Pick and Choose

            We are comprised of everything that we have known. We are the sum of all the borrowed knowledge to which our lifetime has exposed us. We are conditioned, shaped, educated. From the time we are born until the time we die, all we are is adopted from something else. Whether it is a person, a piece of literature or even a snowy day in January, we absorb experience, our outer reality, in the hope that we might somehow understand. We use observation to try to interpret all that input. There is nothing within us, or a part of us, that has not been filtered through something else. From our basic hygiene rituals we learn as children to the complexities of communication, social interaction and religiosity, we steal from others and take for ourselves. This is primarily a benign process. We don’t always make the decision to learn from something. It’s not that we even care. The transfer occurs just like with a sponge. We suck it all in and don’t even have to take the time to think about it.

           

            We objectify the material world from early on and use it as a tool to relate to both our environment and each other. The only way we can comprehend the overwhelming matrix of information delivered to us, at an alarming rate, is to selectively approach what we need. We have to hack ourselves in order to access anything stored in the process. Most times, we get to pick and choose. This recognition, however, is both conscious and subconscious. Our brain selects then applies the information to be stored and how it will be used. We can selectively acknowledge, or deny, some “data”.  We keep what we want and discard those things we feel have no authenticity. We are, however, constantly influenced by the world around us and the all the things contained within it. It matters little, if we believe they serve no purpose. This unending procedure, the borrowing of knowledge, plays out over and over again until the moment we cease to exist. When we do die, we do not yet know where all that information goes. Does it follow us into the next phase? Is there even a next phase to carry it to? According to most religious texts, we continue to exist and therefore, so too must our experience.   

            As each bite of information, each morsel is absorbed, we are conformed, trained and, some would argue, brainwashed. We are indoctrinated at birth into patterns of behaviour based on information relevant only to our group. We may start out unique, but we are sculpted and take form until we turn into everyone else. Everything we come to know becomes our makeup. How we feel, how we think, and even how we love, are all influenced, or even created, by the exposure we have had to the outside world, especially to other people. Our socialization, our education, and even our inner dialogue, act like building blocks we have no idea how to play with. We are, in fact, more of a puzzle than anything else. Every day, new pieces are added to the mix. There is constant flux. The project itself can be overwhelming. Quite often, the best we can do is to build the edges. The jumbled mess that we are takes time to put together and you never really get the chance to finish it. The process is rather developmental. The good news is that this state of being allows us an unlimited access to our truth. You can sit down and play with all the different shapes and sizes that have become your life. Our perpetually moving identity, and the way it was formed, influence us. We are what we eat. The good news is that the search for truth should enlighten us, not restrict us. The past is quite accessible but we have to use it if we are going to find anything useful within it. Instead, we dream of what the mess we are will look like when it is complete. It never is.

“My mother believed in curses, karma, good luck, bad luck, feng shui. Her amorphous set of beliefs showed me you can pick and choose the qualities of your philosophy, based on what works for you.” (Amy Tan, American writer)

            Our ideas regarding God form through a filtration process. From childhood tampering to any spiritual revelation as an adult, we are taught what we are supposed to believe and how we should believe it. Whether through the written word, personal association or formulated evangelization, all we ever come to recognize as the truth, relating to the divine, has been validated through a lifelong process of persuasion. Who we think God is stands as nothing more than a cumulative exposure to ideas and theologies handed down and evolved through implementation and indoctrination. It doesn’t matter if you are Christian, Muslim or Buddhist, your belief structure is never truly your own. It never has been. Faith structures are the summation of organized theories, ideas handed down generationally and intellectually. Religious belief is an artificial compilation of borrowed knowledge. It bestows upon us cognition but from a very limited and specific point of view. In a sense, we become what we are exposed to and what we are exposed to will help determine what we think, and understand, and what we feel. God is a subjective truth.

            Since what we know about God is an artificial representation, so too reality can be viewed in the same manner. We can only trust in what we have been told and what we have been told is all perspective. If reality is the transfer of subjective awareness, then its composition must be contrived as well. Time, matter, even existence are all illusions. Our ideas and theories are nothing but a stretched out guessing game. We will never know more than nothing at all. Any information we do receive, while in our mortal coil, is filtered through our humanity. We can only understand within our own definition. I cannot define reality any more than I can change it. It is what it is. I may be able to trick myself into thinking that things are different because I am different, but this approach is as limited as the pick and choose option. What we call truth will confine us. It doesn’t help that most knowledge is corrupted. It is corrupted by observation, corrupted by infiltration and, most certainly, corrupted by opinion. What we believe to be true is nothing more than believing something to be true. We appear to automatically convince ourselves. Scientific evidence to the contrary, all metaphysical proof is merely anecdotal and very much limited based on the constraints of being human.

            We cannot hope to understand something outside ourselves without a basis for relating. Mankind takes interpretations and turns them into truth. We know we are grasping at straws, but it’s apparent that an artificial something is better than nothing at all. We cannot function within the unknown, so we shape reality in order that we can. When we recognize we cannot know, that our truth is limited, we begin to find the Divine. All the fabrications and notions we have about God disappear when we see them for what they are. Everything is nothing and nothing is everything. When we journey into the unknown, we quickly realize there is freedom in not knowing. It is here that we have the freedom to think, the freedom to create and the freedom to believe in the things we want to. It’s like an otherland, of sorts. Every word, every lyric, every thought we use to define God is merely an attempt to commune with something beyond us. Most often, the answers are right in front of us. We should be paying more attention to the things around us if we want to find any semblance of the truth. God speaks to us through the things we know but we pick and choose what to listen to.

            Realizing that truth is an illusion is different than realizing the truth is nothing. When we surrender to the idea that what we know is not real, we recognize what is. All we have is here and now. The rest is just guesswork. It doesn’t matter what we experience or who we become, if I am to discover God in the otherland I exist within, I must first learn to recognize it. To see, we must assume God is here and there and everywhere. Since we are not aware beyond ourselves, we anthropomorphize the Holy in order to relate and comprehend.  God becomes a person, and a lifestyle and the bringer of punishment. We let our feelings about God complicate things. God is a simple thing. In the smallest flower, in the song of a child, in the very breath we take to stay alive, this is the way that leads to light. If God is everywhere, if we are to somehow understand, then all we need to do is pay attention. This is something I can hang my hope upon. There is beauty in all I see. It is surrounding me, here in the things that I know. It is worth repeating. When you realize you know nothing, then you know everything.

