In the
1980s, going to Mother’s restaurant
was a dining event. There was something so familiar and quaint about the
establishment that all my memories of the then franchise are warm and fuzzy.
The Americanized Italian restaurant carried itself rather well. Each diner was essentially
the same, with hardwood accents, faux Tiffany lamps and the feel of welcome. It
was an experience, not just for the atmosphere but also for all that food. The
menu was enormous, just like the portions. My personal favourite was the huge
and very deluxe panzerotti. The salad bar sat dead centre of the restaurant and
was something you would die for. Everyone I knew loved the place. In London , Ontario Brantford
location. One day they all just disappeared, never to be heard from again (or
so I thought). In 2008, the brand name was purchased and the process of
reestablishment into the market began. Slowly, one diner after another
reappeared throughout Ontario , including the Kitchener experience in
2014. We went in with great hopes for the place. I keep forgetting that when
you hold out expectations, it usually means disappointment. We walked into the
newly opened attraction and instantly realized something was missing. The place
felt small and cramped and the plastic red and white checkered tablecloths made
it look more like a cheap barbershop than the original splendour that was so
vivid in my mind. Not a single Tiffany influence could be found. The menu was
cliché, the portions had been drastically reduced in size and the prices overinflated. It was more a homogenized disaster than a
pleasant visitation. Still, the influence of the original remains quite
present. When we bought our home, we installed a faux Tiffany lamp over our
dining room table, specifically because of the original Mother’s layout. It joined our household not only because of its
look but also for a sense of atmosphere (something so lacking in the new
restaurant). Our choice was under direct influence, an amalgam of the Mother’s we once both loved when we were
younger. A place, sadly, to which we have not returned.
Note to self:
You can never go home again.
Come
summer, most kids stick to ice cream and popsicles. Growing up, for the most
part, I was one of those kids. Whether from the neighbourhood Dickie Dee ice cream cart, the local
tuck shop, or even the ice cream truck, the standard fare was always familiar
and always the same. Even the brands seemed to follow into each venue like a
shadow would. I can’t recall that I ever noticed, like I do now. Breaking away from the norm was an alien idea
to me. One summer, I discovered something different. The cherry snow cone that
I experienced at Ontario Place sent
me on a slushy tangent. Every chance I got, I ordered one. The shaved ice, the
sweet nectar, soon became my palette’s best friend. I tried raspberry blue and
green lime. The cherry, that I mentioned, was without a doubt my favourite. At
the Canadian National Exhibition I
tried an orange-coloured mango, then at the London
Western Fair I tried grape. A few years ago, I consumed a cranberry snow cone
from a local booth, much to my delight. Throughout all these years, through the
pear-flavoured and the chocolate-flavoured (ewww), I never realized that I had never
tried the lemon snow cone. I like lemon, but I am not fond of sucking on sour
things. It has never really been important to me to taste every flavour known
to man. I just consumed whatever I would come across. The Paris , Ontario
Note to self:
Sometimes, it’s okay to eat yellow snow.
At this
point in my life, there is little left for me to want and little left that I
haven’t had. I find peace and harmony on most days. My relationships are both
challenging and yet rewarding. I’m content for the most part. I have found the
very things that I always looked for. On sunny days, I appreciate the warmth.
On cooler days, I appreciate the cold. Despite all the things that have passed
before me, I am able to seize the moment rather than fixating on the past.
There are many things about my life that would be considered overwhelming and clouded
when viewed by another. Most people don’t understand how I stayed afloat on
stormy seas let alone managed to swim to shore. For all the moderation, regardless of the chaos, I strive to
remain balanced and aware and even enlightened on the rare occasion. Life is
good most days. It has not always been this way. Underneath it all, there is a
volcano always ready to spew. The right circumstance, the perfect stimuli, and
my world falls to pieces. Try as I may, the feelings just come and there is
nothing I can do about it. I suppose if anyone else had to identify their frozen
solid partner after they offed themselves, their experience would be close to
mine. It’s been over 20 years and occasionally, I am still haunted. The grief found
its place long ago. I am usually in a clear frame of mind when it comes to the
reality of the situation and what happened. Sometimes, I am not so good. I am
swallowed whole. I guess I need more therapy, but I would argue that most
people who have survived such misery would be in the same boat. Sometimes, I
see him, lying dead and lifeless. This picture appears before me with no
warning. Sometimes all I need to do is close my eyes. I have tried a million
times to just get past it. No matter how productive, no matter how positive my
days become, it always returns, sometimes with a vengeance. I often wonder if
other suicide survivors harp back on the event without giving conscious
permission. Does their experience flash before their eyes like mine does? What
exactly does it mean to carry such weight, such burden? Does it ever go away?
Should I want it to go away? No matter the trying, no matter the exorcism, it remains.
Note to self:
It’s never easy, letting go.
I’m not
much for public displays of affection. Since I was a little boy they have made
me uncomfortable and I usually cringe when someone does so in front of me. The
other day, I walked past two young teenagers almost screwing on a bench in the
middle of the food court. In the Wal-Mart, some girl stood feeling up her
boyfriend right in front of her children.
