Swampwater

“I say black and you say white

We're as different as day and night

Who cares who's wrong, and who is right?

We don't agree with each other but

We have the chance to discover

A new way to talk to each other”

           

            As a former Christian, I pay attention to the people who claim to be God's Elect. I think I have the right since most of my youth found me wallowing in the dogmas and details of the theology. I did not come out of the religion unscathed.  I never understood why it was so important to follow the theocracy laid out in scripture rather than the direct instruction made by Jesus. Early on, I noticed the difference between those who claim to be Christian and those who actually act like a Christian. After all, Jesus was very clear that there was a new commandment (John 13:34), a new way to be. We must be born again (John 3:7). When God moves within us, the person we become is visible, almost tangible like fruit hanging on a tree. When you truly get with the program, people can just tell there is a difference. If they never knew you, your energy, your approach speaks volumes about who you serve. With His one rule, “love one another”, we are commanded, not instructed, to love others as the Christ so loved us. Whether you are a believer or not, almost every other religion on the planet expects the very same thing from us. We have but one rule to follow.

            If you follow the way, you will find your way. At least, that's what they tell me. Be prepared for roadblocks and downed wires as you travel forth. Puddles of swampwater form along the edges. People always find a way to block our way. It doesn’t matter your spiritual path, their way is the right way. After all, it worked so well for them. Those who claim to have some insight and connection with something divine, forget that their actions always give them away. You can always spot the bad fruit. Men of goodwill who bring peace are much more of an example of God within than some Preacher casting out a woman who committed adultery. Of course, he forgets to mention, especially to his wife, the little tart he meets up with after choir practice on Thursday night. It is with the judgment he pronounced that he himself will be judged (Matthew 7:1-2). The very act of loving one another in itself cannot help but change you, whether you are a Christian, Muslim or Jew. One does not only manifest spiritually. God moving within us is also a demonstration. We illustrate by our example. In a sense, we become a picture of the spirit that dwells therein. Never forgetting, we will know them by their “fruits” (Matthew 7:15-20, Galatians 5:22-23).

            It just makes sense that “a good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit” (Matthew 7:17). I often use this gauge to measure people who claim to follow Jesus. It’s never what they say to me that really matters (although sometimes it is more than enough to make a discernment). How they act towards others, how they act towards me, are clear indications of the state of God working inside them. It is often quite difficult, in this modern age, to find even one true follower of the Law of Love. We all seem to have impassable flaws, mortal limitations that still define us. It is not your state of mind that is at issue, it is your state of being. We are told to “love one another”, not just fellow Christians, or conservatives or even heterosexuals. If God truly dwells and moves within you, there are no limitations when loving another. No matter who we are or what we believe, men of God act like men of God. Seeing things through the eyes of a believer should not confine you but rather free you. Where there is kindness, there is love. Where there is tolerance and acceptance, there is love. All these things and more

will come to be if the true God of this universe guides your way and I'm betting even Jesus would agree with me.   

“And say it with a kiss, no matter what it is

Put love back at the top of our list

Find a better way, to make a better day

Don't you know that

There'll be more happiness when we do that

Oh what a wonderful way to live

Just say it with a kiss.”

            If there is one thing I have taken from my time with the Pentecostal Church of Canada, it is the ability to speak in tongues on command. I can even sing in tongues if you would like me to. In all the years I spent with my hands raised and my voice active, I never really had the legitimate experience. The xenoglossy (speaking in languages) that the Apostles manifested on Pentecost was nowhere to be found. Rather, the gossolalia (speaking in babble) was all that really seemed to matter, as part of my salvation at any rate. I can still fake it as well as I did throughout all those years of evangelization. I was a falsehood then and a parlour trick now. I just knew what I was rambling had nothing to do with Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, but was a creation in my own mind. One of the women I befriended during my tenure was a rather large African-Canadian woman named Brandy. She attempted, many times, to indoctrinate me into the fold. She taught me to allow the spirit to come and guide me. She often made me feel like I was doing something to restrict God's ability to move me. I started pretending to get her the hell off my back. One day, she was just gone. I suppose that sort of thing happens when you alienate yourself from the very Saviour you have sworn to follow. Apparently, one night, the Holy Ghost appeared to Brandy, then copulated using her as a vessel. She failed to mention to anyone whether He was any good or not. The rest of the congregation shunned her, and her family, and removed them, without a trace, from the Church. Since then I have often wondered if at one point “God entering me” had a different meaning than what I believed it to be. I later learned that throughout the entire situation, Brandy maintained her loyalty to the Risen Lord despite clearly demonstrating that the Jesus she surrendered to was very different from the one she had appeared to worship as a member of the congregation. She may have considered herself a Christian but the obvious would beg to differ.

“All these strangers that I meet

If I love them and they love me

We'll make the world, one big family

We may not know one another

But what if we treated each other

Like we were sister and brother?”

            For a brief moment in history, I did not like my father. Coming home from high school to find all your books being burned in the backyard pit was the cement that secured my disdain. Having discovered the living Christ, and Pentecostalism, my father changed into another person. This path appeared to be what he needed, at the time, to give his life purpose and meaning. My mother, unsuccessfully, attempted to meet the same fate. Forced bible study, restricted access to media and barbecuing Stephen King novels became the new way of life for my mother and siblings. I suppose putting Jesus before your family just makes sense to someone who follows those rules but to me (and other family members), it was foreign and rather unnerving. I am not sure but I don't think that the ‘shoe’ that was presented to him ever really fit my father. Soon enough the intolerance, the shunning, all of it, became too much for my Dad to handle. He withdrew and does not like to speak of this matter. I'm not sure if it is regret that motivates his silence but something crossed over in him and redirected him to a better place.

            It was my father who stood beside me when I had to identify my first partner's body. It is my father to whom I speak every day, without fail. It is my father who sits daily at the dining room table reading from his Bible, looking for answers and stroking his Faith. He has become even more genuine since the death of my mother. He is thoughtful and respectful and so much more Christian than he ever was when he was with the fundamentalists. He still believes the way he always has but it manifests in a much more legitimate manner. Rather than talking about serving the Lord, he does so in his own unique way. Rather than condemning others for their sins, he recognizes his own limitations and has great empathy for those who get lost along the way. My Dad just gets it. It appears that even if you look in the wrong direction, you will always come back to the same place. You can always find what you're looking for. My Dad has become an example for me. It’s not what you read that defines you. It is not what you are convinced is the truth. Your actions are the best indication. For the Christian (among many), loving others should place far ahead of admonishments and regulation. What you believe may inspire you but how you manifest is what defines you.