            All the things we know, from birth to death, make up our belief in a God. You can almost sense a spirit flowing through everything and this suggests purpose and reason. The tiny voice inside yourself tells of meaning and movement, but you must listen to learn. Everything you ever claimed, every sunset that passed you by contains the sound but we don’t hear it. The only way to find God is to recognize you cannot. I do not mean to suggest that God is in all things only. I suggest that God is all things. Since we can only guess, it is easiest to define it as either everything or nothing at all. This approach is far more encompassing than relying on an anthropomorphic deity that the world’s religions claim is real. We can focus and become aware of the ebb and flow. We can understand everything because we understand nothing. There is much to learn when we think of life as a lesson rather than mere living. If God speaks to us through the things we know, then there must be a message. If there is a God, we must put away what we think we know and begin to work within what we do not know.

            Everything we need to know is invisible. If you’ve ever sat on a summer day and felt the heat of the sun blaze against your skin, then you may well understand what I am trying to relay. You can feel what you do not see. If God is everywhere, and everything,  then God is easily accessible, anywhere we search. If you take the time to notice, you will find what you are looking for. We all are part of reality; I am, just like you. Search within. When you discover this secret, our preconceived notions about the divine fall away and become part of the nothing that we recognize as something. They are futile attempts to commune far beyond what it means to be human. This is the reason we speculate, anthropomorphize and ritualize. We need a common ground that people can relate to, not some esoteric journey beyond the scope of that which our history has created. Once you find your place, no amount of borrowed knowledge can bring greater insight. The idea that we can define God is futile, like trying to explain the soul. We just don’t know. We are not even sure we have one.  

            Anyone who has experienced déjà vu or some unexplained coincidence; anyone one who has survived a Near Death Experience; anyone who has felt the presence knows they did not catch it from afar. It was right there, already waiting, they just had to claim it. We get to pick and choose what we want to believe. Everything we know in our lives, every joy and sorrow, all our true knowledge, comes from an otherland we can only imagine. In a sense, we determine God’s love for us, not the other way around. We make it so. This unrestricted access is available if we care to notice. When we become aware that God is all around us and when we tell ourselves he is cheering us on, we discover the true purpose in goodness and right and joy. Life is to be lived fully, not controlled and conditioned based on things we do not understand. All borrowed knowledge, to the ends of the earth, cannot make us aware if we do not wish to be. The truth is that the answers lie waiting within. Such truth we have searched the world to find but know nothing of.

All the words of this world may help you survive god, they may even help you along your path, but they won’t help you find God.

“All things are divine. And yet, we pick and choose among them what’s appropriate.”

(Frederick Lenz, spiritual teacher)

Photo

https://www.industrialbrand.com/how-to-pick-and-choose-clients-7-tips-for-professional-services-firms

https://beyondthepulpitmabc.wordpress.com/2014/04/09/pick-and-choose-christianity/

Sources

Borrowed Knowledge

(Original post May 27^th 2011)

http://simplekel.blogspot.ca/2011/05/borrowed-knowledge.html

https://survivinggod.blogspot.com/2013/06/things-i-know.html

Foreshadowing

            It’s ironic that as a gay man, I have always been attracted to pussy. From my beginning, I have cherished the cat. Dogs are special and often our friend. Cats are more like our children. While I do not remember every experience with every animal I have known, my feline friends all come in flashes, like my canine encounters. I can remember each and every one of them, even if only in glimpses. I may have the same reaction to the dogs I have known but somehow I was much more fond of the cats I experienced. It started when I was in kindergarten. I arrived home to find Tiger, an orange short-haired tabby. He ran away quite quickly and forever but he was a part of my history regardless. In the summer of 1977, my family lived near a Catholic church/school just outside the downtown core of Strathroy, Ontario. The property was large and fit my entire family with room to spare. At the end of the backyard, a medium-sized wooden shed had begun its demise, abandoned to time and lazy owners. It was a fun place to play in and an even better shelter for Molly, the neighbourhood kitty. Just inside the main door of the shed sat a hunter green dresser, it remained intact and separate from all the other ravages of time. It was a cradle of sorts. Molly gave birth to a litter of three, but only two survived beyond the first few days. We buried the dead baby at the far corner of the property. It is here that it really all began. I engaged the course and I danced upon the waves. The boat set out on the water and the journey began.

            The pair of short haired tabbies grew up quickly and soon both were ready for their own lives. Momma Molly went to a farm just outside Strathroy and a plan for the two kittens found a life of its own. The  pair could not have been more unique and different. Muffin was brown with black striping and Mystic was solid grey. The one common factor in their appearances was the big M on both cats’ foreheads. I greatly favoured Muffy. I took him as my own. My family did not follow suit. When Mom forced the family to choose just one of the pair to keep, I campaigned for my cat. Everyone decided to keep the pretty cat Misty. Muffy was to be sent to the same farm his mother had been shipped off to. I would not hear of it. From the moment I met him, Muff was the world to me. He was my cat and no one was going to take him away from me. The night before they were to seal his fate, I snuck out in the darkness and took him. For two days, he hid in the wall of my bedroom. It was like magic when they said he could stay. Brothers bound together, and for much more than just a decade. It was a cold October day when my Mom called to break the news. I had left home years before but for all my greater learning, nothing compared to my visits home. He was there every time, just waiting for me to love him. He did not die easy. On the Monday, he was diagnosed with cancer and by Thursday he had clamped down on the power terminal in the furnace. They did not put him down sooner because I intended to come home to say goodbye on the Friday. I made the trip regardless. My Dad had to pry him off with a crowbar. He had to break his teeth to completely remove him. It was so strange for me then, what he did and how it all ended for him. He actually committed suicide. It was stranger still the foreshadowing. Misty lived for a few more years but by the time that he passed, I had already adopted two other cats. The originals both rest up on the hill.

             

            There is a price one pays for living. There is usually a price to be paid for loving too. Having lost a cat to suicide really drove my need to secure another one. My first try was a shorthaired black tabby, with white markings, which I adopted as a kitten and named Opus. The truth is that his real name was Old Pussy but it was shortened rather quickly after the fact. He was not safe in a house full of post-secondary partiers. My sister took him in and he lived for well over a decade. He is buried up on the hill. I was still hiding in the closet when “my girlfriend” (Katherine) asked if I would take Buster, her orange tabby. I, of course, said yes but regretted it quickly. In less than a week, I had broken up with her and she took the thing back. Just a few months later and my partner and I adopted Felix at the London (Ontario, Canada) Humane Society.

