The Details

            Luther Hough considered himself a righteous man. From an early age, he had always felt a nearness, a closeness with the God of his experience. Indoctrinated by his parents, he was a born-again Christian to the core. His father had been a Pentecostal preacher, with a small congregation in a small county church just outside Kapuskasing, in the northern part of Ontario, Canada. His mother was a good wife, the kind who knew her place and stayed there. When he was 12 years old, they were both killed in a fiery car crash. Struck down in their BMW by a drunk driver and his trusty pickup truck, they died instantly.  Luther was sent to live with his paternal grandmother in Richmond Hill, a suburb located just north of the city of Toronto. Agnes Hough was a fire and brimstone Believer.  Her approach at raising the boy was militant. For her, it was not enough to simply read God's word, one must live it through submission. She was a mainstay in her flourishing Christian community, and this exposure only furthered the young boy's growing obsession with serving his Lord. Agnes trained Luther well. The prayer meetings, the service 3 times a week, the intense Bible study launched him into ministry. By the age of 18, he was preaching every other Sunday.

            When Agnes Hough passed away, she left a healthy fortune to Luther. At 20, he decided to invest some of his inheritance to further God's will. He knew he was required to spread the Truth, life had shaped him to this end. God had moulded him for pure evangelization. With some of his windfall he bought an abandoned building in the tiny town of Bright, Ontario and transformed the small town chapel into a thriving temple for his God. When The Church of Redemption Through Christ first opened, the congregation consisted of a few locals and a handful of parishioners who followed him from his grandmother's place of worship. By the age of 25, over 400 souls bowed and prayed there several times a week. Additions to the original church were commonplace, as the ministry grew and grew. Conveniently located just west of Toronto, Luther made it his commission to journey once a week into the big city in order to save souls for Jesus. Come Saturday morning, chances are you would pass him on Yonge Street as he handed out salvation, all thanks to the folks at Staples. Every Wednesday, Friday and twice on Sunday evening, his voice would cry out from his pulpit, beseeching the Lord for Divine intervention. The Word demanded he gather the sinner, preparing one and all for the End of Days when Divine retribution would set mankind on the right course. His mission was so successful, so vibrant, that people came from great distance just to hear him preach. Years of watching his father, and other Evangelical preachers, had groomed him for this purpose. People clung to his words, followed him faithfully and claimed him a prophet and messenger sent from God.

            Whether he cared to admit it or not, Luther Hough was a sexy beast. Just as God seemed to ooze from his being, so too his appearance, coupled with his charisma, allowed him to use attraction to further God's purpose for his life. He stood tall as a man of God. At 6 foot 2 inches, he was a monument to perfection. His smile, his physique, every part of him screamed of God's favour. Women floated in his deep blue eyes. Children trusted in his gentle touch. People were drawn to him and he didn't even have to speak a word. His dark brown hair was chiselled, his beard over-groomed. His body was tight, lean and reeked of vanity. The glasses he wore during his performances were only cosmetic in their nature. Not one for casual appearance, his expensive suits and well-shined shoes only added to the overall sculpture. He was hot and he knew it. He had never really had an interest in marriage or sexual gratification. Any urges he did have were passed off as the consequence of original sin. When he was overcome by his carnal nature, he simply prayed to be made worthy and rebuked his mortal flesh. He chose not to give in. He never had. Despite his success, he felt like he had not achieved his true calling. It was one thing to be a preacher, but Luther wanted so much more. In the silence of the morning, he could often be found praying at the alter he had created, begging God for direction. It was not that he felt underused or taken for granted. He wanted to make a greater difference for Jesus, to help prepare a way for His kingdom.

God works in mysterious ways.

            Yonge and Wellesley Street cross near the center of Toronto's downtown core. The streets are well travelled either by day or by night. People bustle about shops and pizzerias, chatting on cell phones and walking on garbage. Luther's regular corner was at the heart of this section of the concrete jungle. To the north just off Yonge sits Yorkville, a snazzy district aimed at the financial elite. Luther always purchased his suits from a tailor just beyond the main thoroughfare. To the south a few blocks sits Dundas Square. This Canadian version of Times Square in New York is so bright that it lights up the daytime. To the west of his weekly spot, young male prostitutes trade their wares at the side of a McDonald's restaurant right across the street. In his mind, he would pray for each boy as they sold their Happy Meal in some nameless old man's car and then sped away together. It was a drive thru. To the east, just by one city block, Wellesley crosses Church Street, deep in the center of hell itself. He went right into the gay village, Luther practiced his wares. Around 8 AM, on the sixth day of the week, Luther would set up a meagre stand on which to place his papers and a large leather-bound copy of the King James Bible. Weather permitting, he always wore a tee shirt. It was always brightly coloured, tight to the skin and completely flattering in the most revealing way.  He wore his denim jeans in exactly the same titillating manner. They left nothing to the imagination. Whenever he felt convicted about his appearance, he would tell himself, "You get more flies with honey!"

            Around 9 AM, without fail, Luther would find himself immersed in Sodom. Once the crowds rolled in, he was quite often overwhelmed. It wasn't only the homosexuals that made him uncomfortable. An onslaught of Asians, Muslims and even orthodox Jews, wandered past him. He thought of this place as a cesspool, a Gehenna, a vile respite in an ocean of sin. He could almost hear all the weeping and gnashing of teeth. Amidst this ocean of heathen, Luther found some purpose. As he handed out paper after paper, he kept telling himself, "Even if you only save one." The pamphlets were simple. On each white page of paper was a message in large bold font. It never changed and he felt no need to change it. With one hand he would pull his target in using his appeal and with the other he would place in their hands the truth, captured on a sheet of paper. After all, he was not here to gain parishioners but to be a catalyst in the saving of soul. His attire was more than appropriate, at least in his own mind. Since early on in his ministry he had found that the better he looked, the more willing each sinner was to listen, to stop and give him a moment or two. Not surprisingly, it worked like a charm.  He knew if he could just get them to read his pamphlet, then he had planted a seed towards their salvation. From such a handsome man came such bitter and ugly words.

