Insitus

“At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, ‘Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.’” (Matthew 18:1-4, NIV)

            Although I was born in Toronto, London Ontario is the most familiar Canadian city for me. Known as ‘The Forest City’, it lies approximately 200 km west of the Greater Toronto Area. I have lived there with both my partners. I went to university and college in London. I partied heavily there. I thrived there. I know every area of the city very well, as if there was a map of the place etched in my brain. I have spent a great deal of my time in the suburbs and the downtown core. The Greyhound bus station nestles near the Covent Garden Market,  right in heart of it all. I used to know the bus schedule off by heart. I still have a doctor that I see. Her office, in the very core, overlooks one of the busiest streets in the city. I have travelled to London so often that its geography plays in flashback. While the downtown still exists, it does not thrive. It is dying the same slow death that other downtowns are all across North America. Technology tends to kill off what isn’t advancing with it. The internet has meant doom. It’s a plague carried in on all those smartphones. I digress. One visible deterioration is the increase in the homeless and panhandlers. On a busy day, you can't walk twenty feet on Dundas Street without the standard “spare some change?” While I have compassion and much empathy, I cannot possibly give to everyone. How do you choose who to be kind to? I cannot actually know who is in need or who just wants some more Meth. I must discern so I listen to my instinct.

            The moment I reached into my pocket, she exited the store we were standing in front of. I can still feel the cold chill in the air. As I handed him all I had, she began to accost us both. She tried to shame me for the “crime” of helping another. I was only “encouraging” him. She attacked him, condemning him for having the audacity of even asking for help. I have never forgotten that woman. It’s strange how less than a minute of your lifetime can change you. You can spend years looking for answers and guidance and in a heartbeat it comes. Now, some harpy remains my catalyst. Every time I think of the worst in people, she is the poster child. One of the reasons I try to be kind is because she told me that I shouldn’t be. I was always a friendly chap when I was younger. I was polite but a little crazy. It was easier for me to be mean than it was to be nice. I used to rest comfortably in the darkness but I never had  trouble being kind. If not for the grace of God, I may well have been that kid, sitting on the cold concrete begging for bus fare to get home. This is the reason I stopped to help him. Acting on the goodness in yourself is very important. I think God squeezes it out of us when we hold it all in. Being kind is not just an expression to a person or a charity, it’s an expression of the divine within us. Being generous, being compassionate, these are things we shouldn’t have to try to be. It’s a cold enough world with so little light. Be kind, or the world will not be kind to you. If you had memories of that unfeeling creature, you would know I speak the truth.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32, NIV)

            It’s kind of sad to look back over your life and realize you don’t have many examples of kindness you can refer to. I don’t just mean from others. I am guilty. For most of my life, being kind to strangers has never been an issue for me. Being nice to the people I actually know has been the challenge. I have always been able to see life from the view of others but familiarity tends to bring contempt. I believe that kindness is a natural state I have always been able to tap into. Even in the worst of times, I still acted on instinct and chose to be kind, no matter what I was feeling or going though or whether the Bible tells me so. Yes, I give to the homeless, I have helped care for the aging. I have given of myself, my money and of my time. It is still quite the challenge for me to be consistently kind. The older I have gotten, the more I am convinced that kindness shouldn’t be an effort but somehow it always is. The modern world is trying at best. You have to turn rather odd in order to actually survive. Compassion and empathy seem mere tools we use at our convenience. Other people are only shadows that pass us in the hall. Most times, we don’t even notice that anyone is there. Kindness is more than a happy place. It is an attitude, not only an intention. You can give all you want but until you give of yourself, you’re just cheating.

 “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.” (Colossians 3:12, NIV)

            One of my first exposures to the Gay community was my friend David. Although he was considerably older than me, we became fast friends. He introduced me to Gay culture. He exposed me to the seedier side, to bars and cruising and drag shows. No more than a friend, he was more a mentor than anything else. This sat well with his partner Paul. At 18, I was very single, very curious and very driven. The entire lifestyle played right into my untreated Bipolar disorder. I never even realized this underlying factor. Dave and his community demonstrated, to me at least, that there was substance to what most people view as hedonism. It may well be, but my first exposure, face to face, revealed much more than jockstraps and Liza Minnelli. It was into the second year of our friendship that Dave started to get sick. Treatment was different with HIV back in the early days of the slaughter. When someone got infected, their future was usually limited to months rather than years. People rotted right before your very eyes. The disease ate through most victims like a spitfire. It caught on and it spread. My friend Dave was no exception. After only six months from the notification, he looked more like a concentration camp survivor than the man I had known for over 2 years. I visited him regularly when he was admitted to the hospice. I watched the Kaposi Sarcoma spread over his torso like moss on the side of a tree. As the infection worsened, Dave went from HIV positive to full blown AIDS. His skin became almost translucent, the cancer spread inward and his suffering was great. At the end, the best he could do was lay there. He developed blindness and AIDS dementia. His time drew near, or so one would think. Like my grandfather after his stroke, Dave lingered, seemingly unwilling to let go of this life. He became a stranger in almost every way. I didn’t recognize him, he didn’t recognize me. He was lost, on the brink for months. 

            Morality is relative. Kindness is not. What one person might find reprehensible another might consider mercy. Kindness is to act upon that mercy. As Paul watched David slip slowly into nothing, you could see the weight if it. You could almost smell his fear. He told me it was like torture but from the inside out. Each day always more of it. The hardest part for him was the catch-22. He wanted David to have peace, to no longer suffer. At the same time, he did not wish to say goodbye. I can’t imagine being stuck in that endless waiting game. I cannot imagine what happens when you just can’t wait anymore. Eventually, the Kaposi filled his lungs and a ventilator was hooked up. Almost calmly, Paul reached for it and turned it off. It appeared methodical but I noticed his hands shaking. He was being pulled apart, despite what may have happened as consequence. Paul put David first. He offered mercy, the kindest gift of all. I don’t know the details of what followed but I know charges were never laid against anyone. I believe natural causes was mentioned in the coroner’s report. David was laid to rest, with only a few friends gathered to say goodbye. They had trouble getting a funeral home to bury an AIDS victim but luckily discovered a gay-owned establishment that had no issues. In all my years, of everything that has passed before me, I have never witnessed a greater act of kindness. To give up the thing you want the most so that another might benefit is the ultimate act of charity. Whenever I think back on the misery of those few months back in 1985, I imagine it differently. It was a time of great loss for the gay community and gay people in general. Few sat unaffected by this plague. For me, I will always remember how an act of kindness in the face of great peril freed my friend from constant and needless suffering. Be diligent in your kindness, always.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.”

