Bag of Donuts

“I can breathe for the first time

I can see for the first time

It’s like you opened my eyes

I can feel my heart is coming alive

I feel alive

I can breathe for the first time

For the first time”

(For the First Time, The Afters 2010)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhRp9o7pVzY

            Sometimes we lose God. We wander off all by our lonesome and then wonder why we feel the way we do. There are many reasons people abandon a spiritual course. Often the experiences we have with anything divine are more than enough, in and of themselves, to chase anyone with even the slightest hint of dignity away. God is a tough road if you don’t know exactly where you are going. Understanding, in any capacity, is a true challenge. Everyone thinks differently, everyone’s relationship with things supernatural is different. I believe, at base, we really are all looking for answers. Answers that we know deep down we will never find. Even people who no longer believe still seek some form of knowledge, they question, they ask. You don’t have to believe in something to study it, to attempt to comprehend what it means. The very idea of a God leaves many wallowing in their own self-pity. Depending on which version of the truth you follow, on any particular day, it appears the primary reason for a divine entity is more take than give. We have little to offer and everything to gain. Every prayer is pleading, every worship an unnecessary lie. No matter our seeking, no matter our intent, our relationship with God, or lack thereof, is determined not through what we are taught, but rather what we think we have been taught. There is a huge difference between the two. Revelation is a subjective experience. We each define our own truth but we also define our own God. Not one person on this planet believes exactly the same as any other person. Religion is like shit in a bag of donuts. It doesn’t matter what you pull out to eat, it’s all just covered in crap.

            Ideas regarding “our” God are constantly changing. Time makes sure of that. What we believed as a child has formed only a foundation, a foundation where often little remains of our initial thinking. What does remain is but a springboard, the basis and reason for why we started out this way. As people grow and develop, so too does their definition of God (or at least it should). As we evolve, anything tangible, anything reassuring, disappears with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. For those who truly seek the truth, it’s like waiting for the Tooth Fairy. Patience and diligence do little good when there is nothing to wait for. As our ideas of God shift and change, our relationship with the divine does as well. Children see Jesus very differently than full-grown adults do. I have never had a 5-year-old threaten me with heaven. Not one child I have encountered ever sentenced me to hell. God is a friendly chap when viewed through the eyes of an innocent. The character of God is much more gentle to someone in kindergarten. It’s kind of sad that we lose touch with this magic. As we learn, our indoctrination steals away our innocence, the quality of our naiveté. Outside forces corrupt us. All the noise hampers the clarity. No one maintains their original ideas of God.  Life is a filter of sorts, straining the silly and the supposed from the reality in which we exist. We put childish ways behind us and are left with only borrowed knowledge. We place our trust in the observations of others when our own observations do not meet the criteria for enlightenment. We erase our past beliefs and trade them for the promises of mortal men. We follow a paper trail, placing our salvation at the feet of the written word. Scripture becomes truth only when we believe it to be. Most 5-year-olds cannot read.

“Or do you not know that wrongdoers will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor men who have sex with men nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.” (1 Corinthians 6:9-11, NIV)

            I was raised to believe in the Risen Lord. Jesus and the dogma that comes with Him were the only source of spirituality I was exposed to as a kid. I was raised Christian, my entire religious foundation is Christian. I was a Christian. I was so indoctrinated that I carried a literal interpretation with me deep into my 20s. In my 30s, circumstance matured me. Christianity almost killed me. I believed everything they told me. I believed it was my fault, some punishment from up above. The sins of my Father seemed to haunt me. I believed I was to blame for what had happened so I deserved everything I got, even before I received it. All the reasons just left a bad taste in my mouth. The more I cried out for help, the more I realized how alone I was in my seeking. God was never going to talk to me. God would never help someone like me. Slowly but surely, my relationship with Jesus started its long, cold death. Sometimes, He still puts up a good ole fight. In those times, I find myself looking at God for some sign that I am going the right way. I just don’t seem to tune in to the spirit. I even try to blame luck and serendipity, making this or that much more significant than it really should be. I have ended up all by myself. There are no souls to share this pace nor allies to bear my struggle. This life I have chosen has left me barren, unable most times to feel anything spiritual at all. I long for esoteric ways, for long thought out days under the sky and then the stars. I listen for whispers, hoping there is an answer at the end of the sigh. I want so bad to be whole again but Jesus and the Bible betrayed me years ago. There is no place for a man with my talents, at least not anywhere heaven may be. I won’t burn for being bad, I will burn for being born. It’s hard to find Jesus in all the sulphur and flame.

            There are very few moments in my history where logic and reality have not won out over the paranormal activity I experience. In those few times, I have been carried away on something subtle and succinct. I have never been haunted, not one apparition  has ever appeared to me. I have never been reborn. God has never once come down and tapped on my shoulder. I have never heard voices, no matter how I tried to convince myself that I had.  It’s a lonely space when you give up Grace for nothing. I only know what I experience and sometimes even that isn’t valid enough to reshape my mind. Sometimes all of it is more than I am able to handle. Sometimes I feel possessed. I am overcome with such joy, such peace that the complications of my world fall away in that moment. It is a creeping vine, in rapid growth, soon covering the whole of me. It is a deliberate force, disturbing but soothing in the very same measure. It is no monomania and it is more than I would claim to know. The floodwaters come and they carry me away. It is here that I have to question the few times I have experienced an overcoming. Throughout my lifetime, there may not have been many of these possessions but each turn overwhelmed me completely. It’s like I freeze in the flow of something. My religious upbringing tells me these experiences are with the Holy Spirit and not my sensitive side. If I am overcome, it is God who turns the tide. No matter how I wish it all away. No matter how I want to not believe it, it still happens, even if on rare occasions. I don’t have to be forewarned to sense it. I don’t have to believe in anything to feel it. In that moment, I just close my eyes and I know it. It is within me.