                       

"For the wages of sin is death

but the gift of God is eternal life

in Christ Jesus, our Lord."

Romans 6:23

God will punish you for your sins

but you can find forgiveness through Jesus

An abomination will always be an abomination

Repent

His Kingdom is at hand

The Church of Redemption Through Jesus Christ

Bright, Ontario

hough@houghministry.com

            Luther noticed him almost immediately. On a hot August morning, his attire stood out like a sore thumb. From head to toe he was covered in darkness. A pitch black Fedora, midnight pants and a black shirt and tie, all seemed so out of place. The over-sized ebony leather trench coat he wore looked stifling as each passersby didn't even seem to see him standing there. The stranger would smoke a cigarette, then flick it onto the pavement below only to light another in the very same gesture. From a distance, he looked taller than Luther. His frame seemed swallowed up in that sea of black. From what Luther could tell, he was just another aging eccentric, lost out on a sea of sin and immorality. He appeared to be around 60 years of age. He had appeared across the street at the same time Luther had set up his hospice earlier that morning. Since then, all the man had done was stand and watch him. The pastor could feel the man's eyes following him as he darted out into the flow of people, handing his message to anyone who would  take it. Just as he was ready to confront him, he disappeared while Luther turned to organize his station. Reverend Hough went on with his business.

            The young man spotted Luther from way down the street. He quickened his pace with a sense of urgency. Luther noticed him as he approached. Greetings were exchanged and as Luther reached back for a pamphlet, the attractive fellow gave it his best shot. His suggestions were vulgar and completely to the point. When Luther handed him a pamphlet, all the guy had to say was, "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

            He then walked away, shaking his head the entire time. Just out of reach, the disappointed stalker yelled, "Nice outfit, preacher."

            Luther stood frozen, the combination of shock and shame and embarrassment was almost more than he could stand. Anger grew from inside of him when he realized he had been stirred by this abomination's vulgarity. He had to position himself behind his meagre pulpit to block a clear view of his over sized reaction. Luther closed his eyes and he began to pray. He seethed over the situation in which he had been placed. He was furious with that creature who had dared to incite him. Like a bolt of lightning it hit him. He finally knew. All the years of standing in one spot, hoping to save just one, he would now leave behind. God had given him a calling, a specific center for his ministry. He packed up his collection and left this den of iniquity. He would never return.

From the across the street, the man in black stood again, smiling softly.

            When the television cameras came in, Luther went from Pastor Hough to Reverend Tough. His sanctuary out in the country became a haven for anyone who stood strong against the homosexual agenda. Luther had always felt it was his mission to speak to this foolish horde of sinners, but after his experience on the street corner in Toronto, he went from appealing with love (if you can call it that) to demanding with hellfire and scripture and condemnation. He used his own inheritance to payroll his own agenda. Every Saturday morning, he broadcast from his pulpit on a national Christian television station. Across the country, people tuned in to see the spectacle. Some saw wisdom in this approach. Others condemned him for casting the first stone. He beseeched anyone involved with the LGBT community to join him and save themselves. He was diligent in his own authority, proclaiming (like a bad cliché) that God hated homosexuality, and without the Blood of Jesus, anyone partaking of this "lifestyle" or helping to promote it would be sentenced to the pit of hell. He would scream God's orders, vacillating between God's anger and God's wrath. Most of all, it was the curse he placed upon all those who had not seen the light or refused to follow his, which defined him.

"If your life is miserable and you are always unhappy, God is punishing you.

If life seems unfair and your days are full of pain and sorrow, God is punishing you.

You have no one else to blame for your lot in life other than yourself.

God is punishing you for what you have done.

God will punish you even more. Get used to it.

You are being prepared for your place in hell where your punishment will sit forever.

Repent or get what you deserve"

            Luther fully believed that those who do not submit to the will of his Lord will be penalized for their treachery. God will strike and chastise each one now, not just in the afterlife. He never backed down from this position. Luther may have been controversial, but the camera loved him. His television program, Redeemed with Luther Hough, was a bonafide success. He used social media to gather the faithful and crowd control to help picket at LGBT events. He made appearances on local radio and his growing ministry became somewhat of a focus for both conservative and more left wing media sources. He was a regular on the national newscasts and even the Americans caught wind of him. His ministry spread throughout North America and his popularity among conservative Christians seemed impenetrable. Suddenly, Luther Hough found himself quite the celebrity. Any money he used to finance his projects was easily recouped and then some. Once a fledgling pastor, he was now The Pastor. Despite his tyrannical approach to salvation, audiences paid to see him. Each interview and each news feature he allowed was simply another line from his agenda. In a world where homosexuality was considered normal, and mostly accepted as such, Luther was a voice in the wilderness. When questioned, Reverend Tough would lay it on the line. It was God, after all, not him who made the rules. Don't shoot the messenger.

            As Luther sat waiting to address the masses that had gathered for an outdoor Sunday service at his church, he spotted the man in black. He was standing in the far back, near the information kiosk which was housed inside a blue tent. Midnight stood out against this azure sky. You couldn't miss him. Throughout the entire event the stranger lingered, watching Luther. The minister had to ask himself, "How did this man get all the way out to the country?"

