Meant To Be

“You’re a falling star, you’re the get-away car

You’re the line in the sand when I go too far

You’re the swimming pool on an August day

And you’re the perfect thing to say”

            I’m not really that comfortable with public displays of affection or terms of endearment. Even when I am writing, I have no want of sappy or cute and cuddly. I am a rock and quite often an island too. I am more frostbite than hugs and kisses. I suppose you could argue that I am a cold person because I want to be but I see things differently. Experience has taught me to survive. It has made me. I am who I am and I am what I am, regardless of your inclination to judge or any amount of spinach you might have. By no means do I choose to be this way. The distance you might pick up on is a natural selection. When confronted with emotional baggage, the walls always go up. I have no say in the matter. My response is usually offensive, until you push it, then I’ll defence the hell out of you. It’s all a manner of persuasion. It’s all about safety. I am not as frozen as some may think. Underneath it all there thrives another creature. There is weakness within. My inclination is more protection than deflection. I feel in every way what anyone else would. I rarely grant access. I suppose this barricade comes with the territory. I feel love and hate. I feel jealousy and I feel sorrow. I feel deeply, and profoundly, but logically. I do not wish to be destroyed. A long time ago, I gave in to the expressions. I allowed myself to experience what it is to be vulnerable. The result was just too much for me. I have built barrier after barrier in order to never feel that way again. This is the rub, I fear. To remain intact, I often have to feel nothing, even though deep inside I feel everything. In the end, one may have to reconstruct after playing with a wrecking ball. You can be safe but it will cost you.  

“And you play it coy but it’s kinda cute

When you smile at me you know exactly what you do

Don’t pretend that you don’t know it’s true

‘Cause you can see it when I look at you”

            Despite my icy exterior, I have been very successful in my relationship. On August 31^st, 2018, my partner and I will celebrate twenty years together. We aren’t really celebrating in the standard manner. Instead of spending our anniversary with our friends and family, we are taking the opportunity to attend the Fan Expo in Toronto on that day. Our gift to each other will be the comic books we obtain. This is a passion we both share. It’s important to have commonalties with your better half. Despite my limited emotional position, I have managed to engage in the things required for love to last. It is love, you know. It is also struggle and pain and disillusionment, all wrapped up into one big smash. Sometimes you have to let the walls come tumbling down. There was a point where I thought I would never allow myself to feel anything again. When I met my first partner on the same day (August 31^st, 1988), I had no idea the chaos that would ensue. I would say that the seven years we spent together were successful but his dead body managed to make that point moot. It was an impossible task but the situation, at the time, was more than enough for me to close up shop and head home. The only way I survived was to turn off, to not feel, to not hold anything in a place were the pain was. Of course, accomplishing this was out of the question. You can bury it all but it always comes back to haunt you. A few years later and I began a new journey, a new relationship and headed into two decades of reward. It has not been an easy road for us. We have struggled and battled and held each other close. We have gone through hard times and good times and those times when the world seems to plot against you. We made it through. After two decades, our love is strong. Regardless of conflict, our love manages to remain as intact as it ever was. It just goes without saying that this anniversary indicates we are both in this for the long haul.

“And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times

It’s you, it’s you, you make me sing

You’re every line, you’re every word

You’re everything”

            I did not wish to fall in love, not ever again. I swore I would not allow myself to put myself in such a vulnerable position. Long before social media, we met on a chat line. It was the standard old school connection. A few weeks of getting to know each other by phone did not change my mind. I was, essentially, still grieving over my loss. My intent was not romantic. I agreed to meet but I told myself there was nothing to this. I did not wish to feel that way again. He got off the bus and looked around for me. From the moment I saw him, I just knew. I almost cursed fate and was about to turn and walk away. I was not comfortable with the attraction, let alone the situation. He spotted me and it all began. We have not been apart since. It’s nice to have someone with you when you need them the most. I think discovering Ben helped me rediscover the greatest joy in life. To love, to be loved, this is the purpose one can have when graced with the opportunity. A few hours of talking and eating and drinking (lots) led me to a strange position. I quickly kissed him in the doorway to the washroom. Sinnz, a small but busy gay bar, apparently persuaded me to take a chance. I had no idea why I was overtaken and made such a directed attempt at closeness. Despite my chill, despite my withdrawal, a part of me was thrilled with this new development. I was metaphorically frozen but I melted just enough to take the chance. Some would argue it was the negativity of a dead partner that drove me to start over once again. I say it was serendipity that Ben and I met on the same day that I met Doug. The coincidence stank of meant to be.