“And say it with a kiss, no matter what it is

Put love back at the top of our list

Find a better way, to make a better day

Don't you know that

There'll be more happiness when we do that

Oh what a wonderful way to live

Just say it with a kiss”

            Anyone who really knows me is aware that I am a huge fan of Christian artist Amy Grant. For 40 plus years now, I have followed her message and her career. I have watched her attempt to counterbalance those religious beliefs with a subtle acceptance “towards less traditional members of her fan base.” Although any endorsement she holds toward such groups can be rather vague and uncommitted, her essential message is one of inclusion for everyone, not just this organization or those authoring that issue. We must look behind the eyes. In 2013, Amy attended her first LGBTQ press interview with PrideSource, a Michigan-based online service for the same community. The backlash has  built over the years, with many Christian fans rebuking her for that support. Recently, Grant released Tennessee Christmas, a new seasonal collection of music. It was met with critical acclaim and religious dissonance. The American Southern Baptist retailer LifeWay Christian Resources refused to carry the CD, claiming that it “wasn't Christian enough.” Having the work in my possession, I can report that both Jesus and traditional Christian values are more than represented overall. I would argue that tracks such as Joy to the World and O Come, All Ye Faithful pretty much cover the bases and offer evidence to the contrary. The very idea that a Christmas album in itself does not count as Christian says more about the accuser than it does those accused. It makes one wonder if perhaps there was something more to the boycott.

            On February 14^th, 2017, Amy Grant released a new song, and premièred the companion video. Say it with a Kiss is an energetic tune that enthusiastically suggests we unify as a people, thinking of each other in terms of “brother and sister” rather than from our separation. It contains a message of love and  “the chance to discover a new way to talk to each other.” The video is a slide presentation of many varied stock photos. Mixed in are a few more personal shots like Amy's wedding photo to her husband Vince Gill. Throughout the content, a mosaic of same sex couples also appears. Although there is no real indication that these people are gay, besides their association, it seems quite obvious that these couples are homosexual, or at least should be viewed as such. The touches are not subtle. The images non-sexual and without endearment. They convey simply love, not anything really physical. It was thrilling to have some validation from someone I have idolized almost all of my life. To finally see that I was right about her all along was glorious for me. To understand her message, to embrace it, sheer heaven. Not everyone feels the same as I do.

            The same thing happened back in 1991 when her most successful project Heart in Motion was released. Large groups of conservative Christians attacked her for being far too secular for their tastes. There was an uproar when she appeared with a male actor in the video for Baby Baby, a man who wasn't her husband (pre-Vince Gill). Her message has clearly evolved. On Valentine's Day 2017 her ecumenical voice, her call for unity, became obvious in the most discreet manner. Her balancing act appears to be slowly eroding over time. As she has made clear, “The journey of faith is just being willing and open to have a relationship with God. And everybody is welcome. Everybody.” While her less than fundamentalist views may have “undercut Grant's public witness,”  she continues to stand as the epitome of true Christianity and not the “Pseudo American Christian values” the Elect would have us believe is the only way. The counterbalance between child of God and child of Jesus is crystal clear. Each movement of her Faith a  compensating equivalent. With Say it with a Kiss, a less evangelical approach seems the theme of the day. In fact, Grant made it known that with the Kiss video, “we chose photos that we believed would make everyone feel included.” Imagine that.

“We may not know one another

But what if we treated each other

Like we were sister and brother?”

            I have searched my entire life for even a glimpse of God. I am thirsty and it would only take one drop. All I ever really got was swampwater. With no real confirmation, I have come to recognize that I will never have my way. The truth is that we cannot know, or at least, I cannot know. I realize that if you do want a coup d'oeil with something Holy, you need to find it all on your own. It is here that religion is most useful, its true purpose. It is to shine a light so all may see. God works in mysterious ways but this is no secret. This is what we’re here for. We are to radiate God’s light by loving one another. When we feel useless, God can still use us, even when we forget. Let’s not forget that “Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of My Father in heaven” (Matthew 7:21 KIV). You either have it or you don't. The indwelling is not like staying in a hotel. It doesn’t come and go at its leisure. Most Christians believe that because they associate themselves with Jesus, they are in some way exempt from loving anyone but Christians, usually those Christians who believe the way that they do. This is how one can tell whether God dwells within a person. If your love is not for all then your charity comes not from God. You are going the wrong way. That is how one knows whether someone is a true Christian. God is for everybody, “He died for all” (2 Corinthians 5:15a).  It is, after all, “by their fruit you will recognize them” (Matthew 7:16 NIV).

“Say it with a kiss, no matter what it is

Put love back at the top of our list

Find a better way, to make a better day

Don't you know that

There'll be more happiness when we do that

What a wonderful way to live

Just say it with a kiss.”

(Say it with a Kiss, Amy Grant 2017)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oe6b6GRYjPk

Photos

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/368591550729317879/

http://www.newnownext.com/amy-grant-same-sex-couple-music-video/02/2017/

http://amygrant.com/say-it-with-a-kiss/

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Commandment

http://www.newnownext.com/amy-grant-same-sex-couple-music-video/02/2017/

http://www.advocate.com/music/2017/2/15/did-amy-grant-include-same-sex-couples-her-new-music-video

https://www.getreligion.org/getreligion/the-new-amy-grant-controversy-this-story-has-a-new-chapter-that-some-have-missed

http://www.pridesource.com/

Other Otherland

"The news had come out in the First World War

The bloody Red Baron was flying once more

The Allied command ignored all of its men

And called on Snoopy to do it again ...

The Baron had Snoopy dead in his sights

He reached for the trigger to pull it up tight

Why he didn't shoot, well, we'll never know

Or was it the bells from the village below?"

(Snoopy's Christmas, The Royal Guardsmen 1967)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jlf---13Q0g

            When I was a kid, I thought Charlie Brown was a huge loser. Not only did he suffer at his own hands but he allowed other children to torment him. I didn't really get the comic strip but I read it every weekend. I only indulged the animated programming. I will admit that A Charlie Brown Christmas still resonates with me, especially near the end when Linus quotes the Bible (Luke 2: 8-14, KJV). I thought Lucy was funny and that Pig Pen was cool but it was Snoopy who really caught my attention. I paid attention to the things he did and the things he said (actually, the things he thought). When Woodstock came along, it cemented my approval. Most of my childhood was spent in a comic book. I collected them. I coveted them. My mind and my time were valuable playing tools and I gave little thought to things like Scooby Doo or The Flintstones. In the early 1970s, shows like HR Pufnstuf distracted me from my true mission but it was Snoopy who seems to have had a long-term effect on me. As an adult, I can appreciate him from an entirely new perspective. I see myself in that silly beagle.

            One of the things I like about Snoopy the best is his imagination, the fantasy world he often escapes into. He spends an awful lot of time in his otherland. Whether battling the Red Baron or attending college, Snoopy always managed to have the most awesome adventures, even if they were all in his head. Snoopy first appeared in the  Peanuts comic strip on October 4^th, 1950, only a few days after the cartoon first debuted. He slowly grew in popularity and has become "one of the most recognizable and iconic characters in the comic strip." If you stop and take notice, Snoopy is everywhere. Mugs and t-shirts, posters and stuffed animals abound. Just by googling him, you can access the entire animated history of the character. Any dated strip, any television special, any movie, is readily available for the viewing. Snoopy has become the thing of legends. His fierce loyalty and protective nature contrast the selfishness and laziness of his breed. He exemplifies what it is to be man’s best friend and at the same time he stands in stark contrast by ridiculing his owner. He can even be abusive to those he claims to love the most. He is personification personified and very much almost human.

