagamese and Franklin alike treat that potential as something sacred, to be filled thoughtfully and intentionally.

I reflected on these ideas on Thursday, Remembrance Day. As a federal public servant, it’s a statutory holiday. The crowds around the war memorial were a bit too much for me, so I took a long walk that morning, though I could hear much of the ceremony from my apartment once I returned.

Good morning!

Thus far, November is going pretty well, contrary to last week’s expectations. It’s been sunny, friendly, lovely—no complaints, really. Spent last night hosting a grilled cheese party with a screening of Die Hard. We’re on our way to the holiday season, pals!

HELLO! I’m writing to you late, after a nourishing weekend of housework, walking, and friends (new and old alike). I’m leaving October on a high.

With luck, that high will carry me well through November. But it’s a tough month. November is the first month of Vonnegut’s season of “locking” (or Vermont’s “stick season”)—the leaves are gone, but the snow’s not yet here; the days are short and often overcast; and there are no holidays to celebrate (at least, not here).

Good morning! It’s sunny and my heart’s full.

Even before physical distancing, I tried to give space while out and about. I walk at a brisk pace, which can be unnerving if I come up suddenly behind someone, trying to find space to pass on narrow sidewalks. This extends, too, to not wanting to be a threatening presence while walking—to try to change my route if I seem to be following the same route as someone else. So, I usually cross the street often, to get out of people’s way (both reactively and proactively).

Recently I wondered, in one of those “it wouldn’t be practical but what if” moods, about “pre-registering” walking routes, to make clear to someone that I’m not following them, that we just happen to be going the same way. (I don’t know if anyone ever actually feels uncomfortable when this happens, but I try to err on the side of caution.) This could look like shouting out “I’m turning left up ahead”, in case they were also going to do that.

Anyhow, it’s pretty impractical (my implementation relies on shouting / speaking aloud to a stranger, which doesn’t really help with the “keep things comfortable” goal), but my brain went this way after remembering (which I found from ). They’re not perfectly analogous, but I like the idea of publicly sharing your intention or knowledge in a space, in a way that others can then verify, to hopefully reduce misunderstanding or confusion.

Good afternoon!

Isn’t fall grand? Fiery trees give way to a satisfying crunch underfoot, ultimately yielding the musty smell of decaying leaves. Leaves pass to soil, death serves as nourishment for future life, and we head into another season of quiet preparation. Gardening crews are clearing beds and planting tulip bulbs, giving them time to overwinter before bursting forth in spring. It’s a handy metaphor for how we might spend those months to come—winter as a time to grow roots, to prepare for future bursting forth.

But, of course, winter’s a ways away yet. I’ve had a persistent fear this year of missing the changing leaves, as if there’d be one day of brilliant colour and all’d be lost if I missed it. In reality, some trees remain green and full even today—change is a gradual process, and when it comes to fall colours, it’s best to wonder at the spectacular leaves we do get to see.

Good afternoon!

Last night, I started watching Beverly Hills Cop, thinking I’d do a few sudokus while tuning in and out of the action. A few minutes in, I realized I wanted something that appealed more to my emotional side, and switched to watching after the first action scene, while Eddie Murphy’s character is holding on in the back of a veering cigarette truck. Imagine my surprise when Jason Sudeikis’s character in later references toward the end of the movie! I love serendipitous moments like that.

Hello!

Somehow today’s starting off even more drizzly and grey than yesterday—we (I, and hopefully you) fought off the gloom by baking biscuits and bopping to good tunes.

Thursday marked the first National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. Listening to stories of survivors, and hearing conversations around me, I was struck by one hopeful chord: that younger people are learning truer histories, and that they (we) might use those truths in service of better tomorrows. —setting a higher bar than simply educating ourselves, as truth alone isn’t enough.

Hello!

A friend’s visiting this weekend—it’s been a lovely change from routine. We bonded long ago over a shared love for Star Trek, so the weekend’s been filled with favourite movies and episodes, plus conversations punctuated by consulting my various reference books.

A few weeks ago, on Star Trek Day (the fifty-fifth anniversary of the original series premiere, on September 8, 1966), I watched a few favourite episodes, each of which touched on a theme that I found poignant:

Hello!

It’s a wonderfully sunny Sunday here in Ottawa. The political folks are out on the hustings across the country (don’t forget to vote tomorrow, if you haven’t already!), my pal Sean Boots is blogging, and —in other words, a pretty normal September Sunday.

Hello!

It’s been a quiet vacation week for me. It included a visit with a friend to Laurel Creek Conservation Area (a history of which I wrote up a few years ago), a Star Trek marathon, a few election debates, and some family visits. (Writing that out, it sounds less quiet than it felt!)

Though it’s been a while since I traded the arbitrary requirements of professors for the arbitrary requirements of checks notes bureaucracy, part of me still relates best to the academic year. (This is no doubt affected by having a parent who works for a university and a sibling still in studies.)