            He wondered why he was here and what he wanted. After a fiery sermon, as the brimstone settled all around, Luther looked to him and waited for a reaction. Slowly, subtly, they seemed to make eye contract, even from across the sea of people. The man nodded, tipped his Fedora and lit a cigarette. By the time Luther had alerted security to a man smoking on the property, the dark figure had disappeared.

"The devil," Luther proclaimed somewhere inside his head.

            There was nothing more refreshing, more rejuvenating for Luther than to take an evening drive to clear his head. Life had become very complicated for the successful hatemonger. It was this time alone, free from the press and the patrons, that Luther felt a communion with his God. The sense of speed he experienced on his drives was cathartic. The race was exhilarating. Luther was happiest during moments like this. His white, 2007 Porsche 911 GT3 Coupe convertible with Bi-Xenon headlamps didn't hurt his sense of  pleasure. County road 88 was perfect for his indulgence. In the shadows, he would fly through open air. The back roads of southern Ontario offered little hindrance once the sun had set. Luther took this time to think, to analyze and to bask in the glory of the Holy Spirit and the rush at 120 kilometers down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. He felt  free for the first time, every time. He didn't have to be the perfect example. He didn't have to wear a mask. For brief seconds, he would close his eyes and imagine he was flying up to heaven, with angels as tour guides welcoming him home. He found a brief moment of bliss in the darkness, a surrender to his God.

            Luther slammed on the brakes the moment he saw him. His eyes had only been closed for a moment of heaven when out of nowhere the man in black appeared. Standing in the middle of the road, mingling with the darkness, the stranger did not flinch, even slightly, as the car sped towards him. He lit a cigarette as it quickly approached. Luther swerved to avoid him, further engaging the brakes in a futile attempt to slow down. The car skidded, flipped onto its side and then rolled over several times more, recklessly spinning out of control. With no seat-belt on, Luther was thrown like a toy ball in some game of chance. The high speed which accompanied his race propelled the Porsche into pieces and Luther into thin air. Debris flew everywhere as Luther soared across the road, rebounding off the edge of the asphalt, then bounced like that toy ball down into the gully at the side of the road.  He landed hard onto his back. The car rolled into the ditch, then ricocheted twenty feet beyond the pastor and rested in a cornfield. There was no explosion, no boom or thunder beyond what the accident itself conveyed. The night swallowed up Luther and the devastating fortuity. He laid conscious, fully aware, staring up at the clear night sky. He was not counting stars.    

            There was no music to score the scene. One would find it hard to hear any sound at all once the chaos had settled. It was a kind of hush. All the silence met the darkness and the darkness took any light. At first, Luther thought he was dead. He soon realized this was not the case. As he slowly became aware of the tragedy around him, he started watching for angels, praying to God for help and assurance. He resolved himself to heaven. Once the fog had cleared from his brain, he tried to get up. He tried to move his arms. He tried to move his legs. He tried to move at all but he could not. There was no pain, there was nothing but numb. He quickly realized he was paralyzed, that he had probably broken his back. Any cry for help was muffled by his very own weight. In his mind he called out to his God, "Have you forsaken me, Jesus?"

            The flame from the lighter broke the blackness. Standing just to his right side, dressed in the night like a monster, the stranger who had caused all this stood and lit a cigarette.

"Luther," he said. "You've been a bad boy."

            Luther looked up at the entity with great fear and trepidation. He knew he was broken, frozen into this place. He barely found it within himself to pray but pray he did. He rebuked the demon over and over in his head, calling on Jesus to take this from him. Before extinguishing his flame, the creature snapped his fingers and the headlights from the demolished automobile shone down into the pit with both men.

            "Help me," Luther whispered.

            "Help you," he replied. "Why would anyone help you? This is the punishment you deserve for your sins."

            Luther tried to gasp, he tried to scream.

            "Devil," was all he could utter.

"The devil?" the man asked. "The devil is in the details, Luther."

           

            The man then reached inside his coat and pulled out one of the pamphlets

that Luther had once handed out so cavalierly. Luther laid staring up into the halo the headlights had formed around the demon's head. For a moment, he seemed angelic. Stars and blackness coated the background and Luther started to fade into the dimming. As the man in black read from the page, pieces of the life he had lived flashed before his eyes. All the condemnation, all the judgment, all his secret sins rushed throughout his body and permeated his mind, but he could not find any peace with it. The being let the page drift slowly to the ground and began to walk away from the broken man of God.

            "When you get the chance, you should read it," the ghoul laughed.

            "Rebuke you," whispered Luther.

            "Don't shoot the messenger, Luther," the stranger teased.

            "Satan!" Luther accused softly.

"Satan," the stranger scoffed. "Who said anything about Satan?"

            It seemed like days that Luther remained in that ditch, placed carefully at the side of the road like a shattered work of art. Each moment lasted longer than the first. Every second brought torment and hopelessness and much suffering to his mind. Luther Hough had found his hell. In fact, it was less than an hour before the ambulance and the police arrived on the scene. The waling of a fire truck seemed to wake Luther from his delirium. When the ambulance drove away, blaring like a banshee into the night, Luther believed that he had left any previous life he once led at the edge of that strip, in that gully, at the side of County Road 88. Come the morning, two policemen watched as a tow truck flipped the Porsche onto its wheels and hauled it onto a flatbed. It pulled away with little fanfare and no media to report on this fate. As the officers scoured the area for evidence, that plain white piece of paper fell under one's foot. He bent down and thought to himself that it must have flown out of the preacher's car during the accident. He read it quickly, then placed it in a plastic evidence bag. He thought to himself, "How ironic."

"Do not judge

For you too will be judged

For in the same way you judge others

You will be judged

And with the measure you use

It will be measured to you."