A mixed breed with black and white markings, Felix was timid and scared and completely, utterly, abandoned. We could not just leave the poor thing shaking in the corner of his cell. Bringing him to live with us brought a bit of a challenge. His true nature was pretty much the same when he got to his new home. For days, the poor thing quivered in this corner or hid under a table. It was Doug’s idea for me to get another cat. He didn’t favour pets, any pet, but he knew what I needed and pressed me to go adopt one. It did not hurt that the man and the cat were very much like each other. It wasn’t me that Felix ran to for shelter. The two formed a bond which lasted even after all the death that was to come. Sometimes, when I travel to my otherland, I imagine Doug is waiting with Felix and all my other pets. It is not a romantic notion. We chose Gizmo hoping that it would help. It was one of the best things we could have done.

Mr. Gizzie was as black as black could be. His long soft hair was like streams of shadow and ribbons of dark. He was beautiful, friendly and he couldn’t have cared less. In all my days, before and after this cat, I have yet to behold such ambivalence in an animal. Giz was as laid back as laid back could be. When I discovered him in his “adopt me” cage, he whimpered at me through the bars that confined him. I just knew. His lovely nature, his energy, I was sure that they were exactly what Felix needed.

            Both cats lived long. For more than a decade, they played in my house, meowed in my house and shit in it too. They became like Muffy and Misty in that they were not just pets but also family. My strongest memory of Felix finds him sleeping on my lap for the first time. It was foreshadowing. He didn’t do it often but when he did, it stood out in my mind. As for Gizmo, he would occasionally sneak out and disappear for hours. The experience would not have been so bad had we not lived in the downtown core of Toronto during his heyday. I can still see him sashaying back, along the top of our fence, just like nothing had happened. There was even one time when he refused to come inside and hid under the house itself. I had to use a hose to get him to go indoors. The entire time Felix slept on the couch, unaware. This was not the case on the day we moved to Toronto. When I opened the U-Haul door in order to take him inside, Felix tore off down the street and disappeared. As we frantically searched the area, one of our new neighbours yelled out that the cat was hiding on his front porch. None of it mattered at all. When my first partner died, it was the cats that gave me a reason to go on. Initially, I believed that I must give them up if they were to have any semblance of the life they once knew. All those years and the world looked bleak for the two. For awhile, they bounced around much like my grief did. It wasn’t until my current partner came along that I finally settled in one place. Felix died of vestibulitis in his ear. You could tell something was wrong when he laid down the night before but I found him in the same position the next morning. He hadn’t moved and was frozen in that place. A dribble of blood from his mouth and ear was all the proof I needed. When we moved out of that dwelling, I cut the bloodstain out of the rug and took it with us. It’s a touchstone of sorts, just like the special marker that my Mom bought for his place in the garden. Up on the hill, right next to Felix, Gizmo eventually found sleep beside him.

            Mr. Gizzie changed little after Felix died. He lived several more years all by himself. He was fine with it. The major difference in the cat was his need for attention. If he wanted you to pet him, he let you know with no uncertainty. For weeks, he would sit at the bottom of the basement stairs and he would howl and howl and howl some more. He  slept alone, and ate alone but he seemed just fine. He remained uninterested despite the new emotional condition. The day we brought Skipper the Cockapoo home found Gizmo unimpressed. After a few growls, a few more hisses, and a day or two in hiding, the cat came around. It didn’t hurt that, at this point, Skip was as blind as a bat. I wouldn’t say that the pair hated each other but I wouldn’t say they loved each other either. They appeared to tolerate and not much else. I awoke one morning to find Gizzie hanging from the side of the mattress I had been sleeping on. He did not dangle but was stiff and rather dead there. The life of him seemed to have been blown out and full rigor mortise had set in. It was terrible for me. Not only was I losing the cat I loved but I had to face the reality that with both cats deceased, there was no real physical bridge between Doug and I left. I had to say goodbye again while grieving the loss of a much favoured pet. It was like I buried that life up on the hill with Giz and Felix. Often, I look back on my days with Doug and those two cats and the relationship we had and the family we formed. It is still hard to believe, all these years later, that all three of them have been gone for so long. Once Skipper passed in 2005, we started looking for another cat. Mister B’s full name was Butterscotch but we dealt with that nonsense right away.

Mister B was beautiful, pure white from head to tail. There was an elegance about his look although his style left much to the imagination. He was a wee bit of a prick. Sometimes he was just nasty. I suppose growing up locked in a room with snarling dogs might have a cause and effect. My Dad’s cat Peta was with him in that room at the start. Less than two years later and the lovely white cat died on the floor of our dining room. It was a very unpleasant experience for not only the cat but for my partner and I as well. It was pure horror. There might have been signs that something was wrong with  him but they became sort of normal, we failed to see them for what they were. By the time I took him to the vet, it was too late. I should have put him down right there and then but I took the cat back home and I waited for my partner to arrive after work. We never got the chance to do anything else but watch him die. I swore I would never allow another soul to suffer when I could have done something. I am still haunted by his screams. Every human, every rat, every other cat, even a dog here and there would never have to die like Mister B did, not if I had anything to say about it.

            There have been many animals that I brought home and gave a life. There are just as many dogs as cats and just as many cats as rats. I did not have to live with each one in order to experience them. When I met my current partner Ben, he had this insane feline named Mac. It was a wild thing, bouncing off walls and furniture. I thought he was one step away from feral. As Ben and I dated, I tried to calm the storm that was brewing whenever you brought the thing inside. I preferred him outside. I have little tolerance when a pet refuses to listen. When Gizmo, Felix and I moved in with Ben, Mac had to go. The little bugger would not give  up. Once we dropped him off at his new home, he simply walked back to the place he, apparently, called home.

At that time, I had the pleasure to experience Ben’s parents’ cats Mickey and Missy.

Although I did not have many personal encounters with either one of them, their picture sits with the rest of them, little difference in the display. We lived on the 16th floor for over 6 years. For most of that time, Rocky lived across the hall.

He looked like Felix if you added 10 pounds and a few chins. Like Mister B, he is a little bit of a prick himself. We still like each other. He left many a bloody hand after every play session. He likes it rough.

Rocky is getting up there and it is just a matter of time. Still, he is doing well. When they discovered Mister B locked in that room full of dogs, my parents’ cat Peta was right there with him. Peta, a small shorthaired calico was timid and shy and, it seemed, shattered by her experience with that chamber of canine.

She was my parents’ cat but mostly she was solace for my father after my mother’s death. Such a timid thing and so, so quiet. She was scared of her own shadow. She met an early demise. It was cancer. It is always cancer. It’s just more foreshadowing. Many years have passed since Mister B and Opus and even Phydo, the family dog. The hill out back is all full up. Since then, there have been  new additions to my sibling’s family. There is the large orange tabby Hunter,

and the petite black with white markings Bloom,

they rule the roost where Muffy and Misty used to. There is even this fucking black cat that hangs around our property in Paris. He searches for more chipmunks to eat. All I have to do is appear and he disappears. Some cats sure can run fast. 