“You’re a carousel, you’re a wishing well

And you light me up when you ring my bell

You’re a mystery, you’re from outer space

You’re every minute of every day”

            There are many constants in our relationship. Will and Grace, comic books and weed are just the icing on this cake. Another constant has been arguing. We seem to have gotten much better at it as we age together. We bicker and squabble, we yell and we scream but these things simply define our passion. It is not simply a sexual thing. We fight, we get it all out, then we carry on with all this living. Despite all the angst and the friction, we have managed to stay together. In the middle of one of those fights, you might well find me considering other options. Regardless of how I feel at that moment, I do not abandon my post. I am committed to make it work. Apparently, it has. You would be hard pressed to find another gay couple who have lasted as long. We seem better together than we ever could be apart. As angry as I tend to get, I do not regret remaining. I always stay, and not simply because of love or loyalty. Our camaraderie is what makes it so. I still get a “longing to see you” feeling, no matter how short the distance between us. This kind of commitment takes practice. No two loves are ever the same. My first long-term relationship ended in disaster but, for the most part, we managed to last seven years. Doug and I are very different from Ben and I, in almost every way. I would have thought there would be commonalities between the two. I suppose, there are a few. I know that I distinguish my love for one from my love for the other. Both are far beyond definition. You can love again if you allow yourself. The love that once was is nothing but memory now. I haven’t dreamt of him in almost a decade. I can’t even remember what it felt like to hold him. Ben commands my attention, not that he leaves me much choice. We have rough edges. We are often volatile and unpredictable and even saddening. We carry on regardless of the struggle. After all, that’s what love is for. It helps us through it.

“And I can’t believe that I’m your man

And I get to kiss you, baby, just because I can

Whatever comes our way, we’ll see it through

And you know that’s what our love can do”

            The creative process can act like replay. One may be flooded by it, for both the good and for all the bad. You are what you write, or so they tell me. I haven’t figured out just who ‘they’ are yet. The luxury is that memory allows you to view the entire body of your experiences from a new vantage point each and every day. The past is constant but how you see things will consistently change as you move forward with your life. As I look back over the last thirty years of my life, I recognize that I have been doubly blessed. To have loved so, not once but twice, can often reach beyond my comprehension.  I realize how fortunate I have always been. I lose battles but I still manage to win this war. People talk about love like it is all flowers and chocolate and awesome sex. While it may be that on occasion, it rarely ever lives up to that standard. A long lasting relationship is more perseverance than romantic notion. Sometimes it’s all about just getting through. You take what life gives you. You scream and you yell (no hitting please), and you carry on the very next day. You can carry on or they will carry you out. It’s up to you. Go make some lemonade.

“You’re every song

And I sing along

‘Cause you’re my everything.”

(Everything, Michael Bublé 2007)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPUJIbXN0WY

Happy Anniversary

Photo

Burlington, Ontario

2016

Joke’s On Me

 “An old man turned ninety-eight

He won the lottery and died the next day

It’s a black fly in your Chardonnay

It’s a death row pardon two minutes too late

And isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?

It’s like rain on your wedding day

It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid

It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take

Who would’ve thought

It figures”

            I am rarely surprised by just how ironic life is. No matter the sense of assurance I achieve, I feel constantly mocked by the very thing that is supposed to bring me comfort. It almost always seems to work out this way. It all just comes around again. Ironically, life is ironic. It is a not so subtle voice, usually pointing out our stupidity. Irony is often demonstrative. It puts out the lesson without all of the work. It uses the opposite to point to the original. Irony is meant, primarily, “for humorous or empathetic effect.” Irony, generally speaking, “is a rhetorical device, literary technique, or event in which what appears, on the surface, to be the case, differs radically from what is actually the case.” Such words convey “a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning.” We dwell in deep satire. Living is the ultimate irony. The truth is we aren’t living, we are dying. We have been since the day we were born. It takes pain to know pleasure and hate to know love. You have to experience sadness in order to know what happiness is. You cannot appreciate silence unless there is noise. You don’t even miss something until it’s gone. It all seems to be some subtle expression of sarcasm, buried in caustic remarks. It can get in your face sometimes, a constant reminder of just how complicated this life can be. Yes, life is ironic but most of us are not in on the joke.

“Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly

He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye

He waited his whole damn life to take that flight

And as the plane crashed down he thought

‘Well isn’t this nice?’

And isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?

It’s like rain on your wedding day

It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid

It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take

Who would’ve thought

It figures”

            It has been well over a year since the death of my last rat. After almost 20 years of rodent haven, I closed the sanctuary, at least for anything smaller than a squirrel. The last rat did not leave on a merciful note. She withered and faded but over weeks, not merely days. It was a horrible and lingering death, by any account. I just stood there waiting for her to die. I just could not put down another one. She lasted and lasted. The night before her death, I decided that if she had not passed by the morning, I would have to do the job myself. It was ironic finding her hard and cold, it only cemented my disdain towards owning another one. There was no way, rat after rat, year after year, I could keep facing such little deaths. I may be hypersensitive to such things but each affected me deeply. It’s not that I had some epiphany or enlightened moment, it was a physical pain, an emptiness that I felt over and over. It hurt. I suppose my loyalty only runs so deep.  I never would have imagined coming face to face with another rat, be it wild or not. Every morning, it stuck its head out from behind the fence and stole away seeds, and peanuts and pieces of bread. The damn thing looked exactly like Savannah, a rat I had several years before. I was not impressed. It mattered little to me if the creature was simply feeding like the rest of the critters. Instantly, I got a hard on for killing it. With the neighbourhood dogs and children, all l needed was a rabid rodent running around free and clear. I knew right away it had to die. The idea managed to have almost no effect on me. I didn’t care if it represented all those other rats. I didn’t care if it was cute and fuzzy and doing no harm.  . It is strange to hunt something that previously you might well have tried to help live. The first thing I did was purchase a rat trap. It looked like a mousetrap but on steroids. The giant thing was laden with cheese and peanut butter to lure the beast in. 14 times I loaded that sucker and 14 times the rat, or whatever, managed to take the goodies without consequence. Every time, I got more and more annoyed. Every time, I reset it thinking this will be the one. Try, try again, I suppose. In a last ditch attempt to rid my yard of this vermin, I bought rat baits and planted a few discretely among the feeding area. I have never seen the rat since then. It was an odd experience to kill something I may well have loved, under different circumstances. It was like life was mocking me, laughing at me in a sarcastic and wry manner. It took me awhile to get in on the joke.

“Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you

When you think everything’s okay

Everything’s going right

Life has a funny way of helping you out when

You think everything’s gone wrong

And everything blows up in your face”

It is a little surreal, the idea that I had to die to find life again. I’m not sure many people would comprehend what I mean without an explanation. When my first partner committed suicide in 1995, I tossed myself on his grave exactly one week later. I took 100 x 10mg Valium, stripped of my winter wear and headed out into the February cold. It was a very stark and wintery evening when I arrived at the cemetery. I entered around 9 o’clock and was found the next day around noon. I should have frozen to death, the temperature that night was subzero. I should have at least had frost burn or frostbite, but I got nothing. I woke up mad as hell. I couldn’t believe that my plan had failed, that I couldn’t even get killing myself right. I was so sure it would work. Everybody told me that it was just not my time. God, apparently, didn’t want me yet. Eventually, winter turned to spring which moved into summer and drifted into the fall. As time moved, so did the part of me meant to survive. At first, it was all I could do not to think about getting the fuck off this planet. I planned several attempts but failed to go through with them. It wasn’t that I was a gutless turd, rather I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. What happened that night in the cemetery changed me forever. With enough time and space, the act of almost dying saved me. I am not sure I would have been able to go on without some sense that I was supposed to be here. The mere idea that somehow God saved me, gave me purpose and set me on the course I have followed. I was supposed to be here. I felt a purpose. It only took dying for me to come to life. I just wish, before I tried, that someone had let me in on the joke.

“A traffic jam when you’re already late

A no smoking sign on your cigarette break

It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife

It’s meeting the man of my dreams

And then meeting his beautiful wife

And isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?