            He is on YouTube and Twitter and Instagram. I post a Peanuts cartoon almost every day on my Facebook account. I often use Snoopy stickers to highlight my reaction at the time. I have hundreds of Snoopy memes. Each expression from the dog seems perfectly matched with my mood in general. We are a lot alike, that furry beast and I. Most recently, I have come to greatly appreciate the character and its development, not that I didn't in the past, at least on some level. There is something I can relate to regarding that stupid dog. He epitomizes the need to escape, to be free from the boring and mundane life of a dog. Just like, it so happens, the life we all live to one degree or another. He withdraws into his imaginary world and so too do we the viewer. His escape becomes our escape, a much needed relief. The dull life of a dog reflects the dull life of each person. Snoopy always manages to survive, to bounce back and to laugh at himself. With his foil Woodstock at his side, his voyages speak to our voyages and resonate many of the lessons that each of us should have learned along our own path.

"Well you know my name is Simon,

and the things I draw come true,

Oh the pictures take me, take me over,

Climb the ladder with you."

(Theme to Simon and the Land of Chalk Drawings, 1976)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PvssomC2zVs

            Simon in the Land of Chalk Drawings is a British animated children's program that "was produced in the mid 1970s by FilmFair Productions in London for Thames Television." With an often crude animation style, the 5 minute episodes followed the adventures of Simon and his magic chalkboard. Anything he can imagine comes to life when drawn on the enchanted slate canvas. Every instalment found Simon climbing the fence located near his home, trusty ladder in hand. On the other side appears a limitless land of grand imagination. Each story often revolved "around the unintended effects that Simon's drawings have on the Land of Chalk Drawings." In one episode, having drawn his angry self, the doppelganger ravages the make believe land. In another, a chameleon becomes a Scottish highlander or the Pied Piper visits the Land of Chalk Drawings. In the episode Simon and the Moon Rocket, Simon is accompanied by his imaginary friend Henry on a trip to the moon. Henry is a constant character throughout the series but no matter how much adventure and time they spend together, Simon always climbs back over that fence and leaves Henry to his make believe self.

            There was something so simple and charming about this cartoon. I was enchanted every time it came on the television. The Canadian version was almost identical except it was voiced over for a Canadian audience. The episodes remained intact but Ernie Coombs (also known as Mr. Dressup) narrated each cartoon. The series appeared on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) into the 1980s and was also a featured segment on Captain Kangaroo in the United States. With each episode, I identified with Simon more and more. I wanted a wall to climb over that would let me escape. I still wish I had such means at my disposal. As a boy, I was inspired by Simon. He confirmed for me that it was okay to visit my otherland. It was okay to keep dreaming, to keep  imagining. It almost grounded the very experience for me as a child. It was a black and white experience. On one side reality and on the other, anything I wanted the world to be. In fact, outside of Snoopy, nothing was more pivotal than Simon and the Land of Chalk Drawings to my ideas regarding an Otherland. I suppose, at least in my child's mind, I was Simon and the Land of Chalk Drawings existed in my own head, not just on the television screen. These days, I can watch Simon and Henry anytime I want on YouTube. While still charming, the message is not as compelling for me. There is no neighbourhood fence. There is no ladder, no chalkboard to rely on. All that stands is the stark cold reality of how life really is. I am far too lost in adulthood for such childish things.

"H.R. Pufnstuf,

Who's your friend when things get rough?

H.R. Pufnstuf

Can't do a little cause he can't do enough."

(Theme to HR Pufnstuf, 1969)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obxfuFrUTzg

            The summer of 1970 holds little for me. I was only 5 years old and to be honest, I haven't retained as much of my younger years as I would like. I can recall things but mostly in flashes or little glimpses. In the spring of that year, my youngest brother Christopher came home from the hospital. I can see him laid out on the couch, his lower body encased in plaster from the surgeries to fix his crippled legs. I remember my Dad giving me my first pet that June, a plain white mouse I named Charlotte. Sometimes I can almost feel her crawling up my arm. Again, these memories are hard to maintain and  seem to come and go at random. If I focus, I can travel back but my view is far more limited than memories from when I was 7 or 10 or 12. If there is one thing from that summer that I do recall quite clearly, it was The HR Pufnstuf Movie. I had no idea the film was based on the television series, which had already been broadcasting throughout North America. My parents managed to get all 5 kids into one car and took us all to see Pufnstuf at the drive-in theatre located just a few miles away. A second film, Disney's Bedknobs and Broomsticks, made the double feature a child's delight. I may have fallen asleep during the later movie but I can remember every moment watching that featured film. I do not remember the type of car that we went in. I do not recall the name of the outdoor theatre either. I can, however, remember watching the opening credits of Pufnstuf and watching the closing credits. I can see myself engrossed, stuck in between siblings in the back seat of the car. The experience is very clear.

            At this point, I was enchanted by anything that seemed an escape. Early on, my imagination was perhaps my strongest tool for coping. Not that a 5 year old has much to cope with but still, it was an impetus, the force that drove my innocent mind. Pufnstuf was your basic candy store for a kid my age. The main character Jimmy (Jack Wild), an English lad, and his magic flute Freddie are lured to Living Island by Wilhelmina W. Witchiepoo (Billie Hayes). The character was supposed to be the villain but her very human frailties made her sympathetic, at least in my mind. I rooted for Witchiepoo every time she appeared on film or even later when I began watching the Saturday morning show. The Living Island was mesmerizing for me. It was a place created purely out of the imagination. It was full of puppets and dragons (Pufnstuf) and even dark foreboding trees that come to life in order to protect Witchiepoo's castle from interlopers. Throughout the movie, and on every Saturday morning, she would desperately try to steal Freddie the magic flute away from the heroes of the tale. Unlike Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, Jimmy never once longed to return to his home. He was happy existing in a land filled with adventure and freedom. There were no parental holds to fight against. There were no responsibilities cast upon Jimmy's new world. Yes, that witch was a pain in the butt but the very idea of living on an island filled by magic was almost more than I could stand. I realized very quickly that, like Jimmy, I could get in a boat and float away. He got to do it on screen and I could do the same but in my head.

            In the early 1970s, my mother would play The Mamas and the Papas Greatest Hits over and over. The  LP always sat at the front of the stereo case. So when Cass Elliot  (Mama Cass), appeared in the Pufnstuf film as Witch Hazel, I was completely delighted.

Reality stokes the imagination. The mix of live action and costume and puppetry blended together and managed to inspire my already vivid mind.  Both the film and the television program were produced by Sid and Marty Krofft, sibling co-producers of many children's shows and variety programming like Donny and Marie (1976). I loved the like-minded additions to the TV schedule throughout the decade. Other Krofft Brother series like Sigmund and the Sea Monsters and especially Land of the Lost stole me away in the same manner as Pufnstuf. With each journey into their imagination, I journeyed further into my very own. They gave me permission to think in such esoteric terms. I did not know it at the time but they helped train me to use my mind as a useful tool of survival. HR Pufnstuf has managed to find a position on the list of my favourite childhood things. It is up there with my missing Green Lantern ring or my G.I. Joe headquarters. Along with Snoopy and Simon, I was not only entertained by each instalment of each series, but they managed to teach a very curious boy some very important lessons about imagination and the option to escape.