            I don’t believe for a second that the Holy Spirit comes down to earth, then Google maps my location and fills me with the Love of God. Why would it inhabit a sinner such as me? As a confirmed abomination, I am sure this vessel is the last place the Holy Ghost would want to visit. I am not claiming to be gauche. Ask any good Christian folk, they will confirm what I am saying. This is one of the reasons I don’t associate with most Christians. No matter how much mercy and forgiveness is allotted to me, I cannot forget what I am and the person I have turned out to be. Someone is always available to remind me, just in case. I rarely let them see me writhe in my unrighteousness. There are two of me, I suppose. Part of me wants the truth and part of me just wants to fit in. I want to fall under Grace, to know the power of God’s love for me but I just can’t seem to find any. I am not in an exclusive club either. There are millions of people who face the same struggle, day after day, week after week, year after year into forever. The more believers tell me that I rest under the blanket of Christ’s sacrifice, the more I point out that I never can be, not according to the rules set down in the Old and New Testaments. I cannot change into something I am not. Trust me, I have tried, more than once. In spite of these attempts, I remain exactly the same as when I surrendered. I have begged to be free and made worthy but I got nothing.  It is clear, in a literal sense, that the Judeo-Christian God wants nothing to do with me. I deserve to die and my own blood is upon me.

“If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.” (Leviticus 20:13, NIV)

            Being that I am not much for public displays of emotion, I am often misunderstood as a cold and unfeeling person. This is just not so. I hold my feelings in much higher regard than one would imagine. They run deep and are often savage and unpredictable. I guess I am like most people that way. I preserve and protect in the face of the world around me. I don’t give my emotions away, I hold them dear. Quite often it is a challenge to not freeze over completely. Life is easier as an ice cube. Regardless of my refrigeration, benignancy is my mantra. I strive to live out my days following this creed and mission statement. Be kind. Always be kind and just when you think you can’t, be kind some more. You would think this would act as a summons, that anything paranormal would take notice. I guess that God simply doesn’t work that way.  Granted, I have always been a bit of an asshole. Spending a lifetime recognizing how much God hates you tends to do that to a person. I’m not blaming God, just Jesus. Perhaps, along the way, I merely polished up. Inside I am still that curious blond boy begging for morsels. I wish someone had told me it was all for naught. 40-plus years later and I am still hungry. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about my sentence. The Holy Scriptures are quite clear. There are not many ways to escape this truth, there is really no other interpretation. I was born into sin and raised in sin, regardless of the love my parents had for each other. How does one erase your genetics? I suppose I have been given over to unnatural lust and disgraceful acts, rather than some indwelling. Again, I won’t burn for being bad, I will burn for being born.

“God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error. “

(Romans 1:26-27, NIV)

           

            I was just standing there, staring out the window, watching the critters who feed in my side yard. It was a cloudy, cold January morning. There was really nothing to speak of besides the birds and the squirrels. The absence of chipmunks only convinced me they were hibernating. It was not spring, not yet. A flock of sparrows, fifty at least, jumped from the skeleton of our trumpet vine to the feeders which dangle right across from my view. Such  simple observations can make my day. I am often carried away, enchanted. There is a soothing quality when communing with nature. I watch them watching me. There is little peace for me in this life but these moments seem to make it all worthwhile. I stood there quietly listening to nothing at all. Somewhere in that moment, something crossed over in me. It started out small then like a crescendo it grew and it grew even more. I was overcome, in a manner of speaking. I had been in this place a few times before so I was ready enough to absorb what was happening. It filled me, not so much with emotions but an energy, a sense of power within. I could tell that it was encompassing, each digit tingled, my skin was set aflame. From deep inside it appeared, it started out quiet then it switched over to song. It was heavenly, floating in the ether, dancing with the light. Once again, it did not make sense to me. It never really had when it happened in the past. If God hates me so, if I truly am an abomination in His eyes, then why won’t he just leave me alone?

“Light up the sky

You light up the sky to show me

You are with me

I can’t deny, no I can’t deny

That you are right here with me

You’ve opened my eyes

So I can see you all around me

Light up the sky

You light up the sky to show me

That you are with me.”

(Light Up The Sky, The Afters 2010)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8LQH6UDi15s

Photo

https://www.ocregister.com/2017/01/09/gourmet-shop-with-chocolate-poop-emoji-doughnut-opens-in-south-county/

Wounds

            I am an illustrated man. From head to toe, my scars define me. Each one tells a story, pinpointed not with words but in display. It is not difficult to find them. All you really have to do is take the time to look. They stand for themselves, ever present even though so much time has passed. Most have deepened, blending in the eventual bliss. They have become old friends, always there when you seek them out. They are constant, transparent and deliberate at base. They even tend to mock me. They are in my face reminders of how things used to be. They are very specific. The tale each conveys is distinct, unto itself. Awareness of them can be a considerable challenge on my sadder days. They are stark at times, almost calculated as if part of some map. Follow the pain and they always remain. At times, they are embraced, representational, landmarks born on my journey. They notarize just how I made it through. At other times, they are heavy, pulling me back, so far back. They are more than just connected to my memory. They are a tactile revelation. Scars are remnants, little pieces, sometimes large, that rarely ever fade away. You can touch them. You can see them.

