05-15

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

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

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

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

(Bob Hope, American comedian)

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

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

(Henry David Thoreau, American philosopher)

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

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

Photo

May 15^th, 2010

All the Same

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

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

“These bruises make for better conversation

Loses the vibe that separates

It’s good to let you in again

You're not alone in how you've been

Everybody loses, we all got bruises

We all got bruises”

(Bruises, Train 2012)

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

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

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

Photos

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

Sources

There's Not a Crown (Without a Cross)

Michael English

Hope, released 1993

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

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

Trip to Bountiful

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Cheryl James, American musician)

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

Photos

CN Tower

Toronto Ontario

July 2014

Avondale Cemetery

Stratford Ontario

June 2012

Happy Birthday

Hagersville Ontario

October 1978

Sources

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

Fresh Hell

“So tell me I’m good as gold

Tell me I’m beautiful

Tell me you won’t get old

And leave me alone ...”

(Good As Gold, Dala 2012)

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

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

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

“You chase me like a shadow

And you haunt me like a ghost

And I hate you some,

And I love you some

But I miss you most”

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

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

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

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

“I toss and turn and scream,

I try to do everything

With two feet on the ground

I just keep falling down again

I feel so far from home,

Completely all alone

And then I hear You say

I am here, I am here”

(Beautiful History, Plumb 2009)

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

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

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

“Rain

Feel it on my finger tips,

Hear it on my window pane

Your love's coming down like

Rain

Wash away my sorrow,

Take away my pain

Your love's coming down like

Rain”

(Rain, Madonna 1992)

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

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

“Life can change in the blink of an eye

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

‘Forever Young’ is a big fat lie

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

(Shovel in Hand, Amy Grant 2013)

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

Photo

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

Swampwater

“I say black and you say white

We're as different as day and night

Who cares who's wrong, and who is right?

We don't agree with each other but

We have the chance to discover

A new way to talk to each other”

           

            As a former Christian, I pay attention to the people who claim to be God's Elect. I think I have the right since most of my youth found me wallowing in the dogmas and details of the theology. I did not come out of the religion unscathed.  I never understood why it was so important to follow the theocracy laid out in scripture rather than the direct instruction made by Jesus. Early on, I noticed the difference between those who claim to be Christian and those who actually act like a Christian. After all, Jesus was very clear that there was a new commandment (John 13:34), a new way to be. We must be born again (John 3:7). When God moves within us, the person we become is visible, almost tangible like fruit hanging on a tree. When you truly get with the program, people can just tell there is a difference. If they never knew you, your energy, your approach speaks volumes about who you serve. With His one rule, “love one another”, we are commanded, not instructed, to love others as the Christ so loved us. Whether you are a believer or not, almost every other religion on the planet expects the very same thing from us. We have but one rule to follow.

            If you follow the way, you will find your way. At least, that's what they tell me. Be prepared for roadblocks and downed wires as you travel forth. Puddles of swampwater form along the edges. People always find a way to block our way. It doesn’t matter your spiritual path, their way is the right way. After all, it worked so well for them. Those who claim to have some insight and connection with something divine, forget that their actions always give them away. You can always spot the bad fruit. Men of goodwill who bring peace are much more of an example of God within than some Preacher casting out a woman who committed adultery. Of course, he forgets to mention, especially to his wife, the little tart he meets up with after choir practice on Thursday night. It is with the judgment he pronounced that he himself will be judged (Matthew 7:1-2). The very act of loving one another in itself cannot help but change you, whether you are a Christian, Muslim or Jew. One does not only manifest spiritually. God moving within us is also a demonstration. We illustrate by our example. In a sense, we become a picture of the spirit that dwells therein. Never forgetting, we will know them by their “fruits” (Matthew 7:15-20, Galatians 5:22-23).