"Youth is not a time of life; it is a state of mind; it is not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips and supple knees; it is a matter of the will, quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions; it is the freshness of the deep springs of life."

(Samuel Ullman, American humanitarian)

Photos

https://www.pinterest.com/nanorod89/snoopy-and-the-red-baron/

http://www.jedisparadise.com/5/Simon_in_the_Land_of_Chalk_Drawings.htm

http://film.thedigitalfix.com/content/id/71003/pufnstuf-the-movie.html

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snoopy#History

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_in_the_Land_of_Chalk_Drawings

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H.R._Pufnstuf

WTF?

"There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception." (Aldous Huxley, English author)

            I ask myself almost every day. It's been 22 years but it is still the fresh hell that it has always been. So many questions. So few answers. As if the death of my partner hadn't shaken me to the core. Enough was enough for me. I'm not sure if it was the Bipolar activating or the encompassing grief that came with his demise. Something crossed over in me and led me into that so-called tunnel. I remember popping the 100x10 mg Valium I got from my doctor the day before. I then drove into the cemetery but that's about all I can remember. My next awareness came several days later when I woke up in the hospital. Obviously, my suicide attempt had failed miserably. I was so pissed off it hurt. It didn't matter that "it wasn't my time." All that mattered to me at that moment was my own failure. I couldn't even kill myself properly.

            My plan had been a sure one. In fact, I made sure. There was no way that it could possibly fail. I premeditated with precision and much research. I secured all that medication. I thought I knew what I was doing. The tunnel, it showed me the way. All I had to do was off myself and that seemed easy enough. I guess I am not very good at it. This was not the first time I tried to say goodbye and goodnight. Like bad foreshadowing, my survival seems so certain now. What happened before and after this event has little to do with anything. February 19th, 1995 stands all on its own. It is set in stone, this mystery. For years now, it has followed me. Over and over and over again, I have questioned exactly what happened that night. I need to know, I want a clearer picture. The not knowing, it haunts me.

            I long ago realized I could never find an answer to any of my questions. I had to learn to live with the unknown, a fact which has never satisfied my inquiring mind. For both myself and the doctors who examined me post-suicide, one thing was clear. I should never have made it through that night. Indications are that somewhere in the ether I may have passed away like I had planned. I defecated and urinated like any good corpse would. My body temperature lowered to a dangerous degree. I might even have been frozen, thanks to the deep cold of a Canadian winter, mid-February in Stratford, Ontario. You wouldn't have known it from any part of me. I was fully intact. The night was clear and cold and was supposed to ravage my exterior while the interior slept forever. With only a hoodie, jeans and my footwear to protect me, I laid down right in the crispy white snow and continued my descent. The footprints from my car showed investigators the way. I did survive but no one has been able to elaborate on just why the cold did nothing but encourage that survival. There were suggestions by the Coroner that it may have actually slowed down any metabolizing, inhibiting the Valium from doing swift damage. The stupid junk worked well enough to blind me to that night, for life, but it wasn't strong enough to kill me. All I was left with was me.

"Some days are just bad days, that's all. You have to experience sadness to know happiness, and I remind myself that not every day is going to be a good day, that's just the way it is!" (Dita Von Teese. American entertainer)

            My brother told me you could see the outline of where I laid down in the snow that night. You could follow the footprints all the way back to the car that I had left running in a snow bank. The door and my wallet were open for anyone who might have happened upon the scene. The grave was undisturbed otherwise. My trail was the only trail and stopped dead where I tossed myself on the snow and dirt. He duly noted that there was no clear indication of how I actually got from that freshly dug grave to the other side of the cemetery where I was found midday on the 20th. I spent 15 hours in that cold and unforgiving bleakness, well unforgiving for everyone but me. It's poetic justice being the only corpse to ever walk out a cemetery. There was no frostbite, no frost burn, no damage whatsoever. There was nothing but waking up absolved. There was just no consequence for any of my actions. It didn't seem fair to me that other people get to go but I am not welcome. I took the entire experience personally.

            It just goes without saying, if you've had a near-death experience, that indicates you have come close to death at some point during the process. To be frank, I am still not sure if the one I experienced that night was real or live to tape. All I know is what I remember and all I remember is what I know. The details are unimportant but if I believe in what occurred during my state that night, then it explains a few things about my location when I was found the next day. In my NDE, one of the figures present informed me that I could not go forward, that I had to go back and that "it was not my time." Apparently, even spectres get to patronize me. He came forward out of the light and he lifted me, easily, with no struggle whatsoever and he carried me away. While I don't recall any destination, I know that I was found around noon in the only spot with a clear view of the cemetery.  It was like I was planted there. There were no footprints to tell of any tale that might have happened. There was absolutely no indication of how the hell I got to that spot. There was only my body, unconscious, in peril and quite frozen. Although I have never been able to rationalize the event, the evidence seems to point in one clear direction. Sometimes you cannot know what happened and that in itself can change you. We all flounder in the unknown.

            One of the doctors who treated me after this incident told me the story of a rugby player from Scotland who passed out on the field of play. He was rather drunk and was not thinking clearly. He spent the entire night laid out on the grass. His uniform was of little protection from the overnight weather and the morning dew. It wasn't a frigid night by any means, with a low temperature of 4°C. Next morning, they inconveniently found him already quite dead from hypothermia. The same doctor then told me about a homeless man who slept on a public grate mid-winter and survived a severe drop in temperature to -23 °C (not including the wind chill factor). The man did not fall victim to the unforgiving Canadian freeze. Despite having minimal protection from the cold, and the 10 cm of snow that covered him as he slept, he got up and walked away come morning. One could argue it was the subway vent that he slept on that heated him enough to survive. Perhaps the snow insulted him enough to save him from an icy fate. The same exposure would have killed a lesser man. The same conditions that ended that rugby player probably would not have killed someone else. Perhaps, one might conclude, life is  random and often makes no sense. Sometimes things just happen and trying to explain why they happened is a fruitless effort. There is no apparent rhyme or reason to this universe. Sometimes the way it is just is. There is nothing fatalistic about it.

"People who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do." 

(Isaac Asimov, American writer)

            I try to go back and pick out the lessons from my history, the ones that I missed the first go round. I try not to dwell in that otherland, I just visit it on occasion (quite often as I am writing). When I re-examine the day that I died (so to speak), I have more questions than anything else. I wish I had firsthand knowledge of what happened during those lost 15 hours but I do not. It is a blank page for me. All I am left with is the unexplained. As if existing isn't mystery enough. Any conclusion is guesswork, backed up by little or no evidence. My experience is to the contrary. What I can recall from before the event and after the event melds with a foggy place. It is a blindness that comes over me and I am abandoned with nothing but even more questions. I have had to surrender to the predicament. There is that penetrating light. There are the figures and the tunnel and the experience that saved my life. At this late stage, it is a little too late to go hunting for answers. I will never have them, no matter how I search. Sometimes in life things are easy. The rest of the time is a challenge for most of us. I want to remember. When I think back on that cemetery and that night so long ago, I may never come to fully understand what may or may not have happened. Regardless, I am still here and able to try. Sometimes we aren't supposed to know, that's why they call it blind faith.