Matthew 7:1-2"

Photo

http://omtimes.com/2013/08/top-10-toxic-people-to-avoid-at-all-costs/

Ivy After

            Since her husband Malcolm's death seven months before, Edwina Talbot made it a priority to visit his grave once a week. When the stone went up marking his place, she  groomed the garden around it, shaping it into a quaint refuge for beetles and small rodents and toads. Like clockwork, every Saturday morning you could find her kneeling before it, clippers in hand, all the while trimming and moulding the very last thing she was able to do for him. After forty-eight years of marriage, this was all that was left. The blank space reserved for her name on the headstone was nothing but a reminder of her hoped for reunion. As if caring for a child, her commitment was without fail. She planted the Boston ivy at the granite base, hoping to cover the unsightly thing. Every week she pruned it, not allowing it to overgrow. This became her passion, her testimony to the love she had lost. Tucked into line, sitting with row after row, she trimmed the space where she would one day herself reside. She found solace in this waiting.

            She was not a frail woman. She was unaffected by the age which had brought with it few challenges. She was thin but in a healthy way. Her long gray hair was forever pulled back, tied with a bobby pin just above her neckline. Her attire was always conservative, based in earth tones and delicate patterns. She never wore slacks. Each morning before her visitation, she would lay out her dress very carefully, pressing any wrinkles from it. She put on makeup, teased her appearance, always wanting to look good for her husband. With her tools in her satchel, she would take the city bus to the gates of the enormous cemetery. Slowly, she paced herself while climbing the formidable hill just inside the entrance. She walked from one end of the huge graveyard to the other, seeking a glimpse of that stone as she drew nearer. Exhausted from the distance traveled, she would plop a towel down onto the grass just in front of her testament. Once a week or so, she would almost always pause to rest before taking to the task at hand.

            She always started with the ivy, desperately trying to form it around the support base of the marker. She moved onto the flowers and the ground covers, trimming each in a soft pose. The rock border that entwined the garden sprung grass and weeds, each blade, each invader, plucked from a crevice with precision and dismissal. Each cut was carefully placed in a plastic shopping bag, for easy disposal on her way back out. Seven months turned into seven more but she never missed a date. Through all the proverbial rain and snow, she made her way without fail. In the winter, she struggled through drift after drift just to clear his nameplate. Come spring and the transformation began. As time passed, the garden became full and dense. Old flowers were replaced with new flowers and the ivy was pruned like a rose bush should be. Her time spent here had tricked her. She had convinced herself that there was no other way. Her friends implored her to just let go, or at least to let them drive her on her weekly quest. She knew there would be no reprieve from this journey, not for her. She didn't want one anyway. During the week she sat, still waiting, as the world passed her by. She lived only for those moments with him.

In a way, he was almost alive with her there.

            She concluded her pilgrimage one weekend morning, after walking all that way. She had almost reached him. Today had been a struggle for her to make it. She was not a bunch of ivy growing stronger with time. Finally, she thought to herself, it is almost done. The years of constant mourning had revealed themselves on her face. As she spotted the peak of his headstone poking just above the others, she had to stop and catch her breath. From the road to Malcolm was a good hundred feet. As she paced herself among the other stones, she noticed immediately that something was different. Somehow in only seven short days, the ivy had grown with such vigor that it covered the entire area where her name would go. This could not be possible. She had trimmed it just last week. She double-checked to make sure she was in the right place. Angrily, she pulled the new growth back with one yank. She clipped it off at its base, determined to stop it in its tracks. There remained her Malcolm, carved into black slate, always beside the empty space she longed to fill. Soon, she thought, soon. 

            She sat down flat, resting fully on the grass for the first time in her history here. To her right, she eyed a rather tall gentleman kneeling before a headstone. As she rested, she watched him work his magic. It seemed to her that he also cared for the ground as she did. He noticed her noticing him, and nodded in the most friendly way. As Edwina began to clean up her making, he wandered over and bid her a good morning. As they parted, she thought to herself that Frank Reed was a faithful husband to care for his loved one's garden in such a manner. She crossed the grassy knoll with ease compared to the time before. From her distance, she could see. Again, ivy had grown all over the right half of the gravestone, covering the blank area and up towards the top. The increase had inconveniently doubled compared to her last encounter. She removed it all immediately, squashing it with one thrust into her plastic bag.  Once again, as she passed the other monuments, she could see. The ivy was so overgrown that it had begun to swallow the back of the marker. Unable to remove it with her hands, she used shears to keep the beast at bay. Determined to vanquish the pest, she pruned it all away, right down to the root. She cursed it as she tucked it away in the garbage.

            She crossed the path which she always took. Just before Malcolm, she noticed a bouquet of dead flowers, laying in the center of her way. With a swift gesture, she whipped right down and picked them up, squishing them into her faithful plastic bag. It only distracted her for a minute. She could see it and she was stunned. Since her last visit, the vine had fully grown back and then some. She tugged at it, snipping each growth like it was her enemy. She crammed the entire thing down in the plastic bag along with the flowers. She crossed the grassy knoll. As she approached Malcolm's final resting place, she spied a bouquet of flowers, exactly in the same spot she had discovered some the time before. When she picked them up, she could barely comprehend. The wilted flowers were exactly the same flowers, the colourful purple wrap was exactly the same purple wrap. She dropped them when she noticed the stone. From the base, over the top and down behind, the entire monument was covered in ivy.

She could not believe her eyes.