            It just makes sense that “a good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit” (Matthew 7:17). I often use this gauge to measure people who claim to follow Jesus. It’s never what they say to me that really matters (although sometimes it is more than enough to make a discernment). How they act towards others, how they act towards me, are clear indications of the state of God working inside them. It is often quite difficult, in this modern age, to find even one true follower of the Law of Love. We all seem to have impassable flaws, mortal limitations that still define us. It is not your state of mind that is at issue, it is your state of being. We are told to “love one another”, not just fellow Christians, or conservatives or even heterosexuals. If God truly dwells and moves within you, there are no limitations when loving another. No matter who we are or what we believe, men of God act like men of God. Seeing things through the eyes of a believer should not confine you but rather free you. Where there is kindness, there is love. Where there is tolerance and acceptance, there is love. All these things and more

will come to be if the true God of this universe guides your way and I'm betting even Jesus would agree with me.   

“And say it with a kiss, no matter what it is

Put love back at the top of our list

Find a better way, to make a better day

Don't you know that

There'll be more happiness when we do that

Oh what a wonderful way to live

Just say it with a kiss.”

            If there is one thing I have taken from my time with the Pentecostal Church of Canada, it is the ability to speak in tongues on command. I can even sing in tongues if you would like me to. In all the years I spent with my hands raised and my voice active, I never really had the legitimate experience. The xenoglossy (speaking in languages) that the Apostles manifested on Pentecost was nowhere to be found. Rather, the gossolalia (speaking in babble) was all that really seemed to matter, as part of my salvation at any rate. I can still fake it as well as I did throughout all those years of evangelization. I was a falsehood then and a parlour trick now. I just knew what I was rambling had nothing to do with Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, but was a creation in my own mind. One of the women I befriended during my tenure was a rather large African-Canadian woman named Brandy. She attempted, many times, to indoctrinate me into the fold. She taught me to allow the spirit to come and guide me. She often made me feel like I was doing something to restrict God's ability to move me. I started pretending to get her the hell off my back. One day, she was just gone. I suppose that sort of thing happens when you alienate yourself from the very Saviour you have sworn to follow. Apparently, one night, the Holy Ghost appeared to Brandy, then copulated using her as a vessel. She failed to mention to anyone whether He was any good or not. The rest of the congregation shunned her, and her family, and removed them, without a trace, from the Church. Since then I have often wondered if at one point “God entering me” had a different meaning than what I believed it to be. I later learned that throughout the entire situation, Brandy maintained her loyalty to the Risen Lord despite clearly demonstrating that the Jesus she surrendered to was very different from the one she had appeared to worship as a member of the congregation. She may have considered herself a Christian but the obvious would beg to differ.

“All these strangers that I meet

If I love them and they love me

We'll make the world, one big family

We may not know one another

But what if we treated each other

Like we were sister and brother?”

            For a brief moment in history, I did not like my father. Coming home from high school to find all your books being burned in the backyard pit was the cement that secured my disdain. Having discovered the living Christ, and Pentecostalism, my father changed into another person. This path appeared to be what he needed, at the time, to give his life purpose and meaning. My mother, unsuccessfully, attempted to meet the same fate. Forced bible study, restricted access to media and barbecuing Stephen King novels became the new way of life for my mother and siblings. I suppose putting Jesus before your family just makes sense to someone who follows those rules but to me (and other family members), it was foreign and rather unnerving. I am not sure but I don't think that the ‘shoe’ that was presented to him ever really fit my father. Soon enough the intolerance, the shunning, all of it, became too much for my Dad to handle. He withdrew and does not like to speak of this matter. I'm not sure if it is regret that motivates his silence but something crossed over in him and redirected him to a better place.

            It was my father who stood beside me when I had to identify my first partner's body. It is my father to whom I speak every day, without fail. It is my father who sits daily at the dining room table reading from his Bible, looking for answers and stroking his Faith. He has become even more genuine since the death of my mother. He is thoughtful and respectful and so much more Christian than he ever was when he was with the fundamentalists. He still believes the way he always has but it manifests in a much more legitimate manner. Rather than talking about serving the Lord, he does so in his own unique way. Rather than condemning others for their sins, he recognizes his own limitations and has great empathy for those who get lost along the way. My Dad just gets it. It appears that even if you look in the wrong direction, you will always come back to the same place. You can always find what you're looking for. My Dad has become an example for me. It’s not what you read that defines you. It is not what you are convinced is the truth. Your actions are the best indication. For the Christian (among many), loving others should place far ahead of admonishments and regulation. What you believe may inspire you but how you manifest is what defines you.