"There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know."

(Donald Rumsfeld, American politician)

Photo

http://digiday.com/series/wtf-ad-tech/

Ha! Ha!

"It is better to be beautiful than to be good. But... it is better to be good than to be ugly."

(Oscar Wilde, Irish playwright)

            When I think back on my High School years, I often cringe. I generally assume it's that way for most of us. As a product of 1960s breeding, I spent the end of the 1970s and the beginning of the 1980s trapped inside the walls of Strathroy District Collegiate Institute. Located deep in southern Ontario, Canada, it was pretty much your standard fare when it came to white skin and middle class. There was only one black student my entire tenure. Most of my friends drove their own cars, the privileged treasures of a well-off family and a 16th birthday surprise. While I was not the most popular, in any sense, I was not at the bottom of the social ladder. I had many friends and for most of the 4 years I attended classes there, SDCI was refuge to one degree or another. I hated it but it allowed me a freedom to explore my budding homosexuality. At times, I was popular for seedy reasons. In recent years, Facebook, Twitter and varied social media platforms have granted me access to people I have not seen or heard from in over 30 years. It has been, to say the least, an experiment that went from good to bad to ugly. I am still surprised at just how literal, and occasionally sad, that statement really is. Things always change, and boy, so do people and not always for the better.  

            I suppose the most surprising part of this social media experience is the way our memories of how things, and people, were back then stands in contrast with who they are now. It can be scary to come across the girl you dated in grade 9 on Facebook. An addition of a husband and three kids is one thing but my God, what happened to her? How did she get so old and so tired looking? She is the same age as me but she looks more like a grandparent than my peer. I'm that old myself but I certainly don't look the part. Maybe I'm blessed with outstanding genes but that's beside the point. She is not alone in her state of decay. Almost every single person I knew back in high school has turned up on social media. Almost every single one of them looked half a bullet away from rigor mortis. It's difficult to be humble when the best looking guy from school now weighs 320 pounds and has pock marks the size of gumballs all over his face. What a shame. I used to sit back in English class and watch him emote sexy. I had it bad for him which is, apparently, no longer a problem. Whatever happened to him, it wasn't merciful. It seems to have worked out this way for almost everyone I knew back when. I got better looking with age and they all seem to have fallen into a vat of butt fucking ugly. I still shake my head when I come across one of them.

"The beautiful has but one type, the ugly has a thousand."

(Victor Hugo, French poet)

            There are exceptions to every rule. For the most part however, this new standard,

whatever happened, is more the rule than the exception. There are a few stray exclusions that I have come across. One of my closest friends in high school now has children older than when we once knew each other. She still looks good for being a grandmother. There is our mutual friend. I had no idea he was gay back in the day. He looks the same, if you ask me. One of the guys I had gay experiences with (during that time) added me to his Facebook one day around a year ago. He sure looked good, I have to tell you the truth. Unfortunately while the exterior was intact, something stupid his way came and seems it to have settled in to stay. I deleted him a few months ago when he started posting homophobic comments on his timeline. I guess it's true that the louder they scream, the harder they suck. It must be embarrassing to look that good and be so ugly on the inside. The same cannot be said for most of my former classmates. It's hard for me to believe just how different reality is from how I thought it to be. I spent years punishing myself for not being better like them when the very people I was emulating in my head were big losers just like me. I had no idea that the aging process could do such harm to so many. Even the teachers I once idealized, or hated (it all depends on the class they taught), met up with the same infusion of erosion.  

            A few years ago, I attended my nephew Matthew's graduation at the new high school, just out on the edge of town. SDCI is no longer, replaced by a seniors facility. The grounds are the same but the entire scope of my teen years has been levelled and removed. It's weird to drive by it now. The change is so noticeable. I felt exactly the same when I saw one of my music teachers at Matt's graduation. It's not that he was some regal lion back when I hated going to his classes but whatever he has been eating has not done him much good. In the day, I was intimidated by him. I may have even been frightened of him at some point, I am unsure. Now, before me stood a mockery of that man. I had no idea how short he turned out to be. I had no idea that grey hair was a fashion statement. I kept forgetting that he was well over 60 years old now. I kept flashing back to when he was my instructor, not just the decrepit fat pig that stood before me. When our eyes met that day, I looked him up and down and then I laughed right in his face. I have to admit it was poetic justice. I have to admit it made me feel pleasure that he looked so bad. I have to admit the entire experience made me feel rather good about myself. Later on, when I saw him conducting the orchestra during the program, I felt like Nelson Muntz from The Simpsons. I had to contain myself from yelling out "Ha! Ha!"

            There was the lesbian priest who somehow found a way to make me feel like a heathen. She managed to transform from a lovely young woman into a really obese ugly old man, and all without surgery. Blocked. There was the buddy of mine who accepted my friend request, then deleted me less than an hour later. I can't help it that he doesn't like "the gays." The "gays" don't like bald skinny men who look 15 years older than they should. Blocked. After a few days of reminiscing, the girl I played euchre with for three years during my incarceration at SDCI asked me for money. I should have known that look when I first saw her profile picture. She had been quite the looker in her day but now she seemed more like a crackhead than anything remotely like she used to. Blocked. 

One woman accused me of not returning her calls after I had sex with her in grade 12. For the record, I have never taken my tugboat to tuna town. Blocked. One old pal used to park his bike at our house and walk each morning with me to school. We were teammates on the swim club for years. The years had not been kind to him. Honestly, he looked, in his photo, like a cancer patient at the end of treatment. For a Canadian, he sure likes his Donald Trump. Blocked. There are so many faces, so many memories and yet I fear they are for naught. Apparently, you can't go home again because the house is dishevelled and really, really wretched. All in all, I have come out of the experiences feeling quite pleased with myself and who I turned out to be as a person. Don't think I don't realize how lucky I am that at this point in my life, I haven't turned.

"Never pick a fight with an ugly person, they've got nothing to lose."

(Robin Williams, American comedian)

            Often, I look back on my life with a sense of regret and shame. The things I did as a young man are not the things of legend. In the greatest sense, they left scars and not just for me it would seem. The ripples in the water make splashes at the shore. Time has gone by and the world changes, even if we believe that it won't. Some people are stuck in the pain. Some move on, never to look upon it again. I prefer to witness these experiences and attempt to learn the lesson from them that I am supposed to. I pay attention so that I might see clearly. I am simply an observer, a reporter who relays his perceptions. Don't shoot the messenger. I can't help it that you look like that.