(Galatians 5:22, NIV)

            It shouldn't be so hard to be kind. It should come easy but for some it does not. Perhaps the most frustrating thing about being mortal is that you can wish all you want but life always seems to stand in the way. Sometimes you have to force kindness, feed it through all the chaos and the suffering. Life, in the end, does not always allow us such a luxury. We are so absorbed in our own misery that it tends to be almost impossible to think about someone else. I would argue that shit always floats to the top of the toilet. Kindness is a built in reaction, not something hard pressed and obscure. It is written in the very makeup of each and every person. From the time we are children, the constructs of this reality battle our nature for dominance and control. We lose a part of ourselves as we grow and mature. Being kind becomes an inconvenience rather than a pleasure. As children, it was second nature. It was so easy to see without judgement, to act completely from instinct rather than some rational thinking or social instruction. As we lose our innocence, our view of others is corrupted and warped. It is through our integration that we lose compassion and empathy and any semblance of unity. We strive to be individual and along the way we learn how to care about only ourselves rather than each other. Simply through the act of existing, we sabotage the very best part of us. In fact, as we age, we must learn to be kind all over again. We change and so too does our reasoning.

“Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15, NIV)

            When we moved from the city to the town of Paris Ontario Canada, the silence, at first, was maddening. After 9:00 PM, the town literally disappears into obscurity. Walking through the streets and residential areas at night, you can almost feel all the people sleeping. It’s a cozy little village. Daylight brings the place to life. In my area, there is an elementary school only a city block away. Come morning, and later in the afternoon, the street we live on is overrun with children, strollers and parental guidance. Some kids are accompanied while others walk home alone or with friends. There is something magical about watching kids play. It can take you back to when you were that free. When I am in the front garden or working at the table in the front window, I spy. It makes me giggle to watch just how unaffected children appear to be. The energy they put out is bright and clear and completely natural. I remember when I was a kid and used to be like that. I try my best to maintain that and carry it with me. It takes much struggle for me to become so young. When the school lets out and the street fills with laughter, I sometimes wonder as they wander. Do they know sadness, and loss, and tragedy yet? Has the world already taken its toll? Every morning its the same children and every afternoon the same crowd bustles back home. 

            At any time I cared to notice, she walked home alone, down the street and into someplace else. She rarely carried  herself with a sense of joy and adventure. She is a pretty little girl, prone to jeans and plaid work wear. I just assume she dressed that way on purpose. It seemed to suit her in a country girl way. I don’t know her name but I know what she looks like. I know that she likes to pick flowers and she even skips on occasion. Every time I have seen her, she has never walked with anyone else. She seemed to want no part of the other children and adults who marched along the same way. I can’t be sure if she was sad, isolated or even bullied. All I knew was what I saw and she seemed out of place among all the other children. I was trimming the English Ivy in my front yard when the ruckus began. Dozens and dozens of school kids began to swarm the street like they do every weekday. I stopped my fiddling and picked up my coffee to watch. Like on every occasion that I see her, she sauntered without a care in the world, or at least I hoped she did. The ring from the bicycle behind her must have startled her. She attempted to jump up on the curb and instead tripped and fell flat on her face. It hurt to watch as she landed hard on the grassy knoll across the street from my house. Thank goodness it wasn’t a concrete sidewalk or driveway. I stood up quickly, trying to determine if she needed my help. To my surprise, other children, not the adults, came running to her assistance. A group of five of her peers helped her to her feet and made sure she was okay. The entire event was like someone had thrown birdseed on the ground and a flock of sparrows rushed it. I was pleasantly surprised. Not one of them asked her name. Not one of them asked her religion. No one cared if she would later be a lesbian. Their response seemed a natural reaction, not based on any one factor or another. Such kindness I have rarely seen, not like this anyway. They could have kept on without her, just like they would every other day, but they reacted like all children should. It has been a few weeks since this incident. I’m still working in the garden. I still stop and sip my coffee. The sweetest part of it all is that I have not seen her walking alone ever since that day.

 

“Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’” (Matthew 19:14, NIV)

            We learn to hate. We learn to judge and we learn to disparage. Other things we are just born with. A cruel nature is as natural as a kind nature. You don’t have to be taught to be either one. All you have to do is act on instinct. You can’t teach someone to be good to others any more than you can teach someone to be rotten to others. You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink. You either have it or you don’t. One cannot be a little bit pregnant. Kindness is an essential part of being human. All you have to do is watch children at play. No adult ever taught them to act like that. It is innate and one of the very best things in life and some of the best things in life are still free. 

tells me so

Photo

http://abc7news.com/society/exclusive-bay-area-teen-discusses-act-of-kindness-that-went-viral/1793614/  

Surprise Surprise

            When we first moved to Strathroy Ontario Canada, it pretty much had the same layout that it does now although the appearance has somewhat changed. It was much less populated and commercial. Regardless, it remains a beautiful town, in a beautiful setting. When my family located there from Toronto in 1976, I was 11 years old. Initially, the move itself did not agree with me. I felt like an alien, trapped in the land of boring white people. I missed my friends. I missed the diversity. I missed my neighbourhood. I even missed the CN Tower. I just wanted to go home. It hit me rather quickly that Strathroy was now where I lived. I resented it a little. No one asked me whether I wanted to leave the city. No one asked me if it was okay to uproot us all. Eventually, things settled and I accepted this prison but only because I really didn’t have a choice. School started shortly thereafter and I was easily distracted by my new surroundings. For the longest time, I just couldn’t let go. I wanted to go back and do it all over. I knew I couldn’t go back. I was destined to die in this backward, nursing home infested slice of white bread. About a week after school started, I decided to take a different way home. The direct way was ripe with traffic and people. I got on my bike and I pedaled through the town. I had resolved myself to unhappiness. Over time, those bike rides got longer and they became more frequent. I suppose that exploring the town was a way of embracing the town. Each adventure was a different kind of adventure than those I had in Toronto. I discovered the attraction that brought my family here. It wasn’t that my Mom’s family lived in the area. It wasn’t that the countryside was a better place. It certainly was a safer place, a quiet place. I had to learn how to adjust to the silence rather than all the sounds of a metropolis. It took a few more years but eventually I have come to love Strathroy. It has become my home, even though I no longer live there. It has become much more of a touchstone than Toronto ever was. I am still pleasantly aware of this turn of events. I spent the first few months after we moved there wanting to return from whence we came. It’s ironic, Strathroy is now where I come from and where I’ve been. I could never have imagined that it would end up this way. I guess life really is full of surprises.