            The vine was tough and hard to release from the granite. It had wrapped itself around the rock so that she could not see her Malcolm waiting in stone. She stopped and looked about herself, something felt so different, so out of place. As the final layer of the stubborn tracheophyte fell to the ground, her world stopped turning. She felt frozen, disabled for some reason. She rubbed her eyes in further disbelief. She put on her glasses for a better look. Chiseled in the stone, right there beside him, was her name carved into history. She was flabbergasted and more than a little confused. As she rose, the sun beamed right into her eyes. It had not moved since her arrival that day. It was the same sun in the very same place it had been at the start. She looked upon herself, then realized she was wearing the very same dress she had worn the week before. In flashes, she recalled every week that she walked from the roadway, past the other headstones until she rested with her love. Always the same dress, the same shoes, the same everything but that ivy. Then she remembered the stranger and how nice he had been to her. She turned and walked towards the grave he had tended. In fact, his wife was buried here but his name was also on the marker. She almost fainted when she noticed the date. This man had died two years before her Malcolm.

            Edwina was a pretty bride when she married Malcolm all those years ago.  Their wedding was the beginning of a wonderful dance, a dance which now cascaded before her tearstained eyes. She saw her husband, her children, her life move past in a constant flow. She saw the roadside, and the day she could not catch her breath. She saw the ambulance, the paramedics working on her, and them covering her face in defeat. She witnessed her granddaughter placing a bouquet of pretty flowers, all wrapped up in purple, at the front of the grave. The sky began to darken. Clouds churned in the air. She looked over towards her husband's place and saw what appeared to be a newer grave there. It did not strike her as a place of rest, rather like an unplanted bed of sunken soil and gravel. It had aged, there was no question. It seemed like furrow, from a rotated field on her father's farm. There was growth on it, patches of grass and a few stray weeds sprung from the soil and the rocks. It looked like a garden made of stone. There were flowers, slowly dying, left in front of their place. She walked back to Malcolm, pushed the flowers aside and drifted softly onto the ground and against the headstone. In her fear, she sought solace by hugging it and she began to weep at the truth.

From a distance, she thought she could hear his voice.

            She turned towards the sound of him, pushing herself up with none of the discomfort which had greeted her on other visits. She noticed her hand, it was not the familiar appendage she had grown accustomed to over the years of her aging. It was youthful, the skin was tight and the brown spots which had covered it had disappeared like the stiffness in her joints. She rose, her printed dress replaced with the white gown she had worn on her wedding day. It hung about her and she trembled at the thought of it. Like anyone would, she carefully twisted to the sound of her name. He stood there, smiling, holding out his hand for her. This was not the Malcolm she had laid to rest but the husband she had married so many years before. He was tall and oh so handsome. His hair was no longer gray but the deep black it had been for so long. His double breasted wool suit matched the one he wore on the day they wed. It was dark and fit him to a tee. It was like he had not changed at all.

"Edwina," he whispered.

            Frank Reed walked over the grassy knoll like he did every sojourn. The sun hung high in the sky, just like it did every other morning when he would come to see her. As he approached, he could see it. From the base of their monument, up the right hand side, the ivy remained grown over the stone, just as he left it. He thought it was pretty. Out of love he had, once again, come to care for her garden. He missed her as much on this day as he did on any other. He longed to see her face again. He silently prayed for someday soon. He tended the garden as he always did. First, the roses met his favour. He pruned them in a delicate way. Any weed or blade of grass that protruded from the ground was snatched from its spot and discarded into the metal bucket he brought with him. When he was done, and order had returned to the area, he kissed her stone goodbye and whispered an endearment. He knew he would be back. Again, like every time he came to see her, he refused to clear the ivy from his future nameplate. Like before, he left it to grow.

"I'm going to have to get to you the next time I visit,"  he said to the vine.

Photo

http://everafterflorals.blogspot.ca/

Julius Trump

            I once wished to be American. I spent so much time there in the 1980s and 1990s that I should have had a visa. From exploring Michigan with my family to scuba diving off Corpus Christi, I have almost seen it all. I have been to every state with the exception of Hawaii, Alaska  and Florida. The non-continental states were just too far for me at the time and avoiding Florida has more to do with humidity than anything else. Many of my closest friends have been American, at least they lived in the U.S.A. Their relocation, at the time, was a common thing to do. My late friend James settled in the San Francisco-Oakland area and remained there until 30 years later when he came home to die. I knew Sylvia from my theology days. She moved to Boston to complete her Masters degree in Psychology. She never came back to Canada, not even to visit. A few years later and she passed away quietly. With no family to speak of, it didn’t matter to her where she died. David was American through and through, regardless of the years his family forced him to be Canadian. He was born in Texas and claimed that it flowed in his blood. At 15 years of age, he got his first job and started saving. By 18, he had enough money to relocate to his aunt’s in the Lone Star State. Saying goodbye to my high school friend was difficult, mostly because I knew it was the last time I would see him. His emancipation meant more than just freedom. It wasn’t personal, he just never felt at home in the north. A huge part of who he was could be found under all those stars at night. The truck sideswiped him, tossing his motorcycle onto the side of the road. He died instantly. It is not lost on me that with your American citizenship comes a greater chance of death. I am not sure that any of those three examples would uproot themselves if they lived in our modern times. In light of the rather draconian nature of the American President, they all would have turned and run back to this land of the free. It’s odd to think they are much better off. Donald Trump has effectively destroyed any chance of attracting the “quality“ people his immigration policy demands. No one I know even goes to the States anymore. We certainly do not. We will not consciously put money in his coffer. I am still friends with many Americans. They are my largest target audience. Unfortunately for those Americans, Trump rules the roost. He makes it impossible to disregard what he says, and more importantly, what he does. His tweets reveal the inner man. Every person that I know from Canada who lived in the US has returned home due to Trump’s tenure. Most will not return to that land until someone assassinates him or the voters do the same. With the impeachment inquiry, it appears that the tide is turning.  I fear, still, that we might have another 4 years of him coming our way.