            Within 24 hours of my birth, I was covered in marks. One of the first things they did to me was snip my cord and tie me off. To this day, it has always looked the same. I am an innie, not an outtie. I came with more than birthmarks. I could show you my bar mitzvah scar. From the start, I was damaged goods. I still hold that they must serve some purpose, I am just not so sure what that is. They are older than my teeth and younger than my tongue. I may not relive each experience, I was barely alive. I am told I almost left the match before I started fighting. Fight I did, and I have the marks to prove it. Had I not survived, there would be nothing left to heal. At 3 years old, I was a little shit. I wasn’t malicious or nasty about it, I just got myself into constant trouble. I wanted it my way almost from the very start. When my brothers got a hockey board for Christmas, and not me, I was pissed. This wasn’t some cheap plastic play set but rather the real deal, with metal men and shooting action. It was an official NHL product. I tried to crush it like any spoiled brat would. I huffed and puffed and attacked with my right foot. Those metal hockey men were as sharp as razors. They cut through the bottom of me like I was brie cheese on a warm summer day. I am told there was much blood and the gnashing of teeth. They rejuvenated me. They fixed it right up except for the thin little scar tissue that ripples at the bottom of my leg. I can barely see them now but they are still there. They always have been, as far as I am concerned.

            The mark from one of the canines left a permanent monument to one of my greatest childhood fears. At the base of my right thumb it remarkably remains. It is highly visible, somewhat pronounced and an interesting catalyst for conversation at small wine and cheese parties. It was an Irish Setter that did the deed. He gnarled my hand like one of those doggie toys. He shook me in, he shook me out, he even yanked me all about. It was like the beginning of my own little nightmare as he chewed to the bone, then ran away. Unfortunately, his saliva did much more damage. This was not the best time to learn I was allergic to the stuff. My arm swelled up red like the balloon from Stephen King’s IT. As I sat screaming in the Emergency room, puss started oozing from the entry wound. It eventually sealed itself up and therein marks the spot. The 400-pound steam radiator was left at the top of the stairs by my brother Phillip. I only nicked it as I passed to go downstairs. We fell together in some sick harmony. I was pummelled against the wall all the way down, a split pipe ripping open my backside. It landed on me, full force, dead weight, embedding itself on my left foot. It toppled on the rest of me. 6 months later and the scar started to heal. Everything had been crushed, everything had been squished like the last donut at the bottom of the bag. The skin graft has always looked quite nasty. 40 years later and I still have a slice of my ass where the rest of my foot should be. I have a high tolerance for pain. This scar, it healed me strong. It has lightened and blended into me like most scars will do. It is a constant reminder for me of pain and anguish and the randomness of this life we all lead. I can remember every moment as if it were happening now. When I forget, all I have to do is look down.

            If you pay close attention to my skin, you will notice little white scars all over my hands and arms. They are pock marks, left from burning off warts, warts gained by falling into a cesspool. I hardly notice them at all. Funny how some scars mean more than others. Funny how we assign importance to the marks we gain through life. I pulled the knife away from him. It sliced through my three middle fingers like that brie I left sitting out earlier. I secured the weapon. I should have gotten stitches but my threshold for pain made me stoic. It left a nasty cicatrix from finger to finger to finger. I have always been prone to accidents. I have always managed to walk right into them. My head looks like a Pollack piece, some abstract expressionist painting. Over the years, I have walked into things, smashed into things and met many a corner of this shelf or that cupboard. If dents are a sign of duration, I am in for the long haul. You can see them, notice them, even if you are not trying to. Some of the scars on my head are clearly defined, they look more like a mole than a hole in the top of my noggin. You can feel them, like Braille. They tell a tale of accident prone and little else.

            My paternal Grandparents’ home has a long narrow staircase leading to the second floor. I whipped around it to see what my brother was doing. The dart entered me as easy as pie, considering the distance down the flight of stairs and the momentum it was tossed at. It stuck dead into the ball of my nose. I had to tug on it hard to get it out. It left a small but noticeable mark, like a tiny little bump where the hole used to be. I fear it may someday start glowing like Rudolph’s might do. During my morphine addiction, I snapped off a syringe needle while trying to find a virgin area to shoot up. Under my right arm was just the ticket. I had to use tweezers to squeeze it out. The inch long ridge of raised flesh feels more like a bead beneath my skin than scar tissue. I run across it every time I shower. There are bits and pieces missing from me. A chunk of me here and a chunk of me there, from cats and rats and other things. I can play connect the dots with almost every part of my body. There is a fading indent on my forehead, from crashing my bike, and the square patch of my ass that stays white even in the summer sun. Skin grafts will do that, they say. In relation, there is a faint but tangible line down the middle of my back from when I hit that pipe on the way down those stairs. I have two holes in my left ear from piercings I had done in the 1980s. They have never really closed up even after 30 years not using them. Some scars we make ourselves, we are responsible. Sometimes life and other people do the deed for us. Cut and paste, so to speak. Most notable, most worthy, is the 2-inch slash on my left wrist I made during a decision to die. It was a bloody mess. It left me a touchstone, the one thing I can turn to in times of pain and struggle. It tells the whole story in 5 centimetres of flesh. It is a constant reminder, right in my face, that this too shall pass, whether you want it to or not.