            Mister B was not a happy camper. I have not encountered another cat like him. Regardless of the relationship we had started to form, he needed something more so we adopted Shadowe. It took less than a year to convince us. Mister B’s misery propelled us to the Humane Society on River Street in Toronto, Ontario. Only rescue pets for me, always. To be honest, I went in looking for a black cat. I guess the fag in me took over but I wanted a cat that matched Mister B (salt and pepper). I knew him when I saw him. My partner knew it too. A few meows and we were sold on him. The fact that he clawed me, he drew blood, only sealed the deal. I like it rough too.

Off I went to secure the creature. When I came back, two girls had decided they wanted him as well. Fuck you. It didn’t matter anyway, I had already claimed him and they were shit out of luck. He chewed his way through his cardboard cage, all the way home. The backseat looked like Times Square an hour after the clock has dropped. From the moment we brought him in it was clear, he belonged. Shadowe had little effect on Mister B but his death left the black cat in the same position he had just walked out of. We quickly returned to the Toronto Humane Society and we adopted Fritz.

What a beautiful cat. Don’t get me wrong, Shadowe was simple black with short, sharp hair and common looks for a cat. He was lovely to be sure but even I knew the cat was really plain Jane. I find it ironic that as he aged he slowly manifested a salt and pepper look (tossed in with a slight dander issue). Fritz is a different story. If Shadowe was pretty then Fritz is stunning. A longhaired grey mix, the Himalayan part of him seems to rule the roost. He is energetic, friendly and on some days he is a kitten all over again. For 12 years, the two acted like brothers. They were friends and there is a reason we put them into the basement each night. I’ll never forget watching Fritz run around our apartment, building up momentum. He raced towards the dining room table, leapt into the air and slid with the tablecloth straight across, smashing a very expensive fruit bowl all over the spot were Mister B had died weeks before. Shadowe got older but Fritz did not seem to. At 16, Shadowe had seen better days. Just before Christmas 2018, he started to slow down and limp. He seemed weak and it raised our concern. By the holiday, all seemed well again. We just assumed whatever had happened to him for those days in December was attributed to growing older. He really recovered fully and without question. A new year found him better, back to the normal cat we had fallen in love with. The truth is, I view his last six months as foreshadowed. If you look back, you can see rather clearly what was happening in the cat. We thought it was old age. He never once seemed defeated. He never once seemed uncomfortable or in pain. One Sunday, out of nowhere, and the cat was set for doom. The change was immediate and easy to see. We waited a day to see if he got better. He did not. I made the next available appointment at the animal hospital just around the corner from our home. To cremate the cat cost over $300.00. His presence was gone in the blink of an eye. I have a few of his dishes, an abundance of toys and random things that belonged to him. It has all gone into a box with Shadowe boldly scribbled on it. Upstairs, he sits in his forever home.   

            I have had to put down many of the pets I accumulated over the years, For the most part, I have been lucky (so to speak) with cats. After more than 40 years of adopting them, I have only had to put one down. Shadowe was the first. I was well trained by all the dogs and rodents I had to euthanize. Of course, it was cancer. The vet showed me one of the tumours, which was rapidly growing in his mouth and down his throat. It spewed white pus and a stream of blood tried to trickle down his windpipe. It was finished. He was finished. After what had happened to Mister B, there was no way in hell I would allow Shadowe to experience that. When she noted he couldn’t get food or water down and that kidney failure was imminent, his fate was sealed. An hour later and my partner and I sat with him on the floor. The nurse came in and we laid him down. It was over in 8 seconds. What a fucking horrible, awful thing to watch happen. The mercy we gave him meant little as we drove away. It would be a week before his ashes arrived and we claimed them. He sits next to a picture on a shelf in the living room. You can see him when you watch TV. There are no more whimpers, no more meows. There are just memories and a few shadows scattered around the place. For almost a decade, my Mom has remained in this same condition but at my father’s home. It helped him through the pain having her near to him. Shadowe’s cremation helped my partner and I as well. There is something to be said for having the object of your affection next to you. Having spent 25 years going to the cemetery in Stratford, Ontario to “visit” my first partner, I would rather have Doug at my home, in a place that is safe. The first few years after his suicide found me sobbing over his grave, cringing at the idea of him rotting and turning into goo. This experience repeated with every animal that I put into the ground. Shadowe is with us now. He will always be. I suppose, in a sense, every pet I have known has brought me to the place I stand these days. I am taken by grief but even that has found a settled place. It can be overwhelming, all the foreshadowing. I am very pleased that Fritz seems okay with the events, at least he appears to be just fine. I was concerned when at first, he sat at the bottom of the main staircase and howled like a wolf throughout each night. For well over two weeks time, he announced his pain and called out for his friend. We don’t like him being so alone. This is one of the reasons we have decided to get a new pet. It’s soon time for us to adopt a dog.

“It’s better not to know

The way it’s gonna go

What will die and what will grow

Goodbye more than hello

It’s better not to know.”

(Better Not To Know, Amy Grant 2013)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vCk6i0jYQE

Photos

a) The Hill                                                       b) Muffy and Misty

Strathroy Ontario                                            Strathroy Ontario

circa summer   2002                                        circa 1980

                                                                       

c) Opus                                                            d) Felix           

London, Ontario                                             Sarnia Ontario

circa autumn 1989                                           circa summer 1992

                                                                       

e) Gizmo                                                          f) Mister B

Sarnia Ontario                                                 Kitchener Ontario

circa winter 1992                                            circa spring 2005

                                                                                   

g) Mickey and Missy                                        h) Rocky

Brantford Ontario                                           Kitchener Ontario

circa winter 1998                                            circa autumn 2014

i) Playing Rough                                             j) Peta

Kitchener Ontario                                           Strathroy Ontario

circa spring 2013                                             circa summer 2012     

k) Hunter and Phydo                                       l) Bloom

Strathroy Ontario                                            Strathroy Ontario       

circa summer 2011                                          circa spring 2017

m) Shadowe                                                    n) Fritz (and Shadowe)