            Democrats can be stupid and completely complacent. They had everything one would need to expel the man but they did nothing but talk. They now run around like Chicken Little, screaming how the sky is falling. I am not speaking specifically about impeachment but the idea is a good one. Too bad a large part of the United States Senate seems hell bent on keeping him around. I never would have imagined that the Republican party would one day look like the German Workers' Party (Deutsche Arbeiterpartei), which existed pre-Nazi Germany. History has already recorded their “active inaction.” History repeats. Just like the German people in the 1930s to the mid-1940s, many Americans stand cheering at the side of the road watching something evil pass their way. Apparently, the Republican party is pro-malevolence. The fact that Capitol Hill has done nothing has not only enabled Trump but validated every position, every tweet he has sent. Watching CNN, or another news channel, feels like when I used to tune in to Dynasty on ABC each Wednesday night at 9 PM. It was all about the melodrama, the soap opera side was the story. These days, the State of the Union is more like the Daze of Our Lives. Everything American is tinted, coloured to the rest of the world. It’s like letting a monster loose, then watching it eat. I just sit shaking my head.

            When his sexual assault charges were introduced, when those women were objectified (“grab them by the pussy”), not one person did more than talk about it. I was horrified. What was the world coming to? It was coming to sexism, racism, xenophobia and a dull and pacified population. Their country is coming to an end, at least constitutionally, and all they do is sit and watch as they kill each other off and do nothing but change the channel to Netflix. It’s like the entire federation has been spayed or neutered. They all appear to not give a fuck. What will it take for you people to catch on? Apparently, it is not when Trump ridicules a disabled man on national television. The world saw it too. A few years later and they all seem to have forgotten Serge Kovaleski. I have not. Mocking the disabled did nothing but make me hate him more. It speaks volumes towards his character and reveals such a petty man. I could not believe that people still supported him. What was done when the Stormy Daniels affair and hush money came to light? Nothing. When the Mueller report and his testimony showed all those obstructions of justice, who did anything to stop him from doing so again? Time after time, day after day, everyone had excuses. From “The Wall” and the border control tactics of “ICE,” to “send her back” and all those implications, no one did a damn thing at all. The talk about doing something was endless on CNN and a host of other news channels. Talk is cheap. I fear if this ambivalence remains it will cross over into the current Presidential Election in the fall of 2020. I don’t think Democrats care about their country any more than I think the Republicans do. The only way to ensure an end to the reign of the Goblin King is to vote him out or impeach him. I just don’t see that happening, considering the state of the union. With Mitch McConnell and the Senate standing firm in their place, it seems like all this fuss is really going to stand for nothing. I cannot believe that anyone would now follow him. I believe anyone who actually supports Trump should  be charged with a hate crime.

            August 15^th, 2019 was the 50^th Anniversary of the Woodstock Festival. For days, all I heard was tribute after tribute. The stories of peace and harmony blended in with the mud and the lack of food and water. It is remembered for the message to humanity it professed. People believed they could change the world with their voices. Unfortunately, it appears many of those same people are currently sitting on their hands and doing nothing. I don’t imagine that most of them will even vote next year. For such passionate men and women to turn to mush is disappointing but I am not surprised. People are like that everywhere you go. It barely matters anymore. I find it interesting the contrast between America and Hong Kong. The American people sit idle while their President condones white supremacists and yet the people of Hong Kong have protested for months over an immigration issue. They have made sure that they have been heard. Where is that sense of justice and fairness I was told America offered? What happened to right thinking and right doing? When you fail to condemn a wrongdoing, you in essence condone that wrongdoing. The American people, whether pro or against, have given Donald Trump permission to be the demagogue he has turned out to be. Almost half of the American population stand behind the President. I suppose playing to his base, his target audience, has done what is it supposed to do. The scary part is listening to the hate. It is not hard to imagine where this is all going if Trump gets elected for a second term.

            It is not just Trump, it is also his supporters, including the Republican party. For many Americans, Trump is a messiah, “the chosen one.” Despite his actions, and all his inaction, people still claim it is his economic pose that maintains their loyalty. Given the “Trump recession” that currently flavours the markets, it is difficult to understand their lingering loyalty. My late friend James used to say, “They support him because he is a simpleton just like them.” They also venerate his wife Melania. They call her classy and stylish and dignified while I check out her pussy online. She is not the First Lady but rather the First Whore. This dichotomy reflects the general duality of the Trump administration.  He attacks the press, “the enemy of the people,” then uses the press to validate himself and his position. You all have let him have the cake and he gets to eat it too. More conservative alt-righters, part of his base, had no problem claiming that Michelle Obama was actually a man but, God forbid, you should point out any ironies. Everything has become “fake news,” unless it is about someone else. I remember the first time I recognized Trump as a celebrity. The Plaza Hotel looked grand for real and on screen. Trump’s brief cameo in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, still has people shaking their heads. Why did he just let the child go out into danger? If he is such a master of media manipulation, why did he allow his image to be presented so?  People mocked him for it. More than “50% of Americans think Trump is a racist.” While half the country is enlightened, one cannot forget that this means half the US does not think he is. Many hold him partially responsible for the rash of domestic shootings that have recently multiplied. Some feel he pulls the trigger each time some moron gets a gun. I am surprised that he is surprised. One cannot promote hatred and bigotry and fear, then smile because taxes are $3.00 cheaper this month. If you support white supremacy and other alternative positions, then you in fact condone their message and will always be associated with the movement. Trump forgets, each time you give evil a voice, it almost always ends up screaming in your face.