A little too ironic and, yeah, I really do think

It’s like rain on your wedding day

It’s a free ride when you've already paid

It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take

Who would’ve thought

It figures”

You have to sin to be saved. There would be no need for salvation if there wasn’t something to rescue us from. It’s ironic, without wickedness we would have no need of righteousness. They claim God created the very reality we exist within but we are to shun it and cast the ways of the world aside. We are to be in this world, not of it. God created all this and it was good, until the sinners arrived. God set out for blood. In the days of the Old Testament, the streets of Jerusalem ran red with the blood of sacrifices. The same holds true for the last 2000 years of Christianity. His blood is everywhere and it has been for centuries. The very sacrifice of Jesus on the Cross would have been unnecessary if mankind had no idea what sin was. Adam and Eve took from the tree and spoiled it for the rest of us. You have to consider why God made that tree in the first place. An omniscient being would have known the pair would consume the apple but then again, you don’t need cosmic awareness in order to have seen that one coming. I have to wonder if perhaps Original Sin was nothing but some great big joke. Dangling that fruit in front of their faces may have been unfair enough. Temptation aside, it seems strange to me that God even cares about what we do in the mortal coil. When we sin against Him, what is it exactly that we are doing to cause a separation, a schism in need of repair? I’m not claiming that there is no validity in the moral compass created by men claiming God. I am convinced that religion itself is more a control mechanism than anything else. I can find much to appreciate in scripture. Some of it really hits home. I do not understand the inconsistency within such scriptures. We are instructed not to kill but its okay for God or His agent to. We are told this world is for us to live in and exploit but doing what scripture suggests means the destruction of this planet. We are told God loves us as He punishes us forever. I often wonder if even God is playing some prank.

“Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you

Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out

Helping you out”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jne9t8sHpUc

Sometimes we come across things we thought we would never have to face again. It’s funny how life works that way. Sometimes living can be complicated and oblique but underneath it all there is this humorous mocking. Life laughs at us. Experience can be a sarcastic bitch. One can’t even die in a cemetery without some fucking sense of irony. It’s funny how life works that way. Even God Himself tends to be fuel for the fire. A fire, I have been told, that awaits me after a lifetime of being a bad boy. God’s love is overflowing, now that’s funny. It is good to express humour, to see life with laughter rather than disdain. Perhaps, God is laughing even more. Just the act of daily living can be dry and somewhat witty. You have to learn to joke with yourself. It’s okay to giggle at everyone else. Even God is a hoot. It’s funny how life works that way.

Photo

http://www.texasgopvote.com/family/irony-it-all-009442

Sources

https://www.google.ca/search?q=irony&rlz=1C1CHBD_enCA731CA731&oq=irony&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.1079j0j8&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8

Heart of Darkness

            I’m a pretty good guy, at least I tend to think so. I’m smart. I’m funny. I am even sexy if you’re into that sort of thing. I have spent my life always trying to do the right thing versus just giving in and not caring about doing the wrong things. At this point in my life, it is important for me to be kind more than anything else. I am determined to rise above, to reach for the pinnacle of enlightenment and drive away my demons. After all these years and those demons sure are stubborn buggers. No matter how I try to place myself above it all, I am constantly drawn into the shadows that just won’t go away. At times it can feel like a schism, a duality that has become my life. I want so much to be good but a part of me never can be. This dichotomy tends to piss me off. No matter how I strive to be better, my internal dialogue and impulses never fail to stir the pot that is me. I tend to be weak, especially when it comes to temptation. I tend to be easily influenced, regardless of anything spiritual or transcending I may have experienced.  I may not follow one central religion but I am still a believer (even though I imagine there is really nothing to believe in). Many are the secrets we all carry with us. I have no exemption. I try to get through life just like everyone else. I try to stay away from the shadows. I am constantly keeping a watch. I tend to fail almost every time. I’m a nice guy but sometimes you can tell I have a heart of darkness. I am bound to surrender, I cannot help myself. No medication can chase the devil away. I am unrighteous and faulty to the core. I do not wish to ever go there again. I am definitely not a man of purity but I would very much like to be. All shadows bear regret. Voices cry out in the night. There exists within me an animal, a creature so base it can avoid definition. I am yet to be torn in two by it but it seems to have stretched me, quite often to the limit. No matter how I struggle, no matter how I try, I fall prey almost every time. I am certain that we all do, we all have to keep a watch on our shadows.