            No matter how much time has passed, I continue to be accident prone. It just comes naturally for me. It can seem unending. Last year, I tripped on one of my cats while heading up the stairs to the second floor. I smashed face first into one of the landing walls. One of my canines flew out of my mouth and across the floor. The other upper canine had to be later removed because it cracked in half. If not for very expensive dentures, you could see quite clearly the worst scars of all. I sometimes feel like I belong in the movie Deliverance, plucking on my banjo while chewing on a blade of this or that. Finally, I now fit in at every Wal-Mart. I think I look like I belong in every dollar store in my area. I have great resolve in accepting my fate but ever since this incident, I have felt shame and embarrassment and a sense of surrender. I have stopped trying to consciously avoid further drama. The evitable is nothing if not inevitable. I figure, if I make it to year 70, I will be nothing but one giant pile of scar tissue. My life has been nothing if not a crash up derby. Here comes another ding, another rip, another pock. Who knows what might happen next?

            I think that most people would agree, life can often be a burden to bear. I often feel like Job but without all that righteousness. All the pain, all the agony, all the confusion collects up like rainwater would. Something always comes along to refresh the pond so we need not linger in all the puddles. We linger anyway. Throughout those lives we accumulate memories, we accumulate people and we accumulate scars. The scars we bear, they define us, they demonstrate, they mark the moment. Sometimes they are easy to hide and at others times there is nothing we can do but try to cover them up. I am not even sure that they mean something in the greater scheme of it all. I suppose that sometimes a knife is just a knife, flying glass simply that as well. As I look over myself and see all the damage that living has done to my body, I am compelled to say I am used to it. Not even the site of my blood bothers me anymore. I am used to this continuing cycle, going through life one chunk at a time. I half expect that these events will continue. They always have. They keep coming and I keep making a place for them. I collect comic books, Marvin the Martian memorabilia and, apparently, wounds.     

Photo

Paris, Ontario

Winter 2017

Screwed

            It’s important to believe in something. Having faith is a constructive process if used correctly. Whether with the Buddha or Jesus or Zarathustra, having security in something beyond yourself can be a grounding experience. This, by no means, is the end of it. It is not who or what you worship that matters, it’s that you worship that counts. Having something to believe in can make for a better life, or at least a better day. It’s not that there are any real differences from faith structure to faith structure. The foundation and basic tenets of each religion, or belief, vary only in the commentary. It all comes from the same place but we define it on our terms so that we may relate and then understand. At least, that’s how it is supposed to happen. Unfortunately, we pay all our attention to the commentary and disregard the commonalities or any “golden rule” completely. We focus all our effort on the messenger and we change the message to suit ourselves. We do not even heed the various warnings our own Savoir has to offer on the matter. We don’t love God because He first loved us, we love God for what He can offer us. We pray but it is shallow and selfish and constructed all from the ego. We think we hold God’s favour because we follow along, but we pick and choose like a dog with two bones. We want it all but we don’t want to have to do any work to get it. Most people are entitled Salvationists. They walk around thinking they are right, and therefore justified, even if their validation is completely false and misleading. It’s strange how people are so sure they have the answers but fail to demonstrate the truth through their actions rather than simply with all those words. Blah blah blah. If God is for all of us then what sense is there in focusing on the variables rather than embracing the common threads? If God is for all, then who are we to question? If God is for all, then the commentary we carry with us means nothing and is nothing.

            Jared was a good Jew. He practiced the tenets of his faith and tried his best to serve the God he believed in. He died an easier death. In less than a heartbeat he hit the floor, and never saw it coming. He was gone in an instant, the victim of a bad diet and no exercise. The 7-8 cigars a day only quickened the death. The transition seemed faster than his passing. When he met Jesus at the pearly gates, it was all for naught. It was apparent that Jared was not the only soul without redemption. The lineup heading for torment went on and on, far past the place. The end of the line was the beginning of his punishment. It mattered little that Jared spent his life following the Hebrew God. It didn’t matter his philanthropy, his charity. It didn’t matter that he followed the same set of instructions everybody else has the option of knowing. Jesus would not let him in. He did not know Jared so he sent him off to his doom. Off to hell he was sent because he didn’t serve this Messiah. Off with his head for not believing. After all, Jared had his entire life to accept the Christ as the one true God. He had heard the message, over and over, but he paid it no heed. Now came the time to pay the price. He was not alone. All that waiting for hell was much longer than he had expected. There was little discrimination in this delay. The faces of the condemned were as varied as the reasons for them being there. Every Muslim, every Buddhist, every soul not connected to literal Christianity bore the scars now, for ever and ever.