September—with its feelings of possibility and renewal—September, it’s finally here. In classic style, I took my first day of proper vacation in months only to spend it reading academic articles (and, later, pension fund annual reports). I blame it on September’s “back to school” vibes. Goodness, though, learning is fun.

Hello! It’s slaloming between drizzle and downpour here.

I spent the morning catching up on Star Trek: Lower Decks. Nothing quite like cozying up with cartoons and breakfast on a rainy weekend morning. Now, Nebraska plays, layered over sounds of rain slipping through cracked-open windows. Life could be worse, for sure, muted though today feels.

It’s the part of the season when I start liking summer. (Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi”, on not knowing what you’ve got ’til it’s gone, comes to mind.) The temperatures are nice(r—soon, hopefully), and I’m enjoying the effortlessness of going outside (heat aside).

We’re also in the August free fall: the sunset timing has hit that part of its parabola where they occur earlier and earlier; tonight, in Ottawa, the sun sets before 8pm, and in just a month’s time it’ll set before 7pm. Summer seems to slip from our grasp, but we’ll make what of it we can.

A few neat links from this week:

Hello!

I’m writing you from my kitchen, where I’m nursing a temperamental batch of stock. (Only one boil over, we’re in good shape.)

This morning, the Prime Minister advised the Governor-General to dissolve Parliament, paving the way for Canada’s 44th general election. In Ottawa nerd fashion, I watched part of the announcement at Rideau Hall while out on my morning walk. The writs will be drawn up (“draw up the writs”, or “drop the writ” as we now like to say), the signs will go up, and the news will shift to coverage of campaign stops. It’ll be an interesting 36 days.

Good afternoon!

How are you? I hope this finds you as well as can be.

Links for you this week:

August!! Welcome to the summer-y month where we start to get a hint of that most wonderful of seasons, fall. There’s heat yet to come, but the last few days of cool weather have me excited for the months ahead.

Last night, around 8, I was waffling on whether to take an evening stroll—I’ve been out for numerous walks over the last few days, and my feet were a bit sore. Plus, clouds had moved in during the evening, so I figured there wouldn’t be any sunset of note. Finally, I went for it, thinking to myself that I’ve never regretted going for a walk.

Coming out, I saw streaks of colour in the sky between the buildings. Suddenly seized with the idea of catching whatever sunset I could, I broke my “never run” rule (running is a sign of poor planning), racing down the block until I could get a clear view. It wasn’t a spectacular sunset, but sometimes you need to follow those gut feelings. A little bunny watched with me—a beautiful moment made better for being shared.

Hello!

I spent most of the weekend reading Parable of the Talents, by Octavia Butler, for a book club early this afternoon. It’s so good—better even than the first in the two-part arc, I think, Parable of the Sower.

Boredom. A mind searching for things to think about, for things to do. Webster’s 1913 edition characterizes it as weariness “by tedious iteration or by dullness”. (Why check Webster’s 1913 edition?)

It’s a state of mind that’s evaded me for a while. There’s always been something to think about, particularly as I engaged in a protracted move. Today, I said goodbye to my housemate of four years—including sixteen of the strangest months in our lives, months in which who you lived with mattered… a lot. We were good friends, made moreso by the pandemic, and I’m glad for all those years living together.

There’s nothing left to move. No longer a to think through, as this move was for me.

Hello, and a happy Sunday to you! My week was filled with family time, which has been wonderful.

Such time reminded me of the quiet reassurance that comes from physical presence—though we’ve muddled through these sixteen months of video calls admirably, there’s no denying the special magic of being close to people, especially if those relationships developed in a physical setting. Visiting doesn’t require much talking; indeed, silence itself can be affirming. Here’s to more of that in times ahead.

Good evening!

Somehow, I’ve been writing this newsletter for 200 weeks in a row. Half the archive ago, I wrote about my principles for living. Happily, they hold up.

Thank you, so much, for reading along—regularly or intermittently, however floats your boat. It’s a great honour to have you here.

Hi friends!

It’s been a busy weekend for me—packing things up, cleaning, and more of the above. I’ve accumulated a fair number of links to share, but they’ll have to wait for next week.

“Loading” is a good way to describe how things feel: bit by bit, things are coming together. Personally, at least. The world… well, we’ll dive into that next week.

All the best for the week ahead!

Hello!

I’m writing this from the kitchen, a comfortable, cheery spot.

I’ve just finished reading Crying in H Mart, by Michelle Zauner. If you’re not familiar, .

Hello! I hope this finds you well. It’s warm in Ottawa, but compared to the heat we had earlier this week, it’s rather nice.

It’s sometimes difficult to know how to approach sensitive, heavy topics with this newsletter. But, seeing as this space is largely one of “what’s on my mind”, I can’t fairly bypass these things when they happen.

Earlier this week, a white man attacked a Muslim family out on an evening walk in London, Ontario, killing four of them.

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