“Inside each of us, there is the seed of both good and evil. It’s a constant struggle as to which one will win. And one cannot exist without the other.”

(Eric Burdon, English singer-songwriter)

            I must admit that I find it difficult to believe in the literal idea of evil, particularly in the Abrahamic traditions. Personifying the devil is as stupid as personifying God but way more dangerous. It’s the ultimate in crowd control. To imagine that such a creature exists is to imagine a God who would do such a thing. I’m not sure that we need some “evil” being tempting us and damning us by our own hand. We do well enough on our own, thank you very much. After all, evil is a relative thing. It has no absolute existence outside of itself. It does not function as a separate entity, it does not manifest all on its own. It is only an appearance. Just as darkness is only a lack of light, so too evil is only a lack of goodness, or at least what we think is good. We measure within our cultural and personal interpretations. It is our exposure to such ideas that shapes what we will end up believing in the long run. I have never once, in all my years, witnessed evil in any form. I have never seen a demon. I have never seen the devil. Not one voice ever asked me to do something. No words from a song ever influenced me to sin. I have, on one occasion, been exposed to something I couldn’t explain. I think I made it up in my mind, to be honest. I was only 16 years old but it remains with me as the only time I ever thought there might be something to this whole evil concept. I was walking home from choir practice like I did every Thursday night. I headed through the downtown core of Strathroy and cut over to a side street, hoping to avoid any complications one might procure along the way. I cut through the Catholic school grounds and followed Head Street down towards the fire department. I was singing some silly song to myself, walking in streetlight’s safety. I remember I was carefree and, most certainly, was not looking for any trouble. Suddenly, the street went black. There were lights way up in front of me and lights far behind me but I was enveloped by shadow. I could feel it approaching. I started to tingle, my senses keen and aware. At first, I though someone might be playing with me, out there somewhere and I could feel the energy. I was dead wrong. The fear grew greater within me. I felt this heavy frightening presence all about me. It scared the living shit out of me and I have never forgotten. I still get goose bumps, it was that effective. I started to run to the light. I didn’t stop, I didn’t turn, I just kept going until I felt it no more. I have never been sure what it was but I know my reaction was conditioned. My response to run ingrained in me. Still, it was a nasty experience, and has only clouded my judgment of all things supernatural. For me, there has to be another account not yet available. There has to be something other than what they have told me. There has to be something I am missing.  

“Evil is unspectacular and always human,

and shares our bed and eats at our own table.”    

(W. H. Auden, English-American poet)

            Most of us have done things we wish we had not. Whether we are ashamed, embarrassed or even contrite, there are moments in our lives we wish we had done differently. Not all of us feel that way. Some people could give a rat’s ass about fixing the past, let alone changing the way things are. Each of us comes from a different place in our thinking. Our experiences, whether for good or bad, have shaped us and set us on our course. People do awful things all the time. More often than not, they do those things to other people. In this modern world, half the sins that were unacceptable 25 years ago have become regular fare. Hubris is a lifestyle. People don’t even think about concepts like good and evil, let alone recognize them. This generation is as lost as the one Jesus preached within. Only a few seem to care about anyone, or anything, but themselves. Call it haughtiness or unrighteousness, or even ungodliness, but this void in realism is rampant, or at least it appears to be. I talked to a young man just a few weeks ago who actually believes that Santa Claus is simply Jesus but very old. He believes that the Bible has told him so. Seemingly, the dismissal and denial of things like morality, ethics and discernment have only added to a rapidly growing problem. The Christians would have me believe that the youth of today serve a devil rather than a saviour. Even if they don’t consciously serve it, they are minions all the same. An entire generation is nothing but the pawn of Satan. Ignorance isn’t the worst evil, but perhaps training a generation to be so could very well make it. I have to wonder if God above empowered a creature that could control and manipulate thousands of people. Are not laziness, hopelessness and ambivalence the very things we have taught our children to embrace? There just seems to be little consequence when we can just blame our apathy on a scary red fellow with a stupid fork tail and some horns to boot. Evil takes away the responsibility. When you have an outside force shaping your actions, it is easier to blame than to perform your duty or meet your obligations. In the end, the devil did not make you do it.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

(Edmund Burke, Anglo-Irish statesman)