            I grew up trained to serve Jesus. From my early years in Sunday School to altar call after altar call as a teenager, the risen Christ was my Lord and my Saviour. Everything in my life was filtered through the literal interpretation claimed in the Holy Scriptures. Without Jesus I was doomed. If I did not qualify for salvation, He would send me off to the burning pit saved for Lucifer and all his dark angels. There was no other way into heaven but through Him. He stands like a celestial doorman, checking your identification to see if you are on the list. It doesn’t matter your excuses, if your name is not in the Book of Life, then you can’t get in. Only loyalty to Jesus welcomes you. There was absolutely no other way. It was ingrained in me that any other manner or pathway to redemption was irrelevant and without substance. Evil dwells in these distractions. Jesus was the door and believing in Him was the key. One had to change spiritually, a rebirth was required of each and every soul. Any other means than “The Way” was blasphemous, idolatrous, and placed any foolish disbeliever into eternal torment. I never realized the complete futility of following a guide to heaven. Every person is different, we all believe differently even if we follow the same set of standards. None of this really mattered to me, I knew I was disposable. Even though I was constantly informed that Jesus did not want me, I still stood behind Him and His teachings. This created a huge problem for me. As a homosexual, it didn’t matter what I practiced or how hard I tried to follow along, my salvation was already null and void. Just the act of being was my sentence. No matter my surrender, no matter how completely I attempted to secure His favour, the fact that I remained a sodomite, regardless of whether I wanted to be or not, determined my fate. Even wishing it away meant nothing. I was born unwanted. I grew up rejected. There was no way home for me.

            Every once in awhile, Jared would look past the misery and stare upward, searching for his very own heaven. If only He had chosen the right direction. If only he was given the choice now instead of just then. It was a dry heat. It did not suffocate him in spite of his temporal coil. He melted over and over again. Every moment of his eternity was vulgar fire and heat and flame. He never got used to it. Each time was as painful and a constant reminder of what he had failed to do in life. Every passing of every moment was a trap inside of itself. He could not escape the voices or the flashes or the guilt. In rapid motion, everything played over and over again. Like a loop, there was never a break in it. It played and it played and then it played much more. Like a never ending drone of grief and anger and torture, it went on and on and on. There was no forgiveness here. Only abandon met the many. Tossed into a storm of hopelessness, Jared screamed in grand display. Nothing could quench the fire. Therein maggots did not die in the same repose. It was unceasing, an otherland of ash and gloom and despair. There was the gnashing of teeth, in one accord, lasting forever and forever. Jared knew that he had received that which he had paid for. You get what you give. It was his own doing that brought him to this place for all time. He just never thought there was anything wrong with not worshipping Jesus. Had he known. He did know. He had heard the message, the gospel truth, like any good North American boy would. He had consciously chosen to stay in his own yard. Many found themselves in the same condition. There were even children here in this abyss. Each one screamed the same scream as the one before. It was a choir of agony, a choral arrangement, literally from hell. With little option, and no choice, Jared often joined in the singing.

            When I am alone with myself, it is like a safe harbour but sometimes I am stormed by rough seas. I am carried away with ideas, usually just before I sleep. I think about all the possibilities, all the options one has when living a spiritual life. As I float away on that cheerful note, I quickly realize such thinking simply seals my fate. I no longer believe that God needed a sacrifice to unify mankind to Him. I don’t believe in the virgin birth, nor do I believe that Jesus was God manifested in human form. I very much doubt most of the Bible and even more within the New Testament. I find myself bound to follow but in a different kind of way. As I close my eyes to dream each night, I do not see streets of gold or the risen Lord. I do not fear eternal damnation nor do I believe a place was created for all the bad little people to singe for all time. I am prepared to face my maker. I am ready to be held accountable. For me, if the Judeo-Christian Godhead is reality, then there is nothing I can do about my future position. Regardless, I was ill-fated right out the womb. My life has been for nothing and with certainty I am going to burn. It doesn’t matter that my nature is in harmony with much of Christian thinking. It doesn’t matter that I have seen the way or know how to follow it. I was conceived in sin, and raised in sin (regardless of the love of my parents) and I will die in sin, no matter any claims of mercy once made on paper.

            I still suffer at the absolute audacity of the Christian God. I also have visions of a world where we are all equal in God’s eyes and treated accordingly. As a mere mortal, I hold God to a higher standard than mere mortal. I have to question whether the flames are real. There is a part of me often afraid that I no longer have Jesus in my back pocket. He doesn’t know me anymore, I suppose. Sometimes I can feel the flickers of doom, licking at my feet. I fear I am to be consumed. So you try to imagine if God was different, if people were different, if you were different. After all these years, there are still times when Jesus makes me ashamed of my sexual orientation. I am a filthy abomination and I need to be destroyed. I’m screwed. I can turn away from my sin and lead a different life. I can fall into as much Glory as I would like to. I can be born again and again and again. It doesn’t matter. You cannot escape the reality of what you are (at least in Christian terms).

I can choose to not give in to temptation. I can lead the life of a eunuch. It’s all irrelevant. 

I am not saved by grace but rather, condemned by it.

Photo

https://www.zerohedge.com/news/2017-12-21/who-getting-screwed-hardest

Free Hand

            February is a tough month for me. There are so many days to commemorate that I get lost in the melancholy that I have known for over twenty-three years now. I get through those twenty-eight days, every time. It is not always an easy feat. The past I have known can haunt me, it tends to call out for me, bidding me to suffer some more. I give little heed to such notions. I have gone on with my life and in spite of the baggage I still carry, I do not fixate on such things. I have put them behind me and I do not like to visit them. This otherland is not a welcoming space. Sometimes they come to me without permission and I am left with little choice. Whether the day he committed suicide or the day I did, my visions at this time of year are not leftover sugarplums that want to dance in my head. These memories are hard and cold and often rather malignant. Focusing on them only makes things worse. There is nothing more freeing than a good dose of denial. All this getting over each moment, year after year, is both repugnant and redundant. I have learned a long time ago that one needs to let things go. There is nothing wrong with ignoring something and just going through the motions. Anything to just get through it. You can talk about it. You can even blog about it but find something better to think about. Life is loud so you have to learn to silence the noise.