            The Strathroy Lions swimming pool was a part of my life long before our relocation. Every summer, my siblings and I spent a few weeks visiting our grandparents. It was torture but it was worth it. It gave my parents a much needed break but it gave each of us kids another swimming tag. For a week each July or August, we registered  then received the appropriate Canadian Red Cross Water Safety Level Badge. I started early on, at age 6, with my Beginners. In Grade 10, at 15 years, I concluded my stay by achieving high standing with my Bronze. The pool became somewhat of a second home during the hotter months. With swimming lessons in the morning and swim time all afternoon, I spent the good part of every vacation underwater. So did my sister. In the summer of 1978, we were both asked if we wanted to assist the swim team with workouts and meets. My foot was still quite weak from an accident that crippled me in January, so competing was not going to happen. Tracey and I spent a great deal of time setting timers, cleaning the deck and setting lanes. We usually were responsible for holding the starting line then raising it as an indication to begin. Honestly, it was a hell of a lot of work but my sister and I did it free of charge. No one ever criticised our performance, even if it wasn’t in the blue.

            On the final night of the final matches, we did our jobs like we always did. We stood with the rest of the team and cheered each other on. When the coach went to announce most valued team member, I instinctively said to myself anyone but me. My sister and I almost fell in the pool when they announced our names. Together we were the most appreciated of all those members. What a surprise. What an unexpected surprise. When the cheers were done and the goodbyes said, Tracey and I set out to walk home. It wasn’t that far but the giant life-size trophy made it seem so. It was almost as big as my sibling. I have to admit I used that as an excuse to carry the thing home, despite my sister’s complaints. I should have let her carry it even if I thought she couldn’t. Still, that trophy sat on the mantle in our dining room for almost a year. We returned it, as instructed, just before the next swim season. I was unaware just how attached I got to it. I wanted to keep it. It was nice having a reminder of such a pleasant experience and such an unforgettable surprise.

            Strathroy was the town where my mother grew up. She returned home with her family many years later. Throughout my childhood, my grandparents lived on a huge lot just outside the town’s border. Eventually, they divided the property between my mother and her two brothers, as well as retaining the land their house sat upon. I think everyone thought it was a good idea starting out but it soon turned out to be one very big mistake. Building the house and establishing a home was one thing, dealing with our new neighbours was another. Just as a warning, never move next to a family member and never even entertain living near more than one. Things turned rather sour rather quickly. The details are unimportant but the consequence is clear. There was no love lost between the three siblings. Grandma and Grandpa only made things worse. My parents carried on regardless of the chaos each day seemed to bring. They built a lovely home and the gardens around the property flourished and spread. Out back, where the pool used to be, there was the vegetable patch. My folks have always maintained such a commitment since the first summer they moved to Scott Street. Come spring, tomato plants, pepper plants and onions galore were established in rows and pretty little columns. My Mom and Dad could be found seeding, edging and weeding the beds. New plants joined cold soil and formed the genesis that would be, come warmer temperatures. When they travelled,  I watched the gardens, diligent of frost and the like. One late spring, my family took a vacation in Northern Ontario. Sault Ste. Marie is beautiful, from the Canadian side. In Strathroy, the warning had been made on the 6:00 PM news. I went out to cover the vulnerable. I heard the barking right away. When I opened the garage, I got the surprise of a lifetime. My uncle, the middle child, stood kicking Nugget, the purebred poodle who had been part of our family since he was a puppy. It was the shot to his head as I opened the garage door that shocked me the most. Joe scurried out the back door like a Catholic schoolgirl caught playing with herself. I checked the dog and he was okay, at least he was okay physically. I followed the trail. There stood my uncle and my grandmother, covering pepper plants with small green plastic pots.  When I confronted him about the dog, he told me to shut up and rushed me. The shovel I brought with me was raised in clear defiance. I even told my grandmother to go fuck herself. When my parents got home, it was like that schoolgirl had seen someone smoking. Joe ran out of his home like a wheel on fire. He approached my parents and started cursing me. Unfortunately for him, I had already acquainted them with the activities of the night before. Thanks to my mother, the chips fell where they may. We all knew not to piss her off. She attacked him with the very same energy that he had attacked Nugget. He may have abused his own dog Pepper, but my mother would not stand for him attacking our dog. If you get what you pay for, then he sure got himself a bigger surprise.

            The town eventually swallowed up the area my parents lived in. The tobacco field across the street eventually turned into half-million dollar homes. The neighbourhood changed and it changed rather quickly. Where those tobacco plants once covered the fields, for as far as the eye could see, now stood hundreds of very expensive and very exclusive homes. When the town tried to add affordable housing to the mix, the neighbourhood got together and boycotted the idea. I had long before left Strathroy so it was of little concern to me. I frequently came back to visit and I even lived there for a few months while my life transitioned. One Christmas, I decided to go outside and have a cigarette. I would return to my regular life on the morrow. I stood in my half-length flack army jacket with black scarf and work boots. I had shaved my head years before and I will admit I looked rather formidable in this attire. Rather than standing in the cold dragging on death, I took a walk to see the newest additions to the neighbourhood. Into the new subdivision I wandered, unaware. I walked down Scott Street to York Street and headed into the brand new light show. The field across from my parents’ place had always been so dark and looming. It was strange to stand in the place that I used to pelt frogs and toads with a badminton racket. Now, Christmas decor flattered the streets and lamps of bright gold illuminated the walkways. I can’t say that I appreciated what I was seeing. Even the green space set aside for the town was nothing more than an eyesore. I was not well pleased, to say the least. As I headed out of town via Parkview Drive, I occasionally spotted a few homeowners spying at me through a window or a door. I thought it was funny, at least for a moment or two. As I reached inside my coat to grab another fag, a police car sounded its sirens and pulled up beside me. I was so surprised that I almost pissed myself. Like a lot of people these days, I have never trusted the cops. I never have and I never will. If the past is a guide, it has always steered me as far away as possible from them. This Christmas Night, they came looking for me. Apparently, dispatch had received numerous calls from people regarding a skinhead who was casing out homes in the area. I almost joked with them as to whether they had found him yet but I already knew not to joke with frying bacon. They questioned me and I tried, with great difficulty, to be pleasant and agreeable. I don’t care if people thought I was a serial killer walking around, until someone commits a crime you don’t assume they will. I had to confirm with ID that I was who I said I was. Luckily one of the officers was rather friendly with my father so I was dismissed with warning. As I walked back from whence I had come, the police car pulled past me and disappeared behind a neighbouring church.  I was not surprised, as I headed onto my parents’ property, to see the same vehicle pull off the road up the street. I’ll assume it was to observe me, to confirm what I claimed was true, rather than getting a donut. The Tim Horton's is downtown.