“And say it with a kiss, no matter what it is

Put love back at the top of our list

Find a better way, to make a better day

Don't you know that

There'll be more happiness when we do that

Oh what a wonderful way to live

Just say it with a kiss”

            Anyone who really knows me is aware that I am a huge fan of Christian artist Amy Grant. For 40 plus years now, I have followed her message and her career. I have watched her attempt to counterbalance those religious beliefs with a subtle acceptance “towards less traditional members of her fan base.” Although any endorsement she holds toward such groups can be rather vague and uncommitted, her essential message is one of inclusion for everyone, not just this organization or those authoring that issue. We must look behind the eyes. In 2013, Amy attended her first LGBTQ press interview with PrideSource, a Michigan-based online service for the same community. The backlash has  built over the years, with many Christian fans rebuking her for that support. Recently, Grant released Tennessee Christmas, a new seasonal collection of music. It was met with critical acclaim and religious dissonance. The American Southern Baptist retailer LifeWay Christian Resources refused to carry the CD, claiming that it “wasn't Christian enough.” Having the work in my possession, I can report that both Jesus and traditional Christian values are more than represented overall. I would argue that tracks such as Joy to the World and O Come, All Ye Faithful pretty much cover the bases and offer evidence to the contrary. The very idea that a Christmas album in itself does not count as Christian says more about the accuser than it does those accused. It makes one wonder if perhaps there was something more to the boycott.

            On February 14^th, 2017, Amy Grant released a new song, and premièred the companion video. Say it with a Kiss is an energetic tune that enthusiastically suggests we unify as a people, thinking of each other in terms of “brother and sister” rather than from our separation. It contains a message of love and  “the chance to discover a new way to talk to each other.” The video is a slide presentation of many varied stock photos. Mixed in are a few more personal shots like Amy's wedding photo to her husband Vince Gill. Throughout the content, a mosaic of same sex couples also appears. Although there is no real indication that these people are gay, besides their association, it seems quite obvious that these couples are homosexual, or at least should be viewed as such. The touches are not subtle. The images non-sexual and without endearment. They convey simply love, not anything really physical. It was thrilling to have some validation from someone I have idolized almost all of my life. To finally see that I was right about her all along was glorious for me. To understand her message, to embrace it, sheer heaven. Not everyone feels the same as I do.

            The same thing happened back in 1991 when her most successful project Heart in Motion was released. Large groups of conservative Christians attacked her for being far too secular for their tastes. There was an uproar when she appeared with a male actor in the video for Baby Baby, a man who wasn't her husband (pre-Vince Gill). Her message has clearly evolved. On Valentine's Day 2017 her ecumenical voice, her call for unity, became obvious in the most discreet manner. Her balancing act appears to be slowly eroding over time. As she has made clear, “The journey of faith is just being willing and open to have a relationship with God. And everybody is welcome. Everybody.” While her less than fundamentalist views may have “undercut Grant's public witness,”  she continues to stand as the epitome of true Christianity and not the “Pseudo American Christian values” the Elect would have us believe is the only way. The counterbalance between child of God and child of Jesus is crystal clear. Each movement of her Faith a  compensating equivalent. With Say it with a Kiss, a less evangelical approach seems the theme of the day. In fact, Grant made it known that with the Kiss video, “we chose photos that we believed would make everyone feel included.” Imagine that.

“We may not know one another

But what if we treated each other

Like we were sister and brother?”