            What one person may assume is evil, another may claim as good. We seem to pick and choose what we demonize and we change it from one day to another. Again, good and evil are relative concepts. A fundamentalist Christian may condemn and persecute homosexuals, thinking they have been instructed to do so. Scripture can serve our own purposes. An Islamic Iman may discard one truth for another, using the Qur’an to justify his feelings and biases against women. Our way is always the right way. We do not view such destructive and limiting behaviour as something dark and forbidding because God said it or commanded us to do so. The truth is, the Abrahamic scriptures of Judaism, Christianity and Islam can themselves be viewed as something quite evil. More people have been killed, in the name of Yahweh, Jesus and Mohammed, then any other factor throughout history. Most of those deaths were easily justified in the eyes of those men and their God. Who needs a devil when 5000 years of religion can take care of all that for us? It’s like Satan is merely God is disguise, giving men and women every reason to run from one deity to the safe arms of another. Evil is an optimal wingman. It boosts itself up in order to deflect then guide others to some heavenly place. The technique works very well on unsuspecting sinners. It’s like engaging an ugly girlfriend so your buddy can score with some hot chick. It all just seems like smoke and mirrors. I do not believe I have ever met anyone I would necessarily call evil. If the devil is in the details, I have yet to be educated. When I was a boy, twin girls from across the street were drowned in their bathtub by a mother driven insane. She had to be. The abuse laid upon her by her husband did not serve the neighbourhood nor their judgments. She must have been evil to do such a thing. The devil must have taken possession and drawn out her demons. Everyone was convinced that she had a heart of darkness, it was the only way to explain such a senseless act. Perhaps it was not so senseless. We can’t really understand a person until we walk around in their shoes (Atticus Finch aside). I think it is safe to assume that when the mother then killed herself, something far beyond the devil was at work here. Imagine the pain and fear one must have to end not only the lives of their children, but then their own. Was it fire and brimstone at play or mental illness and spiritual abandon? I don’t think that woman really saw the act as evil, rather, desperate and apparently her only option.

“It is a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways.”

(Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha)

            My mother loved to explain her view of heaven to me. I was an adult but somehow those times with her made me feel like I was still but a boy. She thought outside the box even if it was anthropomorphic. Heaven was all beauty and such but getting past the pearly gates was a judicial matter. God is the judge, the devil is the prosecution and Jesus in our defence. Every time Satan brought evidence against us, Jesus would pop up and yell “covered by my blood.” It was a simple but profound theory. For her, evil had no power, no matter what it tried to do. God was always forgiving and evil was but a pawn in the way that fish bait is. It serves this purpose but otherwise it’s just guts. Historical figures like Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin interned the weak and vulnerable to promote their own effort. These men are viewed as evil and beyond the mercy of any God they may have  held in standing. Serial killers like Jeffery Dahmer and Bruce McArthur have secured for themselves a place in the pit of eternal torment. In a modern sense, they epitomize the very idea of evil. I have to wonder why these souls are much more lost than the rest of us. Scripturally, all sin is equal in God’s eyes. The price of sin (all sin) is death (Romans 6:23, NIV). God doesn’t separate and categorize our failings. He offers life, in this case through Christ Jesus. I have to wonder if evil is not simply a reflection in the mirror dimly. I do not mean to imply that the aforementioned sinners do not meet some fate we cannot understand but that is really not up to us. Mortals punish in our own way and so will God. I do not wish to seem sympathetic in my presentation but there is a huge difference between doing something wrong and doing something evil. People use scripture as a weapon all the time but that doesn’t make anyone a pawn of the devil. Concentration camps and xenophobia are senseless but they both exist, even after all we have learned. Clearly, there is a line where one goes from sinner to savage. I have a mental illness but somehow I have avoided eating anyone I know. There is a bull’s eye in there somewhere. At some point, what we call evil manifests. With the murder of 6 million Jews, it just goes without saying. Then again, murdering your own children can be viewed in the same measure. Evil is as evil does.

“One must be cunning and wicked in this world.”