Kitchener Ontario                                           Kitchener Ontario

circa autumn 2014                                           circa autumn 2008

o) Shadowe and Fritz

Paris Ontario

May 23^rd, 2019

Doggone

            When I was a very young child, someone broke into our basement during the night. Trixie, our miniature black Chihuahua, must have made a lot of noise because they snapped her little neck, leaving her as dead as dead can be. It was my father who discovered the horror. We had to put down Chico, a regular Chihuahua, when he ate broken glass and ruptured internally. They told us our mutt Sparky had to be taken to a farm where he could have the space his energy needed. I cried when we said goodbye, somehow knowing that this was his end. It is strange how the canine linger even though I can barely remember anything pre-kindergarten. It can be rather odd, this hindsight. I have a view of most things, my history is clear, but any retention of my past has changed and evolved with the passage of time. Somehow my memories of each and every dog I have known are at play in the fields of my mind. I can almost reach out and touch each one. It often feels that I know more dead animals than I do living people. They seem to dwell in some otherland. While any recall of my childhood can be ambiguous, my encounters with dogs produce a stronger signal. The rest of my memories all come and go. For some reason, I can remember every pet I ever had with precision. I can’t recall my 4^th birthday but I can still see little Trixie, wagging her little black tail. I can see Chico drinking from the upstairs toilet. I can still see Sparky running about like a crazed man. They may be dogs, they may all be dead and gone, but they remain with me for some reason. Such connection I have rarely encountered, dogs just seem to fetch me. Perhaps they are all just some quiet lesson, an amalgam of the joy a pet can bring. Perhaps they help define our human relationships, teaching by example. It can be painful just to visit them. So much death can be a good thing. When we lose a pet, it acts not only for itself but readies us for the reality of our own mortal limitations. Little pieces of death can build a fortitude. Along the way, we encounter joy and we encounter doom. The very experience of dogs, apparently, delivers both.

“I’m standing at the crossroads in life,

and I don’t know where to go

You know you’ve got my heart babe,

but my music’s got my soul

Let me play it one more time,

I’ll tell the truth and make it rhyme

And hope they understand me”

            The fully grown Irish Setter had been wandering around the neighbourhood for days. Other kids played with the beast. I gave it a few treats and petted it nicely. It was calm and controlled, at least it seemed to be at that time. He had been lurking for the better part of a week. Come Sunday morning and I went outside while waiting to go to Church. Big Red, as we called him, was looming near a neighbour’s home. He joined me as I walked and fretted. I was feeling down and I assumed the dog knew it. I simply petted his head when he attacked me. He consumed my entire right hand and deeply punctured that appendage. The monster ran away. It was here that I learned of my allergy to dog saliva. My entire arm swelled up like a red party balloon. It was a hospital visit I have never forgotten. Soon enough, I sat on their couch with my Mom, as the police officer questioned the couple whose dog was exactly like the one who bit me. The entire time the monster barked and barked from a different room. When they brought it out, I immediately thought of every lineup I had seen on TV. I said it was the guilty party. They put the beast down and I went on with the scars. I must admit, I have occasionally felt guilty considering it may not have been the actual offender but a mere lookalike. I have never been sure. Regardless, this event changed the way I approached animals. I was afraid of dogs for years and years. My Aunt May did not help the cause. It wasn’t so much that she kept dogs for breeding, it was the type of dog that made me want run as fast as I possibly could. Whenever we spent time at her home, it was pure horror for me. I didn’t have a problem with Tarzan, her Pomeranian house dog. It was the half-dozen Doberman Pinschers that gave me a reason to crap my pants. They ran free in the house and the yard and would all rush the front fence when someone tried to leave by the side door. I was terrified enough by large dogs but these encounters cemented my disdain and drove my anxiety. I can still hear them barking and snarling and screaming. I think they could smell my fear. It was like they knew and took pleasure in my reaction. Ironically, like Pavlovian conditioning, I reacted to each and every dog. My dread was overwhelming and, at times, unhealthy. I guess I needed new exposure, something to counteract the base fear. It was around this time that we got Nugget.

            He was a chocolate brown purebred poodle. Medium-sized. We never groomed him in the standard poodle way. We let it grow out until he looked more like Benji than a trimmed tree. He was a friendly, good-natured and lovely creature. I remember the first day, his arrival, and I remember thinking at least it isn’t a Doberman. Considering my Aunt May arranged for Nugget’s adoption, the chance of some monster showing up held pretty good odds. Nugget was a catalyst, the reason I kept trying to battle my fear. If I could interact with my own dog then perhaps I might entertain other dogs. It took years of reconditioning myself before I was able to really trust man’s best friend. I found a counterpoint to my issues. For fifteen years or so, Nugget was a faithful companion. He was my friend when I thought I didn’t have any. He was my buddy, my pal and he knew it. He was the family dog in every way. In secret, he was my dog in every way. He helped me more than I can say. For the rest of my life, he is the example of what a dog should be. No matter the effect he had on my thinking, it did not take away the carnal fear I had of being attacked again. I remember how it hurt me and I have never wished to go back and experience it again. The horror of it returned, time and again, like a symphony of gnashing teeth and saliva spray. Sometimes it would come in the light and sometimes it would come in the darkness. The shroud of a country night found me walking, hitchhiking the 40 kilometres to home. The midnight hour had long passed into the wee hours of morning. My thumb had been offered to no one, as I walked and walked in the pitch black, all alone. The beast started barking and its voice rang out in the night. It scared me shitless. I had no idea if it was leashed, running free or heading my way. Great fear consumed me as I slowly increased my speed. When the sound of the animal grew closer, my feet moved faster. I don’t think I have ever run that fast, not before and most certainly not since. Having an invisible monster chase you through the night only amplified any previous position. Dog bad, run good. 

           

“Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I die before I wake,

Feed Jake,

He’s been a good dog

My best friend right through it all,

If I die before I wake

Feed Jake”

            Every time I tried to enter my In-Laws’, their giant black Chow would lunge at me. Thank God for links and chains. Teddy was fierce and, apparently, he knew it. Every day for weeks, I had to face the monster. I just avoided his area altogether if I could. I got tired of being afraid. I figured a few cookies might change his disposition. I was correct in my thinking. A snack here and a treat there and soon the juggernaut was much more approachable. I started to pet him with great reservation. Slowly, we began to play. Eventually, we both let our guards down. He wasn’t just a some creature, some  formidable force to warn off strangers. He was more than just a protector. He was a giant black-furred puppy, even for all his many years. He had once greeted me with venom but he now greeted me with our game. My leather jacket still has all the markings of a wrestling match or two. We played rough, just like he liked it. He would bite down on my leather arm, shaking it ever so. He had great self-control and a precision you could feel. He was not some monster, this was a loving and intelligent creature. Still, I would not have chosen to aggravate him. Whatever she did to him while she was feeding him remains unspoken. The dog tried to remove one of her calf muscles. I was told it was a mighty chomp. They put him down and I did not get to say goodbye. If there had been no Teddy, I would still be cowering in fear at the sight or sound of one canine or another. Developing a relationship with what appeared to be a nasty and often mean beast only convinced me that I had been wrong. All the fear, all the anxiety I had held on to since I was bitten as a boy seemed wasted in light of my newfound friend. He freed me from that fear. In the end, it is obvious that dogs can be unpredictable. Apparently, they will bite the leg that feeds them.