            The grounds are still lush with plant life. The landscape is chiselled and there are  water sculptures placed throughout the other scenery. There is peace and quiet all around. The nature is in surround sound. Wildlife flourishes in every part of the land. The property my parents shaped is a little different these days but the flavour, the impact of the place can still be felt every time I come home to visit my father. My mom has been gone over 7 years. I can still see her sitting up by one of the ponds, hose in hand, song in mouth. I can still hear her calling out to all us kids that dinner was ready and to get inside or go without. To my surprise, the world has kept turning even without her in it. I could never have imagined losing her, even though I knew it was coming. I can’t believe so much time has gone by. I can still feel her when I go back to Strathroy. Hell, I can still feel her whenever the sadness chooses to come. As I look back over the time I have spent in Strathroy, there is a mix of such good things and such bad things. I eventually fell in love in the stupid little town. I lost my first partner to the hands of gravity and a nine storey silo in the middle of this stupid little town. They say you can’t go back and that’s okay because sometimes I don’t want to. Surprise, surprise, sometimes I can’t help it.

 Photos

The Tower

Tanton Street, Strathroy

circa 1985

The Pool

Lion’s Park, Strathroy

circa 1990

The Trophy

Arthur Street, Strathroy

circa 1979

The Back Field

York Street, Strathroy

circa 1950

The Way It Was

Scott Street, Strathroy

circa 1981

The Way It Is

Scott Street, Strathroy

circa 2016

Sources

http://www.strathroyagedispatch.com/2012/03/28/lions-pool-to-stay-open-this-summer

http://www.eureka4you.com/wtower-on-s/Strathroy.htm

05-15

“I’d be happy to live till 80 as long as I was comfortable and in good health. Mind you, ask me again on the eve of my 80^th birthday. Even so, I hope we don’t all start living to be 120. I’m not sure I’d cope with another 60 years.” (Bonnie Tyler, American singer)

            I was really left no choice, I had to make a choice. I could either get up from my miserable life and carry on as best as I could or I could keep trying to get the fuck off this planet. Whether one completes, or does not complete, the act of suicide, you can assume that this individual has come to a crossroads in their life.  It just goes without saying that if you give up on living, living will give up on you. Having decided to move forward and suffer, I slowly started seeing life differently. I was so surprised that something good actually came out of something so sad and wretched. I stopped using the past to insulate myself, rather I paid attention to the lessons it revealed. I quit all the stressing about the future. It was coming no matter how I felt or what I thought. Regardless of what actions I took, it came all the same. I started living for each day, a process that took time and commitment. I realized that all I have is here in the now. Yesterday is gone, tomorrow never comes and the life that you lead should be measured in moments rather than in hours, or days or even years. Today became my focus. Granted, I don't always celebrate the here and the now. Something always manages to stand in my way and quite often I fail when I should be flourishing.  I don’t always rest in the moment. Sometimes there is no seizure. Despite my lack of righteousness, I still find meaning in everything around me. When you stop and smell the roses, the fragrance is sweet. I could be cynical and a defeatist, clinging to theories and theologies. I prefer to find what I need in the beauty of this life, in the simple things. This life that I have been given (a few times) is but that moment’s time. Just existing appears to be a gift.  When each dawn breaks, when all is right in your heaven, you should have more than enough reason.

            Most people seem to have such disdain regarding their birthday. This May 15^th, I will turned 58 years of age. I don’t feel that old. I certainly don’t feel anywhere near 50. I don't look that old. I certainly do not look anywhere near 50. Regardless, I am 58 years old, all the same. Ironically, I felt much older than I am now when I was 18. I’m not really young at heart, rather very much aware of the world around me. They keep telling me I have an old soul but I think I am just tired. Honestly, I couldn’t give a shit less. My age is a number and I don’t do math. Every birthday has become more of a testament to survival than a commemoration of some imaginary significance. Apparently, waking up not dead is a pinnacle of sorts. My birthday is a marker, but not just any marker. It stands as one more year that I am here against all odds. Each anniversary passes by the grace of God. I could not ignore the reality even if I tried. I once woke up thinking I was dead, then found out that I should be. This changes a man, at least it changed this man. It made me think in terms of reasons, in terms of  purpose and the consequences had I failed to take the opportunity to begin again. Every gift I am given, every candle I blow out is icing on the proverbial cake. I can't help wondering how different the world would be without me in it and how privileged I feel to carry on. Every 15^th of May I find myself, once again, recognizing that I live a wonderful life. The candles on my cake will prove it.

“You know you're getting old when the candles cost more than the cake.”

(Bob Hope, American comedian)

            I have fond memories of every birthday I have known since the age of 7, even the bad ones. I can look back and I can picture a different time and a different place for each one. It’s like an otherland but with streamers and balloons and occasionally presents. I can get lost in these memories. They represent the age of my innocence, the end of just that and my trying so hard to keep going in spite of it all. One year, my brothers took me and a few friends to the movies as part of my party. Blazing Saddles was the perfect mixture of comedy and gross humour. We all laughed so hard that I still can hear it in the back of my mind, although much more soft on the volume. One year, I added to my Big Jim collection. I could not have been more surprised. The action figure had many accessories, and the Big Jim camper I got for Christmas needed more. All I wanted that birthday was the Big Jim Jeep and attachments. I coveted them so when I opened the gift from my parents, I was not disappointed. My folks always made birthdays an event in our home. I spent one birthday in prison for a dangerous driving charge. I was well liked by the other prisoners and not for the reason you might think. Somehow discovering what day it was, they presented me with a tower of butter pads topped with a lit match. I was stunned by my faux birthday cake. It is never a good idea to sing in jail, so the standard fare was a little lacking. I didn’t know what to say so I said thank you and that was it. It was an odd experience, one I have never been sure of. I guess it pays to be kind, even on a prison ward. One year, I spent my birthday walking the streets of Hollywood alone. I was broken, quite fractured and very far from home. Still, I got to see a hooker toss her cookies on Vine. Apparently, she was full. I got to check out Beverly Hills, even though I had no money to spend there. I got to see Dallas television star Dack Rambo riding around naked in his car. If only for the day, I got to be someone I wasn’t. At the time, that was the greatest birthday gift of all. Speaking of my favourite gift, I discovered the $10.00 the moment I opened the card. It came in the mail and I wasn't allowed to read it until the actual day. One of the only things I ever liked about my maternal Grandmother was her laziness. I never got a gift from her other than cash. No one did and no one ever complained. I always felt like she was trying to buy us all off, that somehow the exchange of money was an attempt at silencing her critics. I was more than okay with that. The idea may have benefited anyone on the receiving end but it was all irrelevant once you met her face to face and she opened her mouth. Regardless, the money I was given instantly started to burn a hole in my pocket. For the very first time, I was allowed to take my cash and wander by myself to the mall. I spent every penny with this glee, this freedom I had not known before. I remember the experience of bliss walking home. I suppose that’s what birthdays are supposed to do.