            I have tried to touch base with my past and I have tried to rekindle many of the relationships that were once successful for me. I don't think people like to visit yesterday let alone relive it more than a quarter of a century later. With the noted exceptions, I am no longer friends with anyone I knew in high school. It is sort of sad, in a way. I think it is fascinating to explore a person you knew so long ago. Most people just aren't interested in such silly things. Any interaction is for amusement and little else these days. While I try to be modest, my self-assurance tells me I am better just for the trying. Any lesson I might learn from all this is lost on me. I'm not sure there is a clear one to be found. I can only assume that I am not alone in all this. I have to wonder why so many people I once knew turned out the way they did. I could venture a guess and say that when you are ugly inside, it shows through on the outside. You can't go back but you can carry it with you and let it weigh you down. There is a reason I haven't had anything to do with most of these people since high school. There is a reason I don't have anything to do with them now. I am proud of the man I have become and I don't need a bunch of miserable uglies reminding me of the asshole I once was.

"Everything is not black-and-white. I'm really interested in the gray area - not justifying it, not glorifying it, not condoning it, but at least having people see there's a genesis for every event in our lives. There's some divine order to it, whether it's ugly or beautiful." 

(Isaiah Washington, American actor)

Photo

http://bighugelabs.com/onblack.php?id=133946204

No More Cry

"Ben, the two of us need look no more

We both found what we were looking for

With a friend to call my own

I'll never be alone

And you my friend will see

You've got a friend in me"

            Charlotte was my very first pet. The tiny standard white mouse marked the beginning of a lifelong love affair. Yep, a love affair with rodents, almost always female rodents. From the different coloured mice through gerbils and hamsters and finally rats, my life has always played host to one gnawer after another. There were brief moments in time that my life did not contain these creatures. More often than not, especially in the last 15 years, I have incubated each tiny beast like it was a cat or even a favourite dog. I am unsure as to the reason for my deep appreciation. Perhaps the introduction to the species as a young child defined my want; I got Charlotte when I was 5 years old. Perhaps my exposure to film and television featuring Mickey Mouse or Tom and Jerry cinched the deal. Motion pictures like Willard may have inspired a unique fascination for me. Each little puff was always easy for me to grow attached to. There have been so many, dozens and dozens, and each little lady found a place in my being. Each one also fell away like all things do. I spent as much time in the losing as I did in the loving.  Without fail, life always managed to steal them from me.

             People get attached to their pets. There is something so safe when adopting an animal. It is like adding another member to your family. It is not the size or species that defines their place. It is our relationship with them that connects us. It may be a bird or a ferret, or even a rattlesnake, but for many people pets are as significant an addition as any child would be. Of course, not everyone is a friend to the animal kingdom. Men do the most terrible things to those we consider innocent. They murder them for food. They abuse them for fun. They continue to test with them. Some men even rape them, each beast unable to give their consent. These people are the ugliest people of all. Like the guy who locks his dog in a car on a hot summer's day, it seems easy for them to cast away a life they clearly do not see as equal to their own. There is a cavalier disregard that appears quite rampant. One of the saddest parts of living, for me, has been watching creature after creature suffer at the hands of evil men. I much prefer when we embrace our fellow travellers and let them lead us in the light.

            Some were smart and some quite stupid. Each rodent had its own personality, its own style and quiet grace. The smaller the beast, the greater the tender. An increase in size usually meant a higher IQ and a nasty habit of biting. I suppose I got tired, early on, of handling the frail things when all I wanted was a more hands-on approach. Smaller mice evolved into gerbils and then gerbils evolved into hamsters. For a few years, each mini-teddy bear was more than enough. When I discovered the rat, I discovered much joy. Such intelligent and social beings, each one was a unique and singular entity unto itself. The first girl, a plain white pink-tailed damsel, crawled and played with me in the security of our bathroom place. Savannah set the course it seems, the standard I continued and tried to replicate. I even graduated from one friend to several. Each time one passed away, I replaced them with another. I felt sorry for them living all alone. Well knowing how social rats tend to be, I felt obligated to keep more than one. At one point, for almost a year, I had three little ladies living in the large metal cage on top of my antique wardrobe in our library. In the end, I had no idea the trap I had set for myself.

"Ben, you're always running here and there

You feel you're not wanted anywhere

If you ever look behind

And don't like what you find

There's something you should know

You've got a place to go"

            It  may have been foolish letting things with much less of a lifespan enter my heart. Watching one pet after another die has been torture for me. It has been a privilege to know each one but it brought me great sorrow, each and every time. It may have been easier for me not to care, to never get involved in the act of compassion. I am very aware that there is a price we pay for loving and the bill comes due at the whimsy of time and eventuality. Each one jumped ship every year or so, for the most part in February. As if that month wasn't bad enough for me, to have a constant shrill from the toll reach me, over and over, was not only a challenge but a mere harbinger of the reality that comes from each day we exist within it. Although the pain may not equal the loss of a parent or spouse, or even a child, the attachment to each and every critter hurt as much as any mortal passing might bring. It seems, luckily, that the hurt fades quicker than it would with any human relationship we might have had. Even the victims of a harsh death seemed easier to 'rat'-ionalize given a little time and space. The pain may not last as long as it does with most human deaths but it still hurts the same, at least initially. One after another, these tiny morsels of fur met their end.

            Most of these gnawer deaths were simple and seemingly easy. It may ache the same but there is something to be said for a quiet, private passing. Finding a body at the bottom of a cage is simpler than having to put something down. I can appreciate the mercy gained from age and the symptoms that come with it. Unfortunately, doom is not always a friendly face. Even age does not necessarily determine cause of death. A few of the rats I have kept over the years did not die gracefully. I've been informed, over and over, that the large growths which sprung up about their lower extremities were a result of inbreeding. Ovaries, a bringer of life, also can bring disease, mutation and great suffering. Watching something you love transform into a mass of tumour was not my favourite part of these experiences. Eventually, the foreign invaders sucked the very life right out of a few of my little ladies. One victim, Emily was her name, died in the bathroom on a Saturday morning. When I went to clean the cage, she sat up on the floor, amidst shavings and pieces of food, and those lumps burst open like a giant zit. Blood poured out from her and her end grew near.  You could hear her pain and see her torment as she spilled out all over the place. I reacted without having to think. I grabbed her, clutched her hard, and submerged her into the toilet. Her suffering met its end by my hand. She was the last pet I was allowed to bury on my parents' property. After 40 years there, there was just no more room. That pet cemetery is full. Up on the hill she sleeps with all the cats and the dogs and all her brethren. I would rather she was buried in my backyard, up beside Emma and Ella, in the corner by the new spruce tree. There is no real marker in this cemetery. There is only a quiet place, a simple place, a place where they can be safe and rest easy.

"I used to say 'I' and 'me'

Now it's 'us' now it's 'we'

I used to say 'I' and 'me'

Now it's 'us' now it's 'we'"

            When I put my previous pets down, it was easy to justify the act because of their health or age or situation. There is something to be said for dying "au naturel." You think the mercy one grants to our pets would make it easier to say goodbye to them. It is never easy. It is what we agree to when we love something. Putting that something down, having to mercy kill it in a literal manner, embedded a guilt I wish I did not have to know. Since then, I struggled with the idea of halting this torture. I decided that with Eden, one last rat, I would no longer keep any type of rodent or gnawer of any form. I just can't separate from  the attachment I make with each one. Their time here is so brief compared to cats and dogs and even most aquarium fish. Previously, not one of the critters I have collected over the years lived to see their 2nd birthday. Most died somewhere around 18 months, tops. I could not help but take it subjectively, over and over, death after death, decade after decade. I just can't take it anymore. The constant bombardment of grief is one thing but watching something you love fade in slow painful motion is something I can no longer expose myself to. When Ella, Eden's dark chocolate coated sister, died in early fall 2016, the die was cast. I bought Eden's coffin almost right away. I made the decision to no longer indulge but for the life of me.