            I had encountered Skipper many times over the years. He was the pet dog rather than the guard dog. My In-laws were only babysitters, the dog was really my  partner’s.

I never once considered taking him home with me until the day I actually did. Any other Cockapoo might have cherished being outdoors but Skip cried and screamed and was clearly agitated by the reality. He was almost blind, aging rapidly and my heart went out to him as he frantically searched for a way out of his nightmare. In a split second, his destiny changed. I couldn’t just leave him to needlessly suffer like he obviously had been. My partner picked him up, put him in our car and we drove away. His few remaining years served him well. He was happy, hungry and he brought much joy to our household. Time ravages even when it does not. The years eventually conquered him. He became completely blind, incontinent, and his teeth started to fall out. His end was near, that much was clear. We decided to put him down before things got much worse. It was sad but it was the right thing to do. There are times I still feel guilty for my decision to lay him to rest. You tell yourself, maybe he could have had one more good day. Maybe he would have lived a fuller life regardless of the ravages of time. The truth is there was no hope. Every day brought him closer to his end, even if somehow a moment here and a moment there seemed worth holding on to. I can see him on his last day. Of course, he seemed fine as my partner took him for one last walk in the neighbourhood. He lies with all the other animals that have come in and out of our lives. It can be strange for me to miss him. As I stand gazing at our pet cemetery, I recognize the enormous loss each and every animal brought into our lives. A few years ago, Phydo had to be put down due to natural causes. He got old. The purebred Jack Russell Terrier was my sister’s dog and as with Skip, it was time that took him too. Our playtime remains as memory but I miss it the most. Up on the hill, so many beasts have found a resting place. All the cats and rats and small things clutter with the dogs that we have known. My brother buried Comet, a purebred Golden Retriever, up near the top of dead hill. He was a beautiful dog and the mystery of his death still brings anger and condemnation directed toward the guilty party. We think he was poisoned. I find it ironic that for someone who spent most of his life afraid of this hound or that hound, the actual interaction I have had with each dog has helped define me. I no longer fear anything but the consequence of time.

“Now Broadway’s like a sewer,

Bums and hookers everywhere

Wino passed out on the sidewalk,

Doesn’t anybody care?

Some say he’s worthless,

Just let him be

But I for one would have to disagree

And so would their mamas”

            One day we will own another dog. With two very old cats in our household, it would have been unfair to bring in a new voice and disrupt their lives completely. First come, first served. Now that one of those cats has died, I have little glimpses of what I am missing. Next door to us dwell a few very unique women. Let’s just say the best thing about either one of them is their black Dachshund named Oscar. What a friendly and lovely animal. I must admit that the only absence I feel, having no contact with his owners, is the world’s cutest dog. What a vibrant energy, what a transparent demeanour. There is zero interaction between us these days. The price you pay for peace may mean giving up a piece. It really isn’t that much of a challenge. After all, I have bid so many dogs farewell that I am content to know the dog is happy and Oscar is a happy dog. When Phydo was put down, it left a huge hole in the fabric of life at my Dad and Sister’s place. There was this empty. Eventually, they got used to the gone, used to the missing. Time went by. I kept telling my Father that getting a new dog was a very good idea. Not only would it occupy his attention but the petting and stroking of a pet, studies have shown, “helps to calm the agitated and stimulates conversations about a pet that they may have once owned.” Enter Ms. Clancy, a purebred white toy Terrier. My family rescued her and she left her life in Kentucky behind her. She has a few issues. You can tell that given time, she will overcome them. What a good girl. She is friendly and loving and energetic to a fault. She brought with her all things I hoped for in my father’s dog. Since my mother remains dead at this point, he sure could use the company. Clancy has drawn focus away from an empty life and turned it upside down. There is purpose in the caring for another. You could argue that any other critter could have filled the void, but it looks like it is this dog that was meant to be. You notice the change in his demeanour. Dad laughs more and cries less. All the while, that bundle of joy dances around his living room. She is there in the morning and at the dimming of the day. With a pet, you don’t have to live alone.

“Now if you get an ear pierced,

Some will call you gay

But if you drive a pick-up,

They'll say ‘No, you must be straight’

What we are and what we ain’t,

What we can and what we can’t

Does it really matter?”

            It’s strange the things which stand out in your mind. Along the path that we take, some memories stand out more than others. I suppose clarity depends on just what one pays attention to. Some are loud, forceful reminders. Others are soft and gentle and good for the soul. Perhaps, we see what we want to see. Perhaps, there is no lesson, nothing but what is and what will be. I have been fortunate enough to have a mixture of both good memories and not so good memories. Each one fits just where it is supposed to be. This is why I find it so strange that my time spent with dogs is so dominant in my current mindset. It has been awhile since we owned a dog. The entire point is that I have a yearning. I search the past, looking for some grand reason for all this interaction. If there is one thing I have taken from my time with man’s best friend, it is how you react to them that will drive their fears away. Some chomp, some whimper, some just wag their tail. There is no rhythm or reason. There is no hidden message, no special meaning. In my life, I have had many encounters with dogs. Not all of them have been pleasant but they are as useful as I allow them to be. Life can be lonely, it can even be isolating, but if one is lucky, you find a friend or two along the way. I suppose life gives you what you need whether you’re ready for it or not.       

“Now I lay me down to sleep,

And pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I die before I wake,

Feed Jake,

He’s been a good dog

My best friend right through it all,

If I die before I wake

Feed Jake”

(Feed Jake, Pirates of the Mississippi 1990)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7ifqOmJ8-U

Photo

https://www.aliexpress.com/item/Free-Shipping-Home-Art-Wall-Dogs-Playing-Pool-Game-Oil-Painting-Picture-Printed-On-Canvas-No/32826348607.html

Sources

https://tpoc.ca/programs/for-seniors/

Beautiful Monsters

          Mid-winter 1957 brought heavy precipitation to the Wingham area. Extending south, well past the tree line and down into Southern Ontario, the cold of a Canadian reality covered the fields and roads with proverbial blankets of snow. At 18 years of age, Ivan found himself defying the season and heading out into the storm. He had prepared the day ahead for his journey, filling the gas tank and checking the engine in order to avoid any complications along the way. His black Volkswagen Beetle had made the trip to Toronto several times before. He left his parents’ farm, believing the white curtain of  falling snow had dissipated, at least long enough to make a good start.