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.”

(Henry David Thoreau, American philosopher)

            You should live each day as if it was your birthday. I think I read that somewhere. Seems like an awful lot of work for someone to have to do on their birthday. Personally, I’d rather live each day as if I were rich. On my birthday, I always end up rather ill after eating most of my birthday cake. Who wants to live each day like that? I prefer pie anyway. Sure, the presents are nice but who wants to hear that silly song over and over, day after day? The noise, oh the noise. Turning 21, over and over, would be great but turning 85, over and over, would suck the big one. I assume it wouldn’t be hard to do. I’m not sure that never aging would be something you get used to. Life isn’t like Groundhog Day. After everything that has happened to me, I doubt I would want to relive anything from my past, let alone such an irrelevant repetition. I’d rather just sit here with my now and wait to die. Growing older isn’t worth your soul. Things are supposed to get better with age, not bitter. Each birthday should be an example of mind over matter. In fact, “If you don't mind, it don't matter” (Satchel Paige). I have given up counting the years. I much prefer to count the joy and rest in that. I don’t want to know what old age feels like. I choose to stay young. Honestly, I have rarely felt older than 21 years of age. My spirit is very much intact. It took me years to realize that it takes a very long time to become young. So it’s my birthday. I’d rather have pie.

“I was forced to live far beyond my years when just a child, now I have reversed the order and I intend to remain young indefinitely.” (Mary Pickford, American Actress)

Photo

May 15^th, 2010

All the Same

            Life is a complicated mess at times, but it usually treats everyone with the same callous disregard. I imagine it takes great pleasure when dishing out our punishment, punishment we tell ourselves we rightly deserve. The abuse occurs so often that we rarely even notice it until more pandemonium sets in once again. No one, regardless of what they may claim, is exempt from an existence filled with kicks and punches and reckless assault. Life tends to be a big old bully. Like the song says, “We all got bruises.” It just makes sense that most of us hide them under our skin. No one would know if they didn't know you. There will be bruises all the same. Each of us spends our entire life trying to filter any joy that comes our way. We must always permeate happiness through the constant bombardment of struggle and chaos and death. Life is hard for all of us. Tough times come to everyone. It can appear they come in different degrees. I just assume that there are a few people, here and there, that do not always experience such dramatic shifts and crisis. They don’t even know they have been damaged. They are damaged all the same. Silently they suffer, unaware of anything but whatever their “precious” might be. Others, it seems, are riddled with tragedy and sorrow. It appears that life treats them unfairly, piling on one thing after another. They never, ever, get a chance to heal. Life does not play favourites. What may be suffering to one man may well be happiness to another. We all get pummelled, we all bear scars. Sometimes we even learn lessons among all the maltreatment. Whether we believe we live a happy life or are very aware of the futility in hope, there is always another barrage just around the corner. Some people are simply assaulted while others are beaten to a pulp. It makes no sense to find a purpose in all these variables. We all must endure what comes before us. As each person is different, their lot in life is different. Just because each experience has a dissimilar quality doesn't mean that the lesson contained within is not the same.

            They tell me that God only gives us what we can handle (1 Corinthians 10:13). I often wonder where He was when all the penalties for dirty fighting were handed out. I have met many people who did not handle what life brought them. Some were trapped inside themselves, unable to function and unable to go on. They go on all the same. Some are so completely damaged that they lose more of who they are in every onslaught. The constant barriers to happiness they experience greatly limit any ability to seize life and make it better. Some decide to simply lay down and die, or at least they die trying. In this boxing match, we are, apparently, all in the ring together. Just who we are fighting, I am unsure. I have known strangers who have suffered at the hands of this life. I have known many familiars, who also were battered and beaten just through the act of living. It matters little what you think or believe. Pain and heartache and challenges greet us daily whether we want them to or not. Sometimes even the happiest of people can discover the chaotic side of living just by getting up in the morning. It’s a hard, cold reality we exist within and no one is exempt. Just because one says they are means little in the greater scheme of things. To every one of those lives there come questions, “for extraordinary pain.” Even an atheist will cry out to god if you torture them enough. Unfortunately, as we should all know by now, god rarely makes appearances. Fate fixes nothing and prayer is a one-sided conversation.  Any “proof of battle” comes with the scars that each of us bear, “scars that built you strong for the journey that you make.” Fight on, I say. There can never be a victory without a fight.

“These bruises make for better conversation

Loses the vibe that separates

It’s good to let you in again

You're not alone in how you've been

Everybody loses, we all got bruises

We all got bruises”

(Bruises, Train 2012)

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

            I cannot even begin to imagine what some people must go through on a day-to-day basis. It seems unfair, as if god does play favourites. We most certainly do not all suffer to the same degrees. Still, life is harder for many. For others, it is all the same. I suppose the simple explanation indicates you either get better or you stay bitter. You either learn to live with what life has dealt to you or you can linger in the suffering. I am sure this is easier said than done. Sometimes life is cruel without reason. It appears that no one is released. Often, we barely get a break from tragedy when trauma ensues. It’s unending, this game we play. Like a match of Rockem Sockem Robots, we fight and we fight until someone’s head pops off. I am certain that mine has bounced out of bounds and rests somewhere, silently screaming. There are many voices that sing of sadness and anguish to me. When I think on these mortal creatures from my past, I am reminded that in spite of the difficult life I have experienced, things could have been far worse.