I have to admit that in general, I have difficultly expressing myself in
these terms, particularly in a public forum. Even in private, if there is the
slightest angst or underlying issue, I have trouble expressing myself. I don’t
mean on paper like with Valentine’s cards or sexually with my long-term
partner. I have trouble expressing my feelings, especially when I am surrounded
by gloom. I have built walls and no matter how I am criticized for them, it is
these walls which served to make me so strong. It isn’t easy to dissuade them
from building. They have been part of me for so long that my cold reactions are
more a natural versus forced phenomena. While I am friendly, kind and rather
approachable on my best days, when I turn myself off, the complete opposite
occurs. I am bitch. I am asshole. I am a frozen ghost. It is not an easy feat
for me to overcome this obstacle. I do try and I often fail. The slightest hint
of anything out of the ordinary and I return to my tower, all alone way up
high. I have been greatly criticized as of late, criticized for being so detached
and distant. It’s just the way that I am sometimes. I guess some people believe
that being a stone is the same thing as being like a stone. Unlike my alter
ego, I breathe and I feel and I suffer. I’m just not going to show it under
negative circumstances. It goes without having to say but I’ll say it anyway. I
have the right to protect myself, even if you don’t like it.
Note to self:
A rock feels no pain.
For several
years in the early 1990s, I worked as the Media Coordinator of Student Affairs at
Lambton College
in Sarnia , Ontario Toronto .
No matter where I have worked since and no matter who I worked with, I just
don’t get involved like I did at Lambton College
Note to self:
Don’t shit where you eat.
I am always
surprised when a social contact asks me if I know Jesus as my personal Lord and
Saviour. Sometimes, I just say yes. After all, throughout my teenage years I
took to altar call after altar call, trying to get The Christ to notice me. I
was born again several times before my 21st birthday. The truth is,
these days I am so far away from Christianity that even the Devil leaves me
alone. Damnation would be rather moot at this point. Even though I find myself
thinking differently then during my fundamentalist days, I still hold the
direct teachings of Jesus in high regard. I just realized a long time ago that
most religions preach the same message as Him, just in a different bottle. I am
no longer interested in searching for something that it is obvious no one can
find. I still consider myself a theist, albeit an agnostic by nature. I want so
much to embrace the idea of a personal God, in such an impersonal world, but I
have never experienced this epiphany. I have studied religion from theology to
cosmology, from Judaism to Waco ,
from Nietzsche to Swedenborg. I have come to recognize that even the worst esoteric
example is simply trying to say the same things as the best example, just from
a different perspective. It’s hard to trust a deity who would have people burn
in hell because they didn’t follow the rules. If God is really like that, boy
are we all in a lot of trouble. To some capacity, I still believe there is a
personal god although I don’t think we have a clue what we are dealing with. I’m
not sure that God is anything like what we would imagine it to be. So when I am
approached by those intent on my salvation, I often tell them that it’s not
that I don’t believe in God, I just don’t believe in their god.
Note to self:
Blind faith is better than no faith at all.
It’s
strange. I am uncomfortable with public displays of affection yet I don’t have
the slightest issue talking about sex. I suppose my youth may be the reason I
am so unencumbered. Let’s just say the mania that is so present when I’m not
being treated for bipolar disorder is a driven bastard. I had no problem
sneaking away from my traditional lifestyle and venturing into pure hedonism.
Instant gratification just left me more time to keep playing. I prefer the term
slut to manwhore. The truth be told, those terms barely touch the surface. It
was a different time and yet it was somehow not completely satisfying. When I
am sitting alone, drifting in my memories, I try not to envision any of these experiences.
That was then, this is now. In truth, only a few are even memorable, and those
were with my partners. Sex became my otherland, a pure escape. Add in some
casual drug use and you have years of living dangerously. I’m not sure I want
to know just how many people I touched in any sort of manner. Sexual
promiscuity is one thing but the compulsion I experienced was often more than I
could handle. I was possessed in a manner, all impulse and no instinct. The
mistakes I made in my youth may have cemented the idea that love is all that
matters but such excess comes with a price. It’s not a moral issue for me, I
really was in no condition to control myself. If I was able to go back and
change my life, I’m not sure I would. What I have done and who I was are only
voices if I listen to them. It’s not shame or embarrassment that lingers, it’s
regret. Sometimes it can be so hard that it hurts.
Note to self:
That’s what she said.
You wake up
in the morning, you do your work, you pay your bills and you come home at
night. Day after day, we all repeat the same motion, just so that we can be
happy. Unfortunately, most of us never are. All the time we spend gathering
money, and things, only makes us want more. We need more so we take more. We
all seem to be wishing for the things we already have. We justify living like
this because it’s normal for everyone else, so why not us? There was a point in
my life where I did not think it was possible for me to be normal and lead a
normal life. Now that I have one it can be a little boring, if you ask me. Be
careful what you wish for. I am not about to complain. This life that I have been given is but a moment’s time. It has
been a wonderful, breathtaking adventure that was simultaneously one major pain
in the ass. I hope that my life is more than just a picture of me then. In the
end, I am left standing at my window watching the birds, and the squirrels,
feed as they please. My house is beautiful. It contains many things that are atheistically
pleasing. It is my comfort zone, the place I can hide. I have rediscovered a
boyhood joy, collecting comic books. I have my music, my friends and I have my
writing. I gladly talk with my father every day. For the first time in a long
time, I am content. I am content spiritually as well as circumstantially. All
these things have completed me. I could not ask for more.
Note to self:
Good things come to those who wait.
Photos
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