            We might as well call him Julius Trump. Hail Caesar and all that good stuff.

Screw the Constitution and screw the law. Trump can do as he pleases and has been given a green light by the American people to do just that. He says what he wants and he does what he wants regardless of any penalty he might have to deal with later. It is like watching a Mafia movie, “The Odd Father” seems an appropriate title. While it is his mocking a disabled reporter that has left the worst taste in my mouth, it is his validating white supremacy that taints, then lingers. If it looks like a turd and it smells like a turd, it ain’t Ben and Jerry’s. Donald Trump and his presidency are for shit. The impeachment inquiry, Ukraine, Rudy Giuliani and Trump’s tax returns have laid out a “yellow brick road” which we can only hope Capitol Hill will now follow to its rightful end. Considering the economic forecast and clear indicators such as the state of American relations with China, the U.S. economy “may not be able to withstand a protracted trade war without serious harm amid a weakening global outlook.” I can only hope that in 2020, people won’t forget, whether they hold a good or bad economy. I don’t care what it takes, this ridiculous excuse for a leader needs to be silenced and punished in a court of law. Then again, maybe a few members of the Senate will stab Julius Trump to death on the floor of the House. I would argue they do not need to wait for the Ides of March to do what needs to be done. The record speaks for itself. Trump is a megalomaniac and we all know it. He knows it. Allowing him to have a voice, considering, says as much about the American people as it does about their President. He can claim he is not on the side of hate all he wants but the proof is in the pudding. If you are going to climb into bed with someone, you might want to make sure there isn’t a sheet on their head.

Photo

https://mitsloan.mit.edu/ideas-made-to-matter/when-lying-demagogue-authentic-candidate

https://www.history.com/news/what-are-the-ides-of-march

Sources

https://poll.qu.edu/national/release-detail?ReleaseID=3636

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

Wasted Time

            I have been to California many times but I have only ventured into Hollywood on two occasions. The last time I wandered around Tinsel Town, I was primarily there to catch the film Beaches at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The rest was all commentary. My virgin appearance, my first encounter, found me wanting. My entire life, Hollywood was this escape, this beautiful and exotic getaway. The mythos and grandeur were part of my upbringing. Like everyone else on this planet, I used to dream of being a big movie star and living in Beverly Hills. You should have seen my face when I got off the Greyhound bus in downtown disappointment. At first, I thought all the garbage and strange people were some fluke because of the bus terminal. I was wrong. Everywhere I went there was more dread, more gloom and more debauchery. Hookers and bums were on every corner, in every alley. Homeless people filled the spaces between porn shops and fast food joints. It was rundown, it was dirty and I was, for the most part, very disconcerted. The place was nothing like I thought it would be. As I headed down Hollywood Blvd., I passed landmarks I had only imagined up until then. I spent an entire day exploring what I came to call “The Hollywood Hole.” I must admit that my experience made me hesitant to ever go back. I am sorry but stepping on a syringe at Hollywood and Vine sealed the deal for me. This was not my Hollywood. The next year found my return but only for a moment. I just had this movie I needed to see and I needed to see it there in LaLaland. I traveled the 3,832 kilometers for Bette and Barbra and the late Gary Marshall. After my initial visit, film was the only good part of the town left for me. I have never returned. I think the defining moment, the moment of my complete rejection, came in a frightening way. As I walked past a few more landmarks, I spotted a young Latino gentleman sitting on the top edge of a concrete bench. His bandanna revealed his inclination. The most disturbing part of the scene was the stream of blood flowing from the area of his right forehead across the temple. It puddled on the ground below him. We made eye contact as I passed. It sort of scared me. It made me realize how different this world was to the one I owned back in Canada. I suppose I had far too many expectations of the place. I was destined to be let down. I have never recovered from the lesson I learned. I had always imagined Hollywood to be a place of milk and honey. It was more like cheap whiskey and a blow job out back in the alley.

            We moved to Paris, Ontario and left the city life behind us. The town is relatively small and very, very quiet (except from time to time on a weekend). We live right next to the Fairgrounds and are often visited by the pounding of music from the concert stage or the roar of monster trucks and the occasional smash-up derby. My family loves a good Fair, regardless of its size and content. My Mother used to win baking contests at the Strathroy Fall Fair and my Dad and his entourage still travel about Ontario, hunting for a good country welcome. A year after our initial move, once again the Paris Fair opened on the Labour Day weekend. It occurred to my father and I that in all our years, no one had ever gone to Paris for this event. Come Saturday, my partner, my Dad, my sister and her family all paid to park and get inside the gates. For years, I had heard advertisements on radio and television pumping up the experience of the Paris Fair. There were many times that I entertained going, particularly when the musical lineup met my fan appeal. Artists like Blue Rodeo, Michelle Wright and Leahy all attracted my attention but not enough to make me go. We all met at my place and took their van over so my Dad didn’t have to walk. The fee was quite reasonable. Once we got inside, it became clear rather quickly. We had been deceived. A few rooms scattered throughout one building held contestants and champions but there was something scarce about the space. Once outside, my Dad seemed frustrated with the lack of livestock and I duly noted his disapproval. The midway made us all feel older, a lack of children the obvious cause. It all struck me as wasted time. I could be bored at home for free. All in all, it was still a good day. Any time I get to spend with my father makes it so. I look back and I remember the way things were that day. We were together, but for a moment, and I believe that is all that matters.  Perhaps all those disappointments allowed for different memories. Without that silly Fairground to walk away from, I would not hold such images in my head and on my hard drive. I am there talking and laughing and living. It didn’t matter that there was little gratification. I just wish that Paris: The Fair had not been such a downer, such a misuse of time and energy and cash. It was a letdown for us all.