            His sister Joyce lived in the metropolitan Toronto area with her new family. Although the travelling might not have been as favourable as he would have liked it to be, he knew the way and that would have to do. He left Wingham behind him and travelled south on Country Road 86, cutting east on County Road 178 towards Newmarket, Markham and eventually the big city. Just west of Orangeville, it began to snow again. With country music on the radio and condensation forming on the rounds of the windows, he drove on. It was a heavy storm and he was glad that he did not have to be walking in it. He faced the roar not knowing what was to come. 

            It wasn’t bravery, or even stupidity, that made him stop for two hitchhikers. With frozen thumbs begging for comfort, they lingered on the side of the road. He knew what it was like to be abandoned to this kind of nature, standing while praying that a ride might come along. His compassion had him pull over and welcome them into reprieve. They looked like regular Joes, and seemed friendly as they thawed in the heat of a German-built sanctuary. Ivan thought to himself how odd it was for a pair of men to be out in this weather. From the looks of them, they were ill prepared for a blizzard. 

            North Bay is a lovely place to visit, but I wouldn't want to be kidnapped and forcibly taken there, no matter the season. If the car had not run out of gas, there is no telling what might have happened. The distance north, and banishment to the back seat, made for uneasy travelling. Little was said as they took control and forced him down into the rear of the vehicle. The black vessel became a prison, and a trip to Toronto turned into a journey into fear. In North Bay, just before the attendant pumped gas into the car, Ivan managed to escape and find a telephone at the adjacent garage. Before the days of 911, explaining what had happened seemed to take as long as the ordeal. Eventually, the police arrived and held both culprits to determine what had occurred.  

            A modern tale might find both men imprisoned for their actions, but in the 1950s, the cops let them both go without so much as a ticket. If the police had their way, they would have charged Ivan with picking up hitchhikers. The end of the misadventure found him stranded in a strange city, with an empty tank of gas and freedom, sweet freedom. Any money he had brought with him was in the hands of his attackers, with no one to help him get it back. A call home and a $15.00 cash transfer managed to fill that tank of gas and return him to Wingham. Despite the inaction of the police officers, the Wingham Advanced Times reported “local man kidnapped.”

My Dad never picked up a hitchhiker again.

It is a defensive fear.

            Monique was cute at first, and her long black hair and French appearance only added to the illusion. We became fast friends and decided to find a place where we could live together. Even though we had only just met, we took rooms in the same house, along with three other students. Radio Broadcasting seems to attract the strangest and most unique of personalities into the fold. As a first-year student of the art, I too was burdened with distinctive qualities, but I tried desperately to hide them. Five roommates got along well enough and familiarity eventually led to party mania. I was always good at throwing a wild shindig. Food fights, Pictionary on the walls and blind hedonism always made for the most thrilling of events. The next day, it was hard enough to remember the night before without having to attend a class on Radio Programming or Advertising 101.

            In trying to appease the second-year students, and kiss some major ass, Monique and I decided to have a gathering for all the Radio scholars. The evening would have been well worth a ticket to see. From turning my then cat Opus into an alcoholic, a visit by the police and a 13-foot Opus the penguin, from Bloom County, drawn to perfection across my bedroom wall, it was historic in its debauchery. Come Monday morning, it was not a challenge to find someone still recovering from Thursday night. By the lunch hour, it was clear our plan had worked. It’s interesting how puke and unlimited free weed can bring a people together. The new bond was very visible and it seemed that everything was right with the world. Just when you start to tell yourself that all is well, something always comes along to define how wrong you had been all along. Often, it proves you a fool.

            I had no idea Monique had a crush on me. I hardly noticed her, the consequence of a homosexual heart. If I had known her motive, I may have seen things a little clearer. I might well have questioned her claims before acting on her word. Apparently, sometime after the police left on Saturday night, Monique and Tim, a second-year student, wandered downstairs for a little hanky panky. The next time I saw her that Monday, she took me aside and accused Tim of sexual assault. “He raped me,” was her greatest condemnation. With no reason to doubt her, I approached the head first-year instructor, Ray Wilmot, and shared Monique’s confession. Of course, procedure would need to be followed. He would have to talk to Monique, determine the severity of the event, and contact the police if so warranted. I was content that I had done my duty as both a friend and citizen. No means no, pal!!

            Come Tuesday morning, the whole world had shifted overnight. When the police were to be called, she changed her story completely, defending the same man she had accused only a day earlier. She claimed that I had read into the entire situation and went forward without her permission. The police would not need to be called because no rape had occurred. Although I later spoke to Tim and apologized, no other mention of the occurrence was heard over the entire time I attended Fanshawe College. He understood I had been misled. I just wish I had recognized it while it happened.

I have made it my mission in life to never be fooled like that again.

It’s an offensive fear.

            I’m no longer a fan of the bar scene. I’m not entirely sure, but I think that may have something to do with my sexual orientation. I spent so much of my youth jumping from one saloon to another that I burned out years ago. I spent much of my academic life, after high school, sitting in a bar with a few buddies or crashing at friend’s place after a night of dancing with tequila. In my day, Joe Kool’s was the place to be on a Thursday night. Located at the corner of Richmond St. and Central Avenue in London, Ontario, for more than 30 years it has held its place in the heart of Richmond Row. The Row consists of bars, high end clothing stores and restaurants, all up and down Richmond St. Students with Daddy’s Gold card keep this area alive. Across from Joe’s Place is Victoria Park, and just beyond the park on Wellington Road lies City Hall and Centennial Hall. Victoria Park is, for the most part, square. It might even be more rectangular if I really stop to think about it. Every Christmas season, hundreds of motorists clamor in a pseudo-circle to catch a glimpse of the season set to lights. The park becomes a winter wonderland. In the summer, the park used to house male prostitutes prowling all the cars as they drove around and around and around. A constant call of the wild. Late into the night, gay men cruised this area looking for casual sex. Occasionally, you would hear that someone ventured into the park by night and got bashed.