            I have searched my entire life for even a glimpse of God. I am thirsty and it would only take one drop. All I ever really got was swampwater. With no real confirmation, I have come to recognize that I will never have my way. The truth is that we cannot know, or at least, I cannot know. I realize that if you do want a coup d'oeil with something Holy, you need to find it all on your own. It is here that religion is most useful, its true purpose. It is to shine a light so all may see. God works in mysterious ways but this is no secret. This is what we’re here for. We are to radiate God’s light by loving one another. When we feel useless, God can still use us, even when we forget. Let’s not forget that “Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of My Father in heaven” (Matthew 7:21 KIV). You either have it or you don't. The indwelling is not like staying in a hotel. It doesn’t come and go at its leisure. Most Christians believe that because they associate themselves with Jesus, they are in some way exempt from loving anyone but Christians, usually those Christians who believe the way that they do. This is how one can tell whether God dwells within a person. If your love is not for all then your charity comes not from God. You are going the wrong way. That is how one knows whether someone is a true Christian. God is for everybody, “He died for all” (2 Corinthians 5:15a).  It is, after all, “by their fruit you will recognize them” (Matthew 7:16 NIV).

“Say it with a kiss, no matter what it is

Put love back at the top of our list

Find a better way, to make a better day

Don't you know that

There'll be more happiness when we do that

What a wonderful way to live

Just say it with a kiss.”

(Say it with a Kiss, Amy Grant 2017)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oe6b6GRYjPk

Photos

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/368591550729317879/

http://www.newnownext.com/amy-grant-same-sex-couple-music-video/02/2017/

http://amygrant.com/say-it-with-a-kiss/

Sources

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

http://www.newnownext.com/amy-grant-same-sex-couple-music-video/02/2017/

http://www.advocate.com/music/2017/2/15/did-amy-grant-include-same-sex-couples-her-new-music-video

https://www.getreligion.org/getreligion/the-new-amy-grant-controversy-this-story-has-a-new-chapter-that-some-have-missed

http://www.pridesource.com/

Other Otherland

"The news had come out in the First World War

The bloody Red Baron was flying once more

The Allied command ignored all of its men

And called on Snoopy to do it again ...

The Baron had Snoopy dead in his sights

He reached for the trigger to pull it up tight

Why he didn't shoot, well, we'll never know

Or was it the bells from the village below?"

(Snoopy's Christmas, The Royal Guardsmen 1967)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jlf---13Q0g

            When I was a kid, I thought Charlie Brown was a huge loser. Not only did he suffer at his own hands but he allowed other children to torment him. I didn't really get the comic strip but I read it every weekend. I only indulged the animated programming. I will admit that A Charlie Brown Christmas still resonates with me, especially near the end when Linus quotes the Bible (Luke 2: 8-14, KJV). I thought Lucy was funny and that Pig Pen was cool but it was Snoopy who really caught my attention. I paid attention to the things he did and the things he said (actually, the things he thought). When Woodstock came along, it cemented my approval. Most of my childhood was spent in a comic book. I collected them. I coveted them. My mind and my time were valuable playing tools and I gave little thought to things like Scooby Doo or The Flintstones. In the early 1970s, shows like HR Pufnstuf distracted me from my true mission but it was Snoopy who seems to have had a long-term effect on me. As an adult, I can appreciate him from an entirely new perspective. I see myself in that silly beagle.

            One of the things I like about Snoopy the best is his imagination, the fantasy world he often escapes into. He spends an awful lot of time in his otherland. Whether battling the Red Baron or attending college, Snoopy always managed to have the most awesome adventures, even if they were all in his head. Snoopy first appeared in the  Peanuts comic strip on October 4^th, 1950, only a few days after the cartoon first debuted. He slowly grew in popularity and has become "one of the most recognizable and iconic characters in the comic strip." If you stop and take notice, Snoopy is everywhere. Mugs and t-shirts, posters and stuffed animals abound. Just by googling him, you can access the entire animated history of the character. Any dated strip, any television special, any movie, is readily available for the viewing. Snoopy has become the thing of legends. His fierce loyalty and protective nature contrast the selfishness and laziness of his breed. He exemplifies what it is to be man’s best friend and at the same time he stands in stark contrast by ridiculing his owner. He can even be abusive to those he claims to love the most. He is personification personified and very much almost human.