(War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy 1867)

            I do not believe that I have ever done something evil. Yes, I sin just like everyone else but my intent is always goodhearted. I wish to do no harm. I have known people who have done the most terrible things. Homosapiens are not the most friendly tribe on the planet. I’m not sure we ever could be. Our consciousness has a mandate. We must subjectify in order that we may understand. This does not mean that we didn’t do something wrong but wrong to whom? Pygmies practice incest without all the commentary.  They do not consider it wrong, let alone evil. It’s all in the presentation. They do not know they are doing something sinful, which is exactly why they do it. Ontario, Canada has its own brand of demon. In Toronto, Bruce McArthur has been charged with the death of 8 victims, for now. All have a connection with the city’s gay community, and many subsequent cruising options. He looks like Santa Claus, a special yuletide treat for all the terrified homosexuals. His large pot belly is second only to the girth of Elizabeth Wettlaufer. In Ontario, I think it’s a prerequisite that you weigh over 300 pounds before you are allowed to call yourself a serial killer. Wettlaufer, size aside, killed 8 elderly patients at different long-term care facilities. She attempted to kill 6 others. She pleaded guilty to all counts. Her motive remains unclear but she is no way claimed to be some angel of mercy. She admitted to killing a few of those victims  because they were “mean” to her. Touché. Whenever I question something, or need a clue, I always go to the evidence. It is with her own words that we can discern her villainy. In her confession, she claims, “I knew the difference between right and wrong, but I thought this was something God, or whoever, wanted me to do it, but I was starting at that point to doubt that it was God.” No shit.

“The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life.” (The Interpretation of Dreams, Sigmund Freud 1899)

Photo

https://marketplace.secondlife.com/p/Evil-Eyes/1524762?id=1524762&slug=Evil-Eyes

Sources  

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/eilzabeth-wettlaufer-confession-1.4142647

The Side of the Road

            Every time I see the carcass of a dead animal, I am compelled to bury it. While this is usually not possible, I am obligated to try, under optimal conditions. Usually, I am exposed while driving my car. I do not slam on my brakes while doing 100 km. I do not stop traffic to remove the thing. I do not drag it off the course and bury it with a frown. It usually gets dumped somewhere on the side of the road. At least, it will not face the indignity or have its guts squished out on the asphalt that already claimed it. I can only consider my pets and how I would feel discovering their intestines strewn about the highway. I am selective in my consideration. I rarely stop to help the animals that lie already dead at the side of the road.

            It was a massive pile of blood and guts on one end, and what was left of a cute and furry muskrat on the other. I had no idea that my partner was the one who had done the deed. For two days, I avoided it like any respectful person would. It just sat there, half guts, half creature, all roadkill.  Having dropped off the guilty culprit, I headed back from whence I had been. The beast was still there and I imagined that after all this time, it was festering. I could not help myself. My resolve to remove it had me pull over to the side of the road and pop my trunk. I simply grabbed a few plastic bags and doubled them up with each other to create a heavy glove. I took hold of the poor thing by its face and I dragged it to the edge of that thoroughfare. I dumped it into the long grasses that riddled the roadside. I discarded my cover into the backseat and I drove away. Unfortunately, you could still see pieces of that muskrat littering the route.

            The pig on the stick did not go round. The flames licked only the bottom of it. The rest sat pink and fresh and very much dead. It was almost more than I could handle. I have never been much of a pork eater and the eyes of the creature stared right through me. I avoided the pit for the rest of the day. When dinner was served, side dishes were all we dared to consume. I wasn’t even sure of them, if the truth be told. I felt like bacteria was lying in wait. We sat down to eat what we got and were joined by a nice enough lady and a few of her children. The fact they were indigenous is beside the point. As we picked at our food, somehow the topic of roadkill was brought up. I made a few smart ass comments and sat waiting for the chorus to join in. To my surprise, we did not see the matter in the same way. In fact, I learned that day, that roadkill was just as good as the store-bought meats. Some of it was even better. All her children wholeheartedly agreed. 

I never ever imagined that such plenty lay at the side of the road.