“All that time I was searching, nowhere to run to, it started me thinking,

Wondering what I could make of my life, and who'd be waiting,

Asking all kinds of questions, to myself, but never finding the answers,

Crying at the top of my voice, and no one listening,

All this time, I still remember everything you said

There's so much you promised, how could I ever forget?”

            People tend to fixate on their problems. I don’t mean the daily motions that we all experience. Some people just cling to their own misery. They focus all their energies on what doesn’t serve them and abandon all that does. They hold to the pain like it is a cherished pet or a lost love letter now found. They can even seem to welcome the suffering. Perhaps this is a way for them to feel alive. Perhaps they have little else and find comfort in the world of “better than nothing.” Its okay to hold to whatever you want. If  you want to live in a make believe world where unicorns sing then more power to you. If you want to linger in your own doom, repeating again and again, my proverbial hat is off to you. Memories should sooth not scar. I’m not surprised by how many people I know who ruminate in them. Whether the death of a loved one or a horrible accident, each person should be given the time they need to process and deal. Every person will address the event in their own time. Many lose track of time and spend their lives being chased by ghosts and monsters. It can appear that some people get off on the pain. Its the only way they can function in the day to day. We all strive to have the familiar. We want to feel the way it used to feel, at least how we believe it did. Not every memory should be cherished. Sometimes you need to just move on. I know that is easier said than done but it is true none the less. Memories can be joyful but memories can also bring pain, great pain for many. So I try not to think about the nasty things that have happened in my life. I think I paid my dues a long time ago. I have no need to remember the  horrible landscape that made up my past. I’ll just pretend and go on living.

            Moving beyond your history does not mean that those memories disappear, never to be heard from again. If there is one thing for certain, the past doesn’t go away. It is always there, ready to release itself upon our happiness. Letting go isn’t just about not remembering, its about how you react to that stimulation. Its about the power you give to such negative things. Its about focusing on the pleasant things you have known rather than the pain and strife you have experienced. Its all about dwelling and moderating yourself. Rather than allowing something to haunt you, just ignore it and it will go away. You may have to repeat this cycle for the rest of your life but eventually it plays out easier than each time before. You have to learn to vanquish rather than embracing. Pay the bad, no heed. You don’t have to like every thought that you ever think. They can bring much damage given the right circumstances. This is one way I have managed to move past my life. I just don’t invest in my memories like other people do. I recognize the joyful, lovely things that have happened to me. I recognize the mundane, the everyday kind of inspiration. I am aware of the worst things my life has offered. I only visit these on rare occasions. I try to never outstay my welcome. I am cold to them otherwise. I try not to think about it, let alone fixate on it, even if its not for my own good. I have trained myself to go beyond my emotions, to control by “turning off,” so to speak. I no longer surrender, I moderate. I experience the memories but I dictate them, not the other way around. It is inevitable, in spite of my defensive position, that here and there I will not be able to avoid my true feelings. I just shut them off and start to vacuum. Any distraction is a key to a healthy mind set. Get up and stop rolling in the mud. Think about something else for God’s sake.

“I know you're going, but I can't believe

It's the way that you're leaving,

It's like we never knew each other at all, it may be my fault,

I gave you too many reasons, being alone, when I didn't want to

I thought you'd always be there, I almost believed you,

All this time, I still remember everything you said, oh

There's so much you promised, how could I ever forget?”

            He lived his life through the past. He hung on every memory, every moment that he had ever experienced. At least, he thought he did. Life had become unbearable, all his time spent focusing on what was instead of having what is. It was all so empty, so barren in spite of the pain it brought and the sorrow it manifested. He built his world around his escape, but he was escaping into something else. He could not find his way out of this otherland. He was trapped by what used to be and crippled by each day of existence. It all became an excuse, an excuse for not caring, an excuse for in action. Everything became secondary to his struggle, to his pain. The world went on without him. Chances came and went without a thought. Life became disposable, irrelevant. He once was not all alone. She left him when she couldn’t compete. His past was simply more important and it strangled their love for one another. He ignored it into silence and she silenced it all. She walked away without even a goodbye. Now he has more to relish. He made it so. Everything he took for granted, everything he failed to notice simply added to his misery. He had more to blame it all on.  He had fresh agony to mire him further down. Day after day he tells himself that life is unfair. He is greatly burdened by the weight of the things he once knew. His pain tells the story. He is an old man much before his time. When he reaches, the past does not reach back. It does not keep him warm at night and his days are just as empty. The past may come back to haunt you, indeed.

“You know I love you, but I just can't take this,

You know I love you, but I'm playing for keeps,

Although I need you, I'm not gonna make this,

You know I want to, but I'm in too deep.”

            Its true that if you chase away the past it will end up haunting you. It always comes back. This does not imply that we should ask it to move in and live with us. The things which have affected us throughout our lives may hold lessons. They may even have some form of importance in the greater scheme of things. The past is not meant to rule us. In fact, the past should free us. Once the past is past, you must move past it. You have to refuse it sometimes and just how you let it impact you. Make peace with your past or your past will steal your peace. Refocus, think of something better. Its like taking a pee. Sometimes you have to use your free hand.

“So listen, listen to me,

I can feel your eyes go thru me

It seems I've spent too long

Only thinking about myself

Now I want to spend my life

Just caring bout somebody else.”