            He is on YouTube and Twitter and Instagram. I post a Peanuts cartoon almost every day on my Facebook account. I often use Snoopy stickers to highlight my reaction at the time. I have hundreds of Snoopy memes. Each expression from the dog seems perfectly matched with my mood in general. We are a lot alike, that furry beast and I. Most recently, I have come to greatly appreciate the character and its development, not that I didn't in the past, at least on some level. There is something I can relate to regarding that stupid dog. He epitomizes the need to escape, to be free from the boring and mundane life of a dog. Just like, it so happens, the life we all live to one degree or another. He withdraws into his imaginary world and so too do we the viewer. His escape becomes our escape, a much needed relief. The dull life of a dog reflects the dull life of each person. Snoopy always manages to survive, to bounce back and to laugh at himself. With his foil Woodstock at his side, his voyages speak to our voyages and resonate many of the lessons that each of us should have learned along our own path.

"Well you know my name is Simon,

and the things I draw come true,

Oh the pictures take me, take me over,

Climb the ladder with you."

(Theme to Simon and the Land of Chalk Drawings, 1976)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PvssomC2zVs

            Simon in the Land of Chalk Drawings is a British animated children's program that "was produced in the mid 1970s by FilmFair Productions in London for Thames Television." With an often crude animation style, the 5 minute episodes followed the adventures of Simon and his magic chalkboard. Anything he can imagine comes to life when drawn on the enchanted slate canvas. Every instalment found Simon climbing the fence located near his home, trusty ladder in hand. On the other side appears a limitless land of grand imagination. Each story often revolved "around the unintended effects that Simon's drawings have on the Land of Chalk Drawings." In one episode, having drawn his angry self, the doppelganger ravages the make believe land. In another, a chameleon becomes a Scottish highlander or the Pied Piper visits the Land of Chalk Drawings. In the episode Simon and the Moon Rocket, Simon is accompanied by his imaginary friend Henry on a trip to the moon. Henry is a constant character throughout the series but no matter how much adventure and time they spend together, Simon always climbs back over that fence and leaves Henry to his make believe self.

            There was something so simple and charming about this cartoon. I was enchanted every time it came on the television. The Canadian version was almost identical except it was voiced over for a Canadian audience. The episodes remained intact but Ernie Coombs (also known as Mr. Dressup) narrated each cartoon. The series appeared on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) into the 1980s and was also a featured segment on Captain Kangaroo in the United States. With each episode, I identified with Simon more and more. I wanted a wall to climb over that would let me escape. I still wish I had such means at my disposal. As a boy, I was inspired by Simon. He confirmed for me that it was okay to visit my otherland. It was okay to keep dreaming, to keep  imagining. It almost grounded the very experience for me as a child. It was a black and white experience. On one side reality and on the other, anything I wanted the world to be. In fact, outside of Snoopy, nothing was more pivotal than Simon and the Land of Chalk Drawings to my ideas regarding an Otherland. I suppose, at least in my child's mind, I was Simon and the Land of Chalk Drawings existed in my own head, not just on the television screen. These days, I can watch Simon and Henry anytime I want on YouTube. While still charming, the message is not as compelling for me. There is no neighbourhood fence. There is no ladder, no chalkboard to rely on. All that stands is the stark cold reality of how life really is. I am far too lost in adulthood for such childish things.

"H.R. Pufnstuf,

Who's your friend when things get rough?

H.R. Pufnstuf

Can't do a little cause he can't do enough."