            I never thought it was a good idea to have a gay cruising park mere feet from the most testosterone-driven hangouts in the city. The university football team, known as the Western Mustangs, frequented the area and especially Joe Kool’s. I never understood placing one’s own safety after getting laid. I even believed that if you got caught doing your thing by some drunken hoodlums, then you deserved everything you got. Gay people are just like straight people that way. Some can be so stupid. I’ve had my share of casual encounters, but never once spread-eagle on a park bench. I certainly would never consider a place so conspicuous and close to an obvious threat to my safety. When my first partner worked next door to Joe Kool’s, at the variety store, we would sit in the front window and count how often a car would circle the park. Almost every night you could spot someone trying their best to release their beast. As a closeted gay man, at the time, it made no sense to deny yourself to everyone, then strut about a public park looking for someone to have sex with you. It was all mostly gross, if the truth be told.   

            We had finished up our night on the town and the four of us spilled out of Kool’s and onto the pavement. You could hear the screaming right away. High-pitched roars rang across the street from the monument located in the middle of the park. Being drunk only helped to convince us that a woman was in trouble. We scurried against the traffic light and, like superhero wannabes, ran straight into a scene I have never been able to put out of my mind. The kid was so skinny and frail, and there was no question of the damage being done to him. He just laid there bleeding, his pants ripped, torn down to his ankles and his underwear barely holding by a thread. Three young men, not yet in their 20s, stood hammering their victim with physical and verbal assaults. The boy just kept screaming for someone to help him. When my friends realized that a faggot, rather than a woman, was in peril, they turned around and walked away. I did not hesitate, not even when they abandoned me.

            Sometimes you have to do what you have to do. I said that to myself when I laid out the leader with a kick to the balls. His friends disappeared faster than my foot. When he hit the ground, I hit him. I kept bashing his face like he had been doing to this child. Over and over, I kept asking him how he liked it. I couldn’t stop myself, some rage within me proceeded to kick the shit out of him. Eventually, he withered back into the hole he crawled out of. When the police got there, then the ambulance, the offenders were all gone. They made their escape and I heard nothing of their capture or incarceration. As far as the police were concerned, I had simply scared the three suspects away. As they loaded that poor kid onto the ambulance, he waved at me through all his blood and tears. I would save him again in a heartbeat.

It often takes a fiend to defeat a fiend.

It can be a projective fear.

          In the early 1990s, I attended Lambton College in Sarnia, Ontario. My first partner and I both excelled in the Media Fundamentals course we studied. In fact, I was so advanced beyond the other students that the Student Association hired me to oversee forms of media which had been greatly ignored. I was put in charge of any promotional aspect, all print, all radio and some television (but to a lesser degree). During my incarceration, I became close friends with the receptionist in our office. Tammy McBean was very average in appearance but came across as a lovely person. She, for all intents and purposes, was a good friend and we grew even closer as the years passed. She was in love with my then-partner Doug. At this time, Doug and I were nowhere near out of the closet. We hid it. We hid it by silence. We hide it by lies. It was a different world back then and we adapted to survive. Sometimes at the expense of others, often at the expense of ourselves.

          I let Tammy believe she had a chance with Doug. He just carried on as he always did. She was ruthless in her pursuit. He was ambivalent, and not for the reason she always thought. She just assumed that Doug did not wish to engage with her due to her appearance but this was not the case. Both he and I used her proclivity to cover our truth. I set it up and he would entertain her. Her hormones must have blinded her because in hindsight, things would not have  been that hard to imagine. I still can’t suppose how no one, not one person figured it out. Doug and I were inseparable, we did everything together. We lived together for almost six years but did not have six friends we could be ourselves with. We were popular and very social but in the most secret of ways. Not one of the people from that life, including our families, really had a clue. Eventually, we relocated to Toronto and began a new life. We said our goodbyes and we went on with it. In under a year, Doug was dead. A victim to gravity. It was a large funeral.

          I had not seen Tammy in well over a year. Here she sat beside me as they filled in his grave with rocks and dirt and things. I had said my piece and joined her as she waited in my car. Like a fool, my guilt revealed me. I told her the entire truth, as the bulldozer dumped another load of earth onto what was left of my partner. She fucking lost it on me. She tore me a new one. I just sat there while she flagellated all over me. I have reconsidered my approach on that day. I wish I had been different, different enough to keep my mouth shut and my alliances intact. I did not. My grief refused to allow me to deny him. I told every single person who would listen. Unfortunately, Tammy was heartbroken by my confession. She made it clear that she never wanted to see my lying face ever again. I suppose I deserved it. It’s easy to condemn yourself, especially through the eyes of another. Perhaps it was a mean thing to do to her but we did the best that we could given what we had to work with.

          Coming out was hell for me. Not only was I overwhelmed with grief towards Doug but I had to worry about what each person would say and do with my revelation. I didn’t care if they didn’t like it. I am still convinced our homosexuality was one of the main reasons behind his death. There was no way I would give that approach power, not ever again. I told all my friends, I told my parents, I told Doug’s parents too. Outside of my immediate family, the news did not lie well with others. From Doug’s Dad, to Tammy, to all my media associates, I was spurned for the privilege of being me. Yes, I had to mislead them but in the end, I stand vindicated by the decision. I can only imagine what might have been if we had come out to them before he died. Doug’s body was still frozen when the condemnation started. If they all dismissed me so easily after Doug’s death I can only imagine  the chaos coming clean would have caused. I have not seen Tammy McBean since that day in the cemetery. Almost a quarter of a century has passed and I know nothing of what became of her. She could be dead and long gone for all I know. Still, I remain guilty with regret. I wish the world had been different so that Doug and I could have been different. This was not the case.

Sometimes you are the monster.

It’s a deflective fear.

          People come and go from our lives like rapid fire. Some leave behind good things, things more positive and joyful. Others trash the place, bringing nothing but gladness when they finally do depart. Some people are saints, most people are monsters, to one degree or another. Monsters come in all shapes and sizes and they often look just like anyone else would. It’s hard to tell a monster until they reveal their fangs. It is often too late to change course when someone else is driving. Some times the monster we encounter has been with us since the start. Monsters tend to set the pace. Once they bite us, we forever remain weary and we can never trust them again. It is our intention to never make the same mistake again. We may even turn into the very beast we were trying to avoid. It can be a challenge to experience a negative person and not come face to face with your own demons. Sometimes they go, sometimes you have to learn to live with it. We attempt to put all our fears right out of our minds but you never forget. Still, we have a responsibility to treat the people who come into our lives with civility and respect, not to use them without any consideration whatsoever. Just because someone is a stranger, or oblivious to your ways, does not automatically make it okay for you to devour them. It makes me wonder if you can ever really trust anyone. Beware, they will come for you. They are everywhere, in every person, in every situation. When I look, all I see are monsters.

Photo

 https://www.heyuguys.com/the-mummy-poster/

Sources

https://survivinggod.blogspot.com/2013/03/see-monsters.html