(In Too Deep, Genesis 1986)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_G5UwCyr_g8

Photo

http://www.thefrisky.com/2013-07-08/new-urinal-design-tries-to-get-men-to-wash-their-hands-more-after-peeing/

https://leadingwithtrust.com/2017/07/09/10-signs-youre-suffering-from-rear-view-mirror-leadership/

The Territory

            I have always said that if one does not condemn a person’s behaviour then one condones it. There is a fine line between the two. Sometimes there is little room for either. We get to swallow it whole or puke it out. We are left with little option but to bite our tongue and ignore the obvious. It’s never easy deciding what to do. We have choices but those choices often leave us in a worse position than when we were assaulted, offended or found fault with another person’s point of view. There is little decorum left in this world. Even the people we are close to usually end up treating each other as if quite disposable. There is no excuse for such bad behaviour. It doesn’t matter if circumstance silences the truth. Sometimes we just have to distinguish between sinking to someone’s level or rising above it. We have to discern who to and not to listen to.

“Don’t take a ride from a stranger

No way to know where they go

You may be left on a long dark road

Lost and alone

Don’t you recall what your Mama told

You’ve got to learn hot from cold

When you're afraid that you might get burned

Where do you turn?”

            There is no question that I love me some comic books. To my surprise, I recently found a retailer who fit my requirements for collection. The warehouse is filled to the rafters with box after box of paper gold. I had never seen anything like it the first time I entered the split level library of joy. I am still overcome with some degree of happiness whenever I walk through the doors. My second visit was a tad less inspiring. As I stood thumbing through one of the Marvel sections, a group of four or five nerd-men gathered around the checkout and started a discussion on the best qualities of a woman’s vagina. I was not amused. The entire time I spent there that day was filled with misogynistic detail and inappropriate conversation. It was as if the owner and his minions didn’t even think about the customers they exposed to this repugnant thinking. I didn’t say a thing and spent $53.00 that day. Round three. The next visit was all about “the fags”. For over an hour, I leafed through Wonder Woman comic books (for my partner) and searched for titles from The Man Called Nova. One gay joke after another found me lacking. I still purchased $66.00 worth of my favourite things that day. It’s been going on like this for the past 2 years. Every visit just adds more, an unending diatribe of racism, bigotry and conservatism. I quite often feel like good old mister 45 is breathing down my neck. He hides among the boxes and baggies. He watches me flip through comics like I am North Korea and my missile is aimed at him. It can be distracting but it comes with the territory. It could be argued that by frequenting this establishment that I am excusing the behaviour but the truth be told, I don’t want to give up access to the library as I know it.  I can handle the xenophobia but I can’t handle restrictions on that wonderful hoard. Let them have their thinking. It can even be amusing, listening in on such conversations. I’ll take my comic books and I’ll pay the price for listening.

“You’ve got to know who to

Who not to listen to

You’ve gotta know who to

Who not to listen to

They’re gonna hit you from all sides

Better make up your mind

Who to, who not to listen to”

            I have family scattered throughout Ontario, Canada. Local towns like Strathroy, London, and St. Thomas all house immediate relatives like my siblings and their children. While my Mother’s side reaches far into Northwestern Ontario and Sioux Lookout, the concentration of her kin reside in the Central Ontario town of Hanover. My father’s family is primarily located just to the south in Wingham. I grew up playing there, bonding with my cousins there. Throughout my teens and twenties, I spent a great deal of time partying and puking in this rural slice of Canadiana. My relationship with the place and the people was long-lasting and the memories of such times hold great meaning for me. I suppose life looks after life and things change whether we want them to or not. Often, we don’t really have a choice. Eventually, spending time in Wingham became a part of yesteryear. Other things became more immediate, more important and the past suffered to one degree or another. Sometimes distance and time and obligation interfere with the way it used to be.  I always planned on dropping in again, on trying to restore some semblance of what was and making it what is. Once again, life tends to get in the way. I have a great deal of regret and remorse over my lack of involvement with my family in that little Central Ontario town. Somehow over the years, the people I was once so close to have faded away. I could use time and space as an excuse. I can justify my absence because of their mistakes. Perhaps, in the end, it is my mistakes that have dictated my lack of interest. In particular, it is my cousin Lisa I miss the most. We had a closeness all our lives but it has been shelved, dismissed, and for no real good reason. We should be more. It takes effort to fix the past. It takes motivation and exertion to resolve such issues. There is really very little that needs to be fixed. It takes commitment and work. This seems to be the explanation I have been looking for. I’m lazy, unmotivated and I have fallen into a safer place. It’s not that I have  issues with any of them (other than the Bear killers). I cannot think of one thing that really stands in the way. I can’t speak for them but I feel this rant will have little consequence. I suppose, to some degree, that just comes with the territory. There is something to be said for denial and it’s easier to hope than it is to actually do something.

“How can you learn what is true and just

How to know who to trust

Here comes a man with a scam to sell

How can you tell?