            It just fucking figures. Almost immediately after Ella's passing (at the bottom of the cage, I might add), Eden began to show a tumour growing rapidly under her immediate right front paw. I said to myself, "It won't be long now." All these months later and the damn thing holds onto life like I do. Often a distant, territorial beast, the death of her sister turned her into a moody crank. When the growth started growing, she turned from crank to miserable bitch. I loved her anyway. First thing in the morning, every morning, found me covering a saltine cracker with whipped cream from a can. Every morning she supped, her tongue flicking bit after bit past her fuzzy white face. I thought for sure she would not make it through Christmas or New Years. I then found myself readjusting as Valentine's Day passed but she didn't. For awhile, one day she was fine and the next she wheezed heavily, looked weak and even let me pet her, a feat I rarely accomplished in the almost 2 years she has lived here. Ironically, the last rat was the longest rat. I've had Eden, I believe, weeks longer than any other rodent. These days, she sits in her box with her pretty green shroud and waits for internment. The winter cold will keep her but also restricts her from joining her family out in their frozen corner spot. I am a little saddened but I am glad it will be the final pet burial I have to attend. I have decided that both cats will be cremated and put on a shelf. If I never have to buy another coffin or drown another friend, my days will be better, much better.

 "Ben, most people would turn you away

I don't listen to a word they say

They don't see you as I do

I wish they would try to

I'm sure they'd think again

If they had a friend

like Ben"

(Ben, Michael Jackson 1972)

           

            I am not afraid to love something or someone. As a matter of fact (and revelation), I have spent my life doing just that. I am not afraid of commitment. I thrive in those conditions. I find it easy to maintain. I am loyal to a fault, whether man or beast. At this point in my life, I just can't imagine going through this type of experience every year or so. It's not fair to me to put myself through it. I know very well it would be easy to carry on just like it has been.  I know there will be great temptation. Something has got to give. With the exception of any fish I might one day bring into my life, I will never own another pet smaller than a shoe box. I can't do it anymore. It hurts much more than I imagine it is supposed to. I am trying to embrace my limitations. It's the only way I can manage to keep a little peace in my life. I will miss it, I will miss them. I would have thought it would be harder, considering all the laughter and joy these multi-coloured buggers brought into my life. Each and every one meant the world to me but from here on out, there will be no more cry.

Photos

Sydney and Sybil

Summer 2013

Eden

Autumn 2016

Too Soon

Dead End, part two

            The age-old question of why bad things happen to good people is a little one-sided. You never hear people asking why good things happen to bad people. The truth is that "the rain" falls on both the good and the bad, the just and the unjust. Tragedy filters through our lives like strings of cotton candy. It may look all pretty but it does nothing but leave a sticky residue (and often makes you fat). We spend our lives cleaning up the mess. We forget the real tragedy that awaits us all. It's a no brainer, everybody dies. We mostly try not to deal with it. We put it away so we don't have to think about it. The difficulties of life tend to find a place amongst our living, but impending death is a stranger we do not want to get to know. It is the inevitable, a looming date we will never really encounter. Life itself is the constant reminder.

            I have always believed that the fear of death comes from our conditioning. A lifetime of "you're going to hell" would make anyone cringe. We push the idea, the very concept aside in hopes that our forced ignorance will somehow free us from our own mortality. At least, it will free us from thinking about our own mortality. You can try and block it out all you want but just living in itself can act as the admonishment. Death is part of our daily lives even if we don't want to hear about it, or see it, or think about it. Often, an event occurs that cements our doom, even if only for a small amount of time. Something always renders our "blindness" irrelevant. Although the death of someone we know well may be much more than some reminder, the deaths of others, particularly celebrities and the like, tweak our fear and act as harbingers of our very own destruction. The more renowned, the greater the recognition. The greater the recognition, the more we pay attention. Duly noted and all that jazz.

            When Gilda Radner died on February 20^th, 1989, the laughter did not die for her spouse Gene Wilder. He carried on, saddened it seemed, but not silenced. When he himself passed on August 29^th, 2016, I felt sadness. I also felt some form of joy for them. I wished they were together once again. The entire thing was a reflection of sorts. With my mother long gone, my father merely waits for his reunion; soon it says, soon. I am always aware that he sits waiting to die. It is crystal clear that his end is coming near. It might not be tomorrow. It might not be next week. It's coming all the same. In a way, my projection of the Wilder's reunification rings of my hope for him. Sometimes the sweetest sorrow can be the gladdest fate. When I was sixteen, going on seventeen, I loved the 1965 film The Sound of Music. The truth be told, I still do. When I was younger still, I would stand in front of the stereo system playing the LP over and over again. I can sing you any song from the soundtrack, word for word, note for note. It all started so long ago. Even then I could have envisioned the death of Maria or Gayorg (they were old). It had come to be expected. When Liesl (Charmin Carr) departed us at age 75, on September 17^th, my mouth fell open. Realizing that the Van Trapp children were starting to die off, I stood to attention and got the message loud and clear. I had to ask myself, "Who's next?" The reply is fitting. "You are."

            As a Canadian, you would think I'd have felt something when Leonard Cohen died on November 10^th. I hold some respect for him as an artist and his contribution to music and popular culture in general, but I didn't get it. Some of his songs are classics but only when performed by another artist. If I want to hear gravel trucks unloading their junk, I will find myself a quarry. Too soon? I felt the same way when another fellow Canadian, Alan Thicke, died on December 13^th. As a teenager in the 1980s, I sat up night after night in a Bipolar state. For awhile, In the Thicke of the Night was the only original programming on air in that time slot. Nothing he did afterwards, especially Growing Pains, made me like him more. As a matter of fact, his later career only strengthened my dislike. I never bought into his "nice guy" facade. Both of these homegrown departures merely brought it all home for me. God was killing off more than just the Americans. Even when we have disdain for a person, we can be affected by their death. Not all road signs are painted in pretty colours.

            The end of 2016 was met with blow after blow. When Florence Henderson died on November 24^th, the bell rang out and the final round began. Here ends the story of a woman who played Brady. For a little while, a month or so, it seemed like Carol would be the last goodbye we had to experience for the year. It tricked me, presenting itself as a nice gift from the day-to-day gloom and despair so rampant in the previous 11 months. The gift we received came on Christmas Day with the exit of George Michael. I suppose, in a literal manner, it was apropos being it was his last Christmas. Too Soon? Like some sick crescendo, the entire matter came to its head on December 27^th with the passing of Carrie Fisher. We had been given a heads up when she was taken from that airplane and put in ICU. You could just see what was coming. Flashes of Princess Leia met the news that she had passed away from cardiac arrest. I have a deep fondness for this woman. She is a familiar face and a voice that cried out through this insanity. Her words moved me. Her life was an example of how to rise above almost anything. Unfortunately, you cannot survive death. Tell that to her mother. It was a one, two punch right in the face. It was so sad, so sudden and so strange and weird. The very next day, Debbie Reynolds, while planning her daughter's funeral, suffered a stroke then died a few hours later. How surreal, how tragic that it should all end this way for them. I'm not sure of any lesson watching this experience holds. Is it a testament to the love between a mother and  her child or is it a warning regarding the cost of that love? On the road to heaven or hell, sometimes we think the road map is wrong and the signposts in error. If we stop to take notice, if we study them and compare them, they still point in the same direction. 