            The town of Strathroy is surrounded by green space. A few small towns like Watford and Mt. Brydges sit just out of reach. Otherwise, fields and forest and pasture follow you throughout the area. It is the picture of Southern Ontario, Canada. Its charm lies in the standard fare. Cornfields, herds of cow and horse litter the scenic tour one might take. It is  not far to the 402 highway. It is not far to Poplar Hill, then to Denfield, then to Stratford, all on the way home. My folks built their house in 1980 and remain on the property to this day. My mom died here. My dad carries on here. Just down the street and one finds themselves on the 10^th concession, a shortcut to the northern edge of neighbouring London. You can skip a lot of traffic heading this way. I use the back direction mostly to make my descent. You can go pretty fast along this country road. I was doing around 90 km when the cat just jumped out at me. Unfortunately for the cat, he bounced off the car and ended up dead in the middle of the road. I pulled the car over. I got out, walked over to it and proceeded to check if it was dead. It most certainly was. I pulled that orange tabby across the road by one of its paws and softly tossed it into the long grasses that grow along the side of the road.

            I was clocking around 100 km when the ball bounced out onto the road. I didn’t even have time to brake when the dog did too. Only one of them bounced to safety. The other one met its end. I don’t know how many times I have hit an animal, like a bird or a stupid squirrel. I always stop if I can. This day met no exception and I pulled over to the side of the road and got out of my car. They knew it was not my fault. You could tell they knew, they should have leashed the old puppy, especially on a busy county road. It was heartbreaking to see that little girl crying over her best friend. I offered my sincerest apology and then I offered my assistance if they wanted to bury him. I didn’t even wash my hands before I got back into the car. I just wanted to escape how I felt. I went from killer to gravedigger all in one swoop. As I sped away, I looked back on the scene and I noticed that no one was standing at the side of the road.

            My car has killed at least 1000 birds. While that may not be an accurate estimation, it feels like it at any rate. While driving, I have rammed them, dinged them, squished them and have run a few over, I am sure. Most times, birds have me convinced that at heart they are truly stupid. Even a chipmunk knows not to run into oncoming traffic. Over and over, some idiot beak will take a chance and play chicken, so to speak. More than a few have bounced off the car and landed on the side of the road. It can feel like it is littered with the corpses of one species after another. The damn things just keep flying right into my way. I often feel like they deserve to die for doing so. I rarely stop for any bird smaller than a hawk, not that I have firsthand knowledge of such an event. If a large blue heron met the front of my speeding car, I would most certainly pull over and investigate its fate. The rest of them will have to settle for the side of the road.

            My brother and his wife at the time lived outside the Strathroy area but in the country nonetheless. The town of Alvinston was barely a village at the time but it served my sibling and his family well. For years they lived in a large white colonial home. The grounds were huge, at least 4 acres. It was a country drive home every day for him. In the fall and winter, he drove back home mostly in the dark. Any change in the weather made the road even more dangerous. One night, my brother had no need for bad weather. Out of nowhere (although it was probably the woods), a large doe jumped out from the passenger side of the car, leaping right into the oncoming vehicle. He hit the creature full on, killing it instantly. He got out of his car, checked the scene then popped the trunk. Using some handy rope, he managed to tie the beast to the back of the car and he drove away into the night. He didn’t leave a morsel at the side of the road.

            My brother’s home was beautiful. Polished silver and blended patterns made the place stink of culture and class. It was nice to live there, I am sure. On occasion, my family used to vary the host when planning the annual Christmas gathering. My brother pulled the proverbial rabbit out of that year’s hat. The place was actually quite lovely, or so I remember it to be. The meal was extravagant, with multiple choice in meat such as turkey, ham or roast of beef. All that beef sure looked good to me. I have to admit a pink centre is my carnivorous delight. I looked around for the horseradish then took a good portion of the meat and laid it on my plate. The first piece I remember well. It sort of burned at the back of my throat like an aftertaste would. You could discern the wild in it. I could feel the slight sting as I swallowed just one piece more. I had never eaten anything before, nor since,  that came from the side of the road.

            A carcass is not garbage, especially if you put it there. You have an obligation, if possible, to at least remove it from the line of fire. I almost scream when I see some rodent or canine or cat, dead as a doornail in the middle of the road. Too many times have I been witness to guts and no glory. If you can stop, get it out of the way. Always be safe but if you can, spare the critter from a nastier fate. You never know who you might be sparing from a gruesome discovery. It is okay to be kind to animals too. Hell, someone might even need it as a food source. There is a grocery store along the highway, it seems. I suppose that one good thing about being human is you don’t have to worry about people eating you if you should die at the side of the road.

Photo

http://carolinawildlife.org/deer-in-the-headlights/