​            At first I thought she was wearing an African necklace, looped around her neck in varying shapes and sizes. It was scar tissue. She had tried to hang herself so many times that the welts on her neck looked more artificial than anything else. We spoke a few times and while she seemed a nice enough person, it was disturbing to sit beside someone so lost. I wanted to tell her to abandon her quest, but something told me it would be a fruitless effort. Try, try again I suppose. I noticed the damage right away, not that I had to try very hard. Her missing forearm and all those burns and skin grafts made her look like something from a wax museum. At only 20 years of age, she was already quite broken. She had dipped her arm in a gallon of vegetable oil then reached behind the stove and grabbed the power input. She did not meet her maker. I can’t begin to imagine the residue of such an experience. She was not a  happy camper. He had been infected before his marriage and didn’t even know it. He found out when his wife was diagnosed and one of his children. Both eventually died while he flourished. It has never been clear to me if he could have cared less or was just as surprised as the victims of this tale. He has mentioned, on occasion, that he lives his own special kind of hell. My Grandfather laid in that hospital bed for over a year after his stroke. He withered away to almost nothing as his death approached. At the end, you could not recognize him. He was trapped in a body to which he no longer had control. You could see the defeat in his eyes. There was little mercy for this man, not that he gave much of it while he was living. I only met the boy the one time but that was more than enough to give me great pause. My partner, at the time, worked for the Canadian Deaf Blind and Rubella Association, now known as the Canadian Deaf and Blind Association. His charge was almost more than I could handle. He was completely deaf, completely blind, with little to no communication method. He looked the part with those glazed over eyes, and his physical impairments. I felt sorry for him. I have no idea if he even understood his condition. I remember walking away from our meeting thinking, thanking God, all the same, that it wasn't me.

Photos

http://www.mattelgames.com/en-us/rock-em-sock-em-robots/index.html

Sources

There's Not a Crown (Without a Cross)

Michael English

Hope, released 1993

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_English_(singer)

http://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/all-the-same

Trip to Bountiful

"The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new." (Socrates, classical Greek philosopher)

            Life can be so interesting, if you take the time to pay attention. No matter the amount of fury the day may bring, if you slow things down and take notice, the world around you is full of the most aesthetically pleasing and wonderful things. This state of matter is just so damn incredible. From the butterfly to the universe, there is beauty and wonder in almost everything one sees. You cannot help but be amazed at the simplicity of it all. You cannot help but be amazed at the complexity of it all. If you dare, you can almost capture time. You can sit yourself down, dead in your tracks, and watch it flow past you. There is much to see when you become more aware. If you really wish to stop and smell the roses, you can in an instant. How you view this world is always your choice. Most people like the flashes, as the world speeds by them. Some people, like myself, we prefer to watch the world go past rather slowly. It can be hard to see clearly through a blur. Whether it’s a building being built or a child growing up, time allows us to observe both change and evolution. We grow as the world itself grows all around us. Life is so beautiful, especially in slow motion.

            The whole idea of building the CN tower in the downtown core activated the imagination of almost every child in the Greater Toronto Area (GTA). As if the beginning of a tale to be told, “construction on the CN Tower began on February 6, 1973, with massive excavations at the tower base for the foundation.” From this date until it opened to the public on June 26, 1976, the CN Tower was a work in progress. Although initially I was blinded from the panorama by distance and terrain, time and heavy labour insured an eventual view. Over a three year period, you could witness the birth of a creation, even from afar. There was great promise, and fanfare, despite the scope of the project. The almost 20 km stretch between my home in the Toronto suburb of Don Mills and the structure’s location in the heart of the city of Toronto did little to inhibit my daily pleasure. It started out small, then it slowly got tall. It was like the city had sported a hard on. Bit by bit, the monolith to be rose from the proverbial ashes of the Canadian National railway yards located near Front Street West and Yonge. As I watched the construction reach up into the sky, I too grew and changed and crept towards adulthood. Every day I would stop after school, or take a moment on the weekend, to spy on the concrete carrot sprouting up in the distance. It became a ritual, a touchstone that I still occasionally cling to. Every time I journey into the Big Smoke, the tower still greets me. It has been there so long, it is difficult to remember the skyline without it. It is a cherished friend, one that brings memories and melancholy. It seems so much has changed, I have changed. Essentially, the tower has not. While they added an impressive light show a few years ago to most of the exterior, it is faithfully the same. When I see it, or touch it, or go in it, I am filled with comfort, like you find with an old friend or your warm puppy. It is a reminder of who I have been and what I have seen. It is a beacon and always has been for me. It calls of home and childhood and long ago.

            I have to admit, watching the dead gather moss has become a bit of a habit for me. I don’t do it every day but I still do it when the occasion arises. Usually when I am visiting the Avondale Cemetery in Stratford, Canada. I have been visiting it for over 22 years, faithfully caring for the grave of a lost love. In my mind’s eye I can see the way things started out, from my point of view. On February 18^th, 1995, there were very few gravestones in the area surrounding my partner’s place of rest. The north corner was mostly field at this time. On its edge, a wooded ravine and an abundance of trees. In fact, there were not many markers throughout this part of the cemetery, at least not in the immediate vicinity. He took his place among the stones and the flowers and the grass. A few days later, I took the time to look around at who else was here. Just behind, in the next lane, rests Scott Miller, a young man who met his end in his late teens. The headstone is beautiful, the photo of him on the facade quite haunting. For most of this time, someone took such good care of the site. You could tell how much he meant to them, the display was quite obvious. In the last few years, the care has waned and his garden turned to weed. I understand his family moved away. No one visits him anymore, that much is obvious. The plot has turned from well groomed and endearing, to barren and empty and sad. For more than two decades I have watched the demise. I can see it like a movie, snapshots of every time I paid attention to it. Like the grounds all around it, the change has been paced but it has changed all the same. The fields are full now, riddled with new markers and new landscaping. The crematorium wall has grown out of nothing. The forest and trees have been replaced with lovely little homes, speckled about the outer perimeter. A Christian elementary school fills in the last of that green space. Hundreds of new and modern headstones now litter the grounds. I try to visit my late partner at least once a month (or so). I still take flowers and I still include a card. Nothing has changed for me. I doubt that anything ever will. I can’t just abandon someone I loved so much in the past. The world of Avondale is different these days but somehow it remains pretty much the same. It’s just more cluttered, and much less exclusive, but it is still quaint and peaceful. Apparently, people are just dying to get in.