            What a year 2016 was. I am not alone in my gratitude that it is well over and done. I don't remember such a tear-sodden, mournful year, not ever. It was seemingly unending, taking far too long to be over. Day after day, week after week, one dead body after another floated to the top of the pond. Eventually you could walk across it, usually on the heads of one celebrity after another. Of course, millions of other people died in 2016. Children, loved ones, even our pets all passed away in the same diverse manner. Grief is a subjective thing. It doesn't follow any arrows or signs. There is no warning. There can be awareness. There can be recognition but not everyone is so gracious in their mourning. For many of us, it would appear, we give more time and energy to strangers and their demise than we do the very people we have in our lives on a day-to-day basis. The death of the rich and famous trumps, in many cases, the senseless onslaught the rest of the world has to deal with. Most people just don't get it. When someone dies, when we are affected, it is a lesson, a harbinger we can use to be more sensitive to the life that we lead. When we don't learn from it, we repeat it. I wonder if we get the chance, on the other side, to whine about our regrets in the same manner that we ignore them on this side of living. We certainly seem to care more about David Bowie or Prince than we do about Fidel Castro or Harper Lee. Celebrity death is now a niche market, with surges in sales long before the body even starts to rot.

            On June 12^th, 2016, Omar Mateen, a 29-year-old security guard, killed 49 people and wounded 53 others in a senseless rampage inside Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida. It hit very close to home for me. I certainly grieved and recognized the event  much more than the passing of Glenn Frey. It did not linger so with the rest of the world. In a few days, it stood merely as another attack, another senseless display of what hate and ignorance can really do. The shrines were removed and we only mention it in recap. The other day I saw a docudrama about how the world changed with all the pointless deaths in the entertainment industry during the past year. Their death is the point. In the end, it seems we only care about someone's life when they are already dead. No one gave a fuck about George Michael until he croaked on whatever might have been in his mouth at the time. The North American market, perhaps not exclusively, seems to thrive on instant gratification. I think we project what we are afraid to feel on those things we think we are familiar with, but at a distance. It's easy to care about the corpse of Robin Williams or Joan Rivers. There is no real investment so we think we have nothing to really lose. We feel like we know them but it's a lie we tell ourselves to feel better.

            If the good things in life are supposed to make us more aware of life, then shouldn't the bad things like death make us more aware of death? We embrace birthdays and anniversaries, all the while dancing, endlessly seizing the day. We tend to shun harshness, using death as a means to satisfy our overwhelming ego. Most days, for the best of us, it can be a challenge to even give a shit let alone carry the baggage with us as we skip across that pond. It is not only the best part of living that should make us take notice. The departure of someone we care about, or convince ourselves that we care about, may not evoke dancing, but it bears attention just the same. Sometimes, if we let it, all that bad stuff helps us to recognize all the good stuff. For me, it's all just too soon. I doubt very highly, at least from my personal experiences, that many people think like this let alone act like it. In my experience, death has become like fast food. We say we don't have any part it, and how bad it is for us, as we shuffle off to a corner and down two packs of fries, a double Big Mac and a diet Coke. We only want it when we want it. When we are done, so is the need for it. Death has become disposable, a refuge we can cry within for a day or two just to make ourselves feel better. All it does is give us gut rot.

            When I was a child and my first pet, a white mouse named Charlotte, died, I buried her in the yard then I went and got me another one. The year 2016 was much like this early experience. If you waited long enough, you witnessed that everyone is replaceable. Sound bites and video clips are the new obituary. Hasbro should put out a new game, Celebrity Hopscotch. A different dead star's face glued to a stone for throwing sounds like a plan to me. It's the game of chance that makes no real difference.

            I had dotted all my I's and crossed all my T's and moved on to the next depressing topic. I figured that several blogs about the death of celebrities in 2016 would pretty much cover it all. Life always has a way of surprising you and not always for the better. Fate doesn't need just one year to rip the heart out and squish it. Weeks had gone by without much ado. Although Canadian SCTV actor Tony Rosato died on January 11^th, 2017, there were no signs of any real crushing to come. The silence was much needed and we all caught our breath a little. On January 25^th, any promise of hope was dashed against a hard cold reality. Death stops for no one. After a week on life support, Mary Tyler Moore left us all behind. From the moment I heard the news, my soul cried out for the world I use to know. Many of my first memories are from watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show, every Saturday night, with my mother at my side. I followed her career, she became a mainstay in my entertainment bubble. I knew it would be like this for me. Who would turn the world on with her gone?

            I fell into a deep depression. The end of Mary Richards meant the end of the way things used to be for me. She was the last bastion of a life already so long gone. Her passing seemed to awaken a heavy sense of futility in me. I started to question any reason I should have to carry on with the life that I was living. I felt useless, a coming victim to the whimsy of God or Jesus or even the Devil. I lost any sense of it all, any comfort I may have artificially created regarding mercy and fairness and compassion. For over an hour, I cried heavily. It all flooded over me like a wave of recognition. The loss of my mother, the impending doom of my father, the lingering traces of Doug, all hit me like that proverbial brick wall. I suppose, as someone put it, I had an existential crisis. The finality of even Mary seemed to shake me to the core. The next day I found myself standing in the very same place I have always stood. Turn it off, make it lesser, try to feel nothing. I would never have imagined such an extreme response to such a sad predicament. Her dead end meant a final end, at least to the world I once relied on.

           

            We go through this life alone and we die alone. Along the way, there are warning signs, markers if you will, that remind us of our own mortality. Without them, we would be mostly blind to the reality of being a human being. We often have to live in denial to make it through even one day. We are all eventually going to meet our Maker, whether we take the time to recognize this is irrelevant. Death waits for no man. When your time is up, your time is up. It matters little if you think you are going to live forever. We form attachments as we gather moss. People we don't even know become more important than most of the people we do know. Their death can be as traumatic as any other similar experience. It can touch us and in so doing, it can reach us with the message it holds. You have to seize the day. You have to seize your life. You have to seize everything.

Photos

http://shakeitup.wikia.com/wiki/File:Bye_Gravestone.jpg

https://www.vice.com/en_se/article/the-graves-of-the-rich-and-famous-in-los-angeles-will-make-your-apartment-look-pathetic-1229

http://www.suggest-keywords.com/bGlsYnVybiBldmVudHM/

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/396879785891907755/

https://www.pinterest.com/explore/carpe-diem/

Sources

http://pix11.com/2016/12/28/the-full-list-notable-celebrity-deaths-in-2016/