(Theme to HR Pufnstuf, 1969)

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

            The summer of 1970 holds little for me. I was only 5 years old and to be honest, I haven't retained as much of my younger years as I would like. I can recall things but mostly in flashes or little glimpses. In the spring of that year, my youngest brother Christopher came home from the hospital. I can see him laid out on the couch, his lower body encased in plaster from the surgeries to fix his crippled legs. I remember my Dad giving me my first pet that June, a plain white mouse I named Charlotte. Sometimes I can almost feel her crawling up my arm. Again, these memories are hard to maintain and  seem to come and go at random. If I focus, I can travel back but my view is far more limited than memories from when I was 7 or 10 or 12. If there is one thing from that summer that I do recall quite clearly, it was The HR Pufnstuf Movie. I had no idea the film was based on the television series, which had already been broadcasting throughout North America. My parents managed to get all 5 kids into one car and took us all to see Pufnstuf at the drive-in theatre located just a few miles away. A second film, Disney's Bedknobs and Broomsticks, made the double feature a child's delight. I may have fallen asleep during the later movie but I can remember every moment watching that featured film. I do not remember the type of car that we went in. I do not recall the name of the outdoor theatre either. I can, however, remember watching the opening credits of Pufnstuf and watching the closing credits. I can see myself engrossed, stuck in between siblings in the back seat of the car. The experience is very clear.

            At this point, I was enchanted by anything that seemed an escape. Early on, my imagination was perhaps my strongest tool for coping. Not that a 5 year old has much to cope with but still, it was an impetus, the force that drove my innocent mind. Pufnstuf was your basic candy store for a kid my age. The main character Jimmy (Jack Wild), an English lad, and his magic flute Freddie are lured to Living Island by Wilhelmina W. Witchiepoo (Billie Hayes). The character was supposed to be the villain but her very human frailties made her sympathetic, at least in my mind. I rooted for Witchiepoo every time she appeared on film or even later when I began watching the Saturday morning show. The Living Island was mesmerizing for me. It was a place created purely out of the imagination. It was full of puppets and dragons (Pufnstuf) and even dark foreboding trees that come to life in order to protect Witchiepoo's castle from interlopers. Throughout the movie, and on every Saturday morning, she would desperately try to steal Freddie the magic flute away from the heroes of the tale. Unlike Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, Jimmy never once longed to return to his home. He was happy existing in a land filled with adventure and freedom. There were no parental holds to fight against. There were no responsibilities cast upon Jimmy's new world. Yes, that witch was a pain in the butt but the very idea of living on an island filled by magic was almost more than I could stand. I realized very quickly that, like Jimmy, I could get in a boat and float away. He got to do it on screen and I could do the same but in my head.

            In the early 1970s, my mother would play The Mamas and the Papas Greatest Hits over and over. The  LP always sat at the front of the stereo case. So when Cass Elliot  (Mama Cass), appeared in the Pufnstuf film as Witch Hazel, I was completely delighted.

Reality stokes the imagination. The mix of live action and costume and puppetry blended together and managed to inspire my already vivid mind.  Both the film and the television program were produced by Sid and Marty Krofft, sibling co-producers of many children's shows and variety programming like Donny and Marie (1976). I loved the like-minded additions to the TV schedule throughout the decade. Other Krofft Brother series like Sigmund and the Sea Monsters and especially Land of the Lost stole me away in the same manner as Pufnstuf. With each journey into their imagination, I journeyed further into my very own. They gave me permission to think in such esoteric terms. I did not know it at the time but they helped train me to use my mind as a useful tool of survival. HR Pufnstuf has managed to find a position on the list of my favourite childhood things. It is up there with my missing Green Lantern ring or my G.I. Joe headquarters. Along with Snoopy and Simon, I was not only entertained by each instalment of each series, but they managed to teach a very curious boy some very important lessons about imagination and the option to escape.

"Youth is not a time of life; it is a state of mind; it is not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips and supple knees; it is a matter of the will, quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions; it is the freshness of the deep springs of life."

(Samuel Ullman, American humanitarian)

Photos

https://www.pinterest.com/nanorod89/snoopy-and-the-red-baron/

http://www.jedisparadise.com/5/Simon_in_the_Land_of_Chalk_Drawings.htm

http://film.thedigitalfix.com/content/id/71003/pufnstuf-the-movie.html

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snoopy#History

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

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H.R._Pufnstuf