            I was in my early 30s when I first met my current partner Benjamin. He was in his early 20s but the 12-year difference made little difference. We remain together despite the trials of life and love and outside forces working against us. The 18-plus years we have spent as a couple has often brought great change for both of us. For me, watching  him age, watching him develop as a person has been a conscious act on my part.. Although only a few short years after the death of my first partner, it was clear right away that we were meant to be. He was so young, so innocent (relatively speaking). He had a full head of hair, was vernal in nature and although he had suffered some, just like the rest of us, he seemed uncorrupted by the world. His genesis was observed in slow motion. Day after day, week after week, year after year I have witnessed the metamorphosis. It dangles before me, constantly calling for me to take notice. Once a timid, censured and fragile young man, he slowly warped into a responsible partner, loyal friend and the love of my life. Sometimes his development made me feel like a parent more than a lover. In snapshots I can recall the moments that mean the most. In slow motion I can see him. I have watched him become an adult and I have watched him become a grown man. It is strange, the story of our years together flows in my mind like something more akin to Instagram than memory. Sometimes I set it to music, and I mean my music, not his. Since change is a process and not an event, the layout of my memories corresponds to the actual transformation, not just the 18 years of observation. I have watched him be joyous and I have watched him sigh. I have witnessed his suffering and I have witnessed his development. From the loss of his childhood dog to the loss of several family members, I have seen him through the bad times. From the day I first told him “I love you” to the day he started working at BlackBerry, I have seen him through the good times. Each event  paved a new way for him to walk, a new way for him to move forward whether he liked it or not. It has almost been like watching someone put a puzzle together over a 20-year period. Every day a new piece finds its place. Slowly, so slowly, one goes into another and another until it finally is finished but really, it is never finished. Eventually, you get a picture of what you have accomplished but it by no means is complete. Still, you can get a good idea of how things have come together and what your project looks like now. It has been a challenge, all this watching and waiting, but it has been worth every pain, every joy, every reason. It has all happened so slowly. It has happened nonetheless. He didn't even pace himself, he just let the pieces fall where they may.

"Change is not an event, it's a process."

(Cheryl James, American musician)

            Everyone has a choice when it comes to how they view their lives. Some people ignore the lessons, ignore the mosaic, the experiences. Each day and each moment passes before their very eyes. They never come to understand because they just don't pay attention. They end up repeating because they do not learn. Others do not celebrate life, they wallow in their life. All is tragic, all is negative, all is for naught. It matters little any good that may come with each day. They focus only on the struggle, on the damage, and their cup is always half empty. Some people choose to embrace the world around them. They cherish what they have because they have taken notice. They pay attention so they recognize the details. Life is not perfect for them, rather it is perfectly flawed. Their cup is not just half full, it overflows. They think in terms of moments rather than minutes. Each day, for them, is a trip to bountiful, a journey to a better place. Life is for the living, not just for the existing. To take each moment and to live each moment is easier said than done but you should do it anyway. God knows how I try. Slowly absorbing life around me isn’t from habit or spontaneous reaction. I consciously attempt to see my life as it happens, not just from the rear view. I struggle daily not to think in terms of yesterday or today or tomorrow. Each experience is captured for itself, not simply for when it happened. My experience as an observer has served me well. I can actually visualize the passing of time. I can picture progress and development, and even evolution, for most of the things that have occurred throughout my days. Every day I get on an imaginary bus, I pay the daily fare and I sit down in the same place, in the same location. I stare out the window and I watch it happen. The trip is always worth it.

Photos

CN Tower

Toronto Ontario

July 2014

Avondale Cemetery

Stratford Ontario

June 2012

Happy Birthday

Hagersville Ontario

October 1978

Sources

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

Fresh Hell

“So tell me I’m good as gold

Tell me I’m beautiful

Tell me you won’t get old

And leave me alone ...”

(Good As Gold, Dala 2012)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ra5WznwO6SA

            I had no idea when I got out of bed that the day would be so overwhelming. I should have known what was to come. I should have seen it coming. From the moment my feet touched to floor, the day was set. Fate took over and so did chaos. I can only recall the groggy world I awoke to. Like a zombie I rose without direction, without anything but the fog that greets me every morning. My medication works very well. Coffee works even better. I sat for a moment lingering on the edge of the bed. My partner ground his teeth for that moment but fell back into his very own rest. Movement meant coffee, but it seemed to take forever to just fill my cup. The traditional coffee maker dripped and dripped in an endless display as I waited, then waited some more. Frustrated, I emptied two sweeteners into my favourite mug and poured out all of the coffee that had percolated. Of course, my cup was half empty. I fed the cats and fed my rodents, then I filled my cup to the rim. I sat down to watch the local news.

            Be careful how you walk through life, there are many obstacles on the path you follow. Around every corner another hurt, another pain, another moment of abandon. Something wicked approaches, it is just around the bend. You won't see it coming either. On Thursday, April 29^th, 2010, I faced one of my greatest fears. It came in the silence of the morning and tossed me straight into a fresh hell. After my third cup of coffee, and the departure of my partner, I sat down at my computer. I was in a happy place, I had been for awhile. My relationship wasn't perfect but it was much better than most. My family seemed alright to me, my mother and my father content with the life they have shared together. For even the briefest of moments, all seemed right with the world. The process flowed through me, almost as quickly as all that coffee. I sat engrossed in the outpouring of my spirit into digital glory. For a brief time, I think that I found my otherland. Most of all, I remember thinking how fortunate I had been for escaping all the doom and gloom that my journey had heaped upon me. Finally, I could see beyond the tragedies that seemed to have defined me. I was finally, somehow, starting to feel like I could breathe again. At 10:11 AM, the phone rang.

“You chase me like a shadow

And you haunt me like a ghost

And I hate you some,

And I love you some

But I miss you most”

(On a Bus to St. Cloud, Trisha Yearwood 1995)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prJyb7W605c

            It was so cold that I had to turn up the thermostat. I moved from the bed towards it. I left him laying there, face against the far side of the bed. He didn't move, he didn't make a sound. He remains frozen in that state, frozen in that time. The rise in heat did not warm the coolness I can see between us. I should have known when he didn't get up to see me off that something was amiss. He always came with me when I went out of town for the weekend. Work was work, and sometimes it meant relocation, if even for a few quick days. I had my coffee and I jumped in the shower. I checked a few times to see if he had stirred. He was lifeless, and distant, so I leaned over him and whispered his name. He was unresponsive but at least he was moving, at least he was breathing. A weekend in Toronto was not uncommon. The strange part is he refused to come with me, unlike he had many times before. Hindsight is 20/20 but I swear I could see the sadness in him just the night before. I watched him, watching the television as I laid down the hall from him trying to get to sleep. The last thing I remember is the clanging of beer bottles as he returned from a trip to the fridge. The first thing I remember was the warmth of his back just before I faced the cold. I sometimes close my eyes and transport myself there, to the moment I awoke. I am found in the otherland but I still cannot touch. I will myself to go there, to turn up there in spite of reality. I open my eyes so hopeful, so willing to bend all time. I never get to go, not really.