            Throughout the summer, we often set out for a day at the beach. Over the years, Ben and I ventured to many, each located about the Great Lakes basin. Southern Ontario rests between Lake Erie, Lake Huron and Lake Ontario. Spots like Port Stanley and Ipperwash all have that freshwater feel. Sometimes we swam. Most times, Ben sunned himself as I read sitting on the sand. We are always looking for a new destination to discover and explore. Sand Hill was supposed to be beautiful and it was. Located between Port Burwell and Long Point, Ontario, Sand Hill is a testament to the power of nature. Rising some 450 feet along the north shore of Lake Erie, the dunes stand like a “mountain of sand.” The $15.00 we paid to get in seemed fair at the time. We parked and headed straight for the dunes. My sandals did not work well with the sand and I removed them. Yes, the sand was very, very hot. Regardless, we made it over the top and slid down towards the water. Out came my book, in went Ben. We had such grand expectations of Sand Hill. It is hard to find a beach that is not overcome with people on a hot summer day. We had this area all to ourselves. Very quickly, you could tell why. The lake trout was bloated and very much rotting in the surf. It floated into view like the slime and goo that came along with it. We became aware. There was a great deal of foam and garbage, scattered in spots along the coast. It collected in pockets, some large and some small. There was no way in hell I was going in it. The 18 inches of fish carcass kept creeping, ever closer and closer to where Ben was bathing. He moved out further in the lake in order to avoid it. We did not exit as we had entered. We took the long way back and avoided the oven-baked mound just to get away from such a disappointment. It was nice and shady as we had our lunch at one of the campground picnic tables. As we left, I knew I would never return to the place and I have not. It has been years since we attended the mess. For me, it stands as an example of the damage mankind has done to the planet. There are very few beaches I can now swim in. My skin is hyper-sensitive and has only gotten worse as I have aged. People forget, just because the level of E. coli is within a safe parameter does not mean there isn’t shit everywhere.

            They lied to me. It was boldfaced as far as I am concerned. If I gave my life to Jesus, all would be well. I would be filled with the Spirit and my troubles would melt away with “the Glory of the Lord.” They forgot to tell me that if things were not okay, if I was not possessed, then I was doing something wrong. God chastises the unsaved (Mark 16:16).  I was 17 years old then. I was very bipolar and very untreated. I would cling to anything that made me feel better about the world around me and myself. I wanted to believe. I wanted to fit in. In all honesty, I joined the Pentecostal Church of Strathroy while stalking Jamie Herrington. I was soon in the mix of it and I really thought I had found a new direction. I had always been Christian and my parents had just joined the Church themselves. I tried to take it all in. The promises of salvation seemed more assured within this community. There seemed to be this mass appeal. I went in with great expectations. I had always had some form of relationship with the Christ. Most times, I viewed him as my imaginary friend. Around 200 people were crammed into the small sanctuary. Just before the lecture, a rock band played music I actually enjoyed. Years later and Christian music is one of the main staples in my symphonic diet. Scripture after scripture after scripture and the sermon was complete. He cried out and hoarded us to the front of the room. For the very first time (and not the last), I experienced an altar call. I walked up to the stage with the rest of the cattle and I stood, ready to accept the Lord and all his blessings. They fed us bullshit and we dropped like flies. Every time the pastor touched a believer’s forehead, they would fall away, gone limp in some testament to the presence of the Holy Spirit. I was thrilled at the idea. As I approached my pseudo-destiny, I readied myself for the indwelling. He touched my forehead and uttered, “Be filled by the power of Jesus.” For a second, I thought he was joking. I got nothing. Instinctively, it was important that my depravity remain hidden so I fell without the aid of anything Holy. I floated to the floor, simply copying what those before me had done. They helped me up and I walked back to my seat. I felt abandoned, right then and there. I don’t think I have ever recovered from that moment. I realized God didn’t want me and I was on my own. I still feel that way. While this scar still stings, most scars mean you have already healed. My days as a Christian are over but the longing remains, even after all these years. I have tried to re-examine my position, to see if anything has changed regarding my salvation. I am disappointed, yet again,.

            You get a lot of pretty days. You get a lot of ugly days as well. Life gives and it takes and it all seems futile in the end. It doesn’t really matter. I guess you can’t have expectations if you don’t want disappointments. Somehow, no matter what you do, things don’t work out as we pray that they will. We can try to see the good in things but that good always comes with the condition of random injustice. Nothing goes as planned. There is always a balloon to deflate, a seam to burst. This is the price one pays for hoping and wishing and dreaming. Hope is for fools, wishing for children and dreaming is nothing but avoiding the truth. In most cases, you rarely receive what you actually asked for or saw promise in. You do not always get what you pay for. At the end of the day, it is what one does with circumstance that matters the most. A disappointment might be a blessing in disguise. Granted, this is hard to see considering the midst of it. Life is hard. We make it harder just by expecting that it will be easy. We precondition ourselves for failure. Nothing goes our way. It’s better to the seize the moment than anticipate something that will never be. What a waste of time.    

Photo

https://evolvingwisdom.com/blog/orchestrating-time/

https://elpais.com/elpais/2018/10/23/inenglish/1540286443_626629.html

https://thecsrjournal.in/csr-single-time-zone-in-india-causing-hinderance-in-national-development/

https://www.npr.org/programs/ted-radio-hour/414972943/shifting-time 

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beaches_(film)

https://www.ontariossouthwest.com/listing/sand-hill-park/1777/

http://my.kwic.com/~pagodavista/sandhills.htm