            There were warnings signs, I just didn't see them at the time. I suppose I could blame sheer blindness for the not knowing. I used to curse myself for not waking him, not shaking him until he got up and came with me. On Saturday, February 11^th, 1995, I left the apartment at 7:32 AM and headed towards the big city. I grabbed my wallet, my keys and a thermos full of coffee for the journey. I had no idea where this weekend was going. I had no idea the creature lurking just around the bend. I never saw the fresh hell coming, I swear I never saw it at all. I was a fool, a non-medicated Bi Polar running around like a chicken with his head cut off. I couldn't see what was happening because I could only see me, my fury, my fate. I didn’t stop to pay attention to all those warning signs. Still, I am responsible. I walked away thinking everything would be okay and returned to nothing would ever be okay again. That’s the thing about my direction back then, No matter what road I took, I always ended right back in the same place. I couldn't see where I was going, let alone anyone else. Sometimes I wonder if I was leaving him all alone. Maybe I got so lost in my own world that I failed to see his was crumbling away. I walked down the hall that morning. One last kiss, then one last look, until I see you again.

“I toss and turn and scream,

I try to do everything

With two feet on the ground

I just keep falling down again

I feel so far from home,

Completely all alone

And then I hear You say

I am here, I am here”

(Beautiful History, Plumb 2009)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JwJUo9ia5s

            “Oh good,” I said this to myself as I sat down at the kitchen table. There was almost nothing I liked more than a Saturday morning bowl of Cap’n Crunch. Except for Saturday morning cartoons of course. Since the first day I can remember, I remember sitting in front of the boob tube, hooked on it like it was candy. I got lost in this type of otherland. The escape was always so enthralling for me. I still get swept away when I watch animated television. Back when I was 12, my life revolved around Saturday morning. I waited and waited and waited all week. I much preferred superhero-based tales like Spider-man or The Herculoids, even Space Ghost, but I settled for almost anything if it was fantasy and illustrated. On the fringe of puberty, my loyalties to this genre had started to wane. Dirty books, friends and music all seemed to replace Hong Kong Phooey,  Land of the Lost and even the Superfriends. By approximately 11 AM on Saturday, January 28^th, 1978, I had grown tired of my regular Saturday morning schedule. As Kaptain Kool and the Kongs played out on ABC, I headed upstairs to record music using my brother’s stereo system. It was rare that none of the older boys were home, so I took advantage of the restricted airspace and invaded. I readied myself and the large red record button on my Panasonic Cassette Tape Recorder and let the music play. I popped my brother’s 45 RPM copy of How Deep is Your Love?, from Saturday Night Fever, onto the platter mat, lowered the stereo arm and walked down the hallway to a fresh hell. There I went about the business of singing, the recording was simply my accompaniment. I still know every word of the tune. It always takes me back. I had engaged the recorder and captured, just for me, every note of the song. At the top of the stairs, heading down to the first floor, I sang like the fifth Bee Gee. As the music played, as I got taken away by the melody, I finally saw it coming. In that moment, all was lost.  

            Every time I hear that song, and I hear it an awful lot, I flash back to that landing, and the villainous steam radiator sitting there waiting for me. I can still hear the thunder and I can still feel the pain and the agony. I had no idea when I got up that day the fate that awaited me. I may have only ripened to a dozen years but I should have known better. If you’re going to dance with giants, wear heavy shoes. At the time, I didn't see that my path was primarily rather chaotic. Even as a child I felt neglected and abandoned by a God I had been convinced existed. Standing there all those years ago was a pinnacle, not only in a physical sense but also spiritually. I believed God was with me back then so I had no idea how little that would matter in the long run. He never  healed me. He never did a thing that anyone might have noticed. The moment I met the monster at the bottom of the stairs was enough for me. If God is supposed to watch over us and if He has control over all things, then why did he let the falling beast consume me? For the first time, I could not find Jesus. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. It’s just logic, at least it was to my 12 year old mind. If the righteous man is covered “by the Blood” then calamity, consequence, all these things and more must be from abandon. I was left there, cactus in my back and heavy metal pressing down. In between the tumble and the damage, and somewhere between the act and discovery, I think I thought I heard His voice. I have never been sure if it was Him or insanity. I was only a mortal boy so what did I know and how could I possibly discern such a thing? Unfortunately, any voice has long been overshadowed. When I look back now, all I can hear is me screaming.

“Rain

Feel it on my finger tips,

Hear it on my window pane

Your love's coming down like

Rain

Wash away my sorrow,

Take away my pain

Your love's coming down like

Rain”

(Rain, Madonna 1992)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t452MyUT_ts

            Every day of my life, I wake up to the fog. It lingers briefly but enough to make me seem rather dazed and confused. Once it lifts, I am left with only the day ahead of me. It doesn't matter what I plan on doing. I could be at home, out on the road, working somewhere, existing somewhere else. It doesn’t matter my schedule and appointments for that time period, I am always unsure what the day might bring. I cannot help but notice my dread, a constant struggle with what may happen and what is to come. I can trust in God all I want but I have been there and have I ever done that. It does me no good. All the Faith in the world won’t stop the rain from falling. I am once bitten, thrice shy. My biography reads like a fresh hell. Things have always gone from bad to much worse. Often, each day is anti-climatic. More than not, my days are just a blur. Nothing happens to put me out of sorts. Nothing to speak of is an understatement. Perhaps it may be a good thing to worry about what the day may hold. If we focused more on prevention versus damage control, we might not have a need to dread and worry. Watching for doom may not seem productive but I am rarely surprised. At least, not until another calamity occurs, or another person dies, or I get hit by a truck while trying to cross the road to get my mail. So I wonder what lies in waiting. I anticipate chaos so I am never overwhelmed by it. My glass is never half full. I must constantly be aware of what may come in order to maintain what is. I have always been this way since I was a child. Regrettably, bedlam always comes with no warning, no matter how prepared you think you are.

“Life can change in the blink of an eye

You don't know when and you don't know why

‘Forever Young’ is a big fat lie

For the one who lives and the one who dies.”

(Shovel in Hand, Amy Grant 2013)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZQI1jgOC_g

Photo

https://adiaryofamom.com/2015/03/17/a-meltdown-is-not-a-tantrum/

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/