You've got to know there’s a bigger plan

Room to fall, room to stand

Pray for the plan to begin in you

Keep your heart true”

            Being Bi-Polar, unpredictability and imbalance come with the territory. Even long-term treatment has meant little difference in terms of constant control and moderation. It doesn’t matter just how treated I am, there is still a part of the disease that pops up given the right circumstance. It is all about degrees. While years of medication and therapy have granted me some influence over my emotions, impulse can often overcome instinct. I can seem quite rabid, although these moments are fleeting. It is often not about whether the pills are working but whether I can work the variables and maintain myself. It’s a constant battle, always managing my mood in case it flares or accelerates out of control. Most days there is little struggle. Everything works just the way it is supposed to. Something always comes along to interfere with my stability. Occasionally, nothing is responsible and the noise comes with no regard for anything at all. One is best served just getting out of my way. Oddly enough, I don’t usually have any problem with my depressive state. The meds apparently have seen to that. I still get sad, sometimes blue, but I have not had a depressive episode in well over a decade. The same cannot be said about my mania. It is the beast and is best served cold. It comes with little warning and tends to stay even after it’s done. I stand fighting, battling to keep it in tow. Eventually, if left unchecked, it pulls me apart, almost in two. The entire time I experience this hypomania, I am contending inside. There is a challenge in knowing what to and what not to listen to. I have had to learn to discern between what is all in my head and what is based in my being. The two do not exclusively go hand in hand. The challenge, in a manic state, is figuring out the voices from your voice. I can be my own worst enemy. It isn’t ever easy and I fail far more than I succeed. The lasting battle has always been the internal struggle, not the external manifestation. It can be laborious distinguishing between myself and myself, given the right circumstance, given the right mood. Who am I anyway? Am I that raging monster, the one who is a part of me, my natural state? Am I something better, now more instinct that impulse ever was? Am I rising above it all or sinking to my own level? This duality, apparently, is part of the package.  

“You’ve got to know who to

Who not to listen to

You’ve gotta know who to

Who not to listen to

They’re gonna hit you from all sides

Better make up your mind

Who to, who not to listen to”

            I think people get confused by the voice of God. I doubt very highly God even speaks to us. What we believe to be a Divine communication is simply an internal dialogue, manifested through the ego. We hear what we want to hear and convince ourselves accordingly. It is not that I claim there is nothing to have a dialogue with. I still believe but I don’t believe the way I used to. God has become rather intangible these days. I see in terms of vastness rather than flesh and bone. God has become so much more than mere mortal, despite any human condition that may have begged to differ. It’s tough being stuck in this earthly coil. It’s even tougher given the choices we must make. Sometimes, it is hard to know which way to go. If God is speaking to us, then surely there would be no doubt. If He spoke to anyone, there would be no doubt. I guess you have to recognize just who you are listening to. You have to discern between that which is Holy and that which only serves our own purposes. It would be unfair for God to reach out to one person and not to the rest of us. If He plays no favourites (Romans 2:11), then why is this person and that person granted access and the sum of us remain to flounder about in misery? Even if the voices are clear, how can we identify just who we are talking to or just who is talking to us? I believe that most times, we are speaking to ourselves. We project our wants and desires, expecting answers that never really come. When they don’t, we convince ourselves that they have. We make it so, even if it isn’t. With the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, we do the dance that we do. We tell ourselves we are puppets of this God or that God, all the while pulling our own strings. We create our own reality by believing everything we tell ourselves. We usually end up far worse off than when we started. Still, God never comes down. God never speaks directly to anyone. I am not sure that He ever did. I suppose that chance just comes with the territory. Only a foolish man can fool himself.

“Everyone will have their words to say

Find the word to help you find your way”

(Who To Listen To, Amy Grant 1985)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aP8LYXj5HYQ

            There is more than one of me. There is more than one of you as well. One strives for right and the other can’t see. It rules in the shadows, back to back with the light. Who knows which will be stronger today? Most people walk the fine line. All those fences simply mark the way we go. The roads we travel are paved with all the choices we have made. Each choice dissecting all of the good and shadow in me and in you and in everyone. Any goodness speaks for itself but the shadows move in secret. You have to watch for them, learn to discern them from the rest of the noise. We keep trying to get into heaven but the darkness withdraws, it pulls us away. If you want to have sunshine, you have to learn to live with the shadows. They come with the territory.

Photo

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

Seek, First

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.” (Matthew 13:44-46, NIV)

            Specifically in the Christian tradition, seeking God is supposed to be the priority. We are to pursue “heavenly things” and not the trappings of this life. Unfortunately, along the path to Holiness, we aren’t basking in the glow of our own divinity. We are pretty much on our own, regardless of whether the Bible tells us so or not. We know little of any real truth and have nothing but the religious tradition we are indoctrinated into as the proverbial shoulder to lean on. There is nothing there, I fear. At least, there is nothing there for me. If there really is a God, the entire process of “seek and you shall find” can seem anticlimactic to any one hunting for treasure. After all, “small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it” (Matthew 7:14, NIV). Salvation comes with no guarantee yet we are instructed that it is inherent in any coming kingdom, not because of its lesson but because it holds “greater value than all the world’s riches.” How apropos. In the New Testament, Jesus is purported to have taught that our focus in life should not fall upon the ways of the world. We must first seek God (“and his righteousness”) and then all the things we search for will be freely given to us (Matthew 6:33). This never happens. At least, it never happens for me.  To be clear, until we abandon all earthly things and ignore any allurement they might offer us, we cannot be saved. Submit or suffer, I suppose. We should place utmost importance on God’s favour and in so doing we must then repent and believe in the good news that the Christ has offered to mankind. I’m still waiting on the afternoon edition.

            It can seem rather futile to search for God. We are told that if one looks for Him with “all your heart and all your soul” that one can “find Him” (Deuteronomy 4:29, NIV).  It can be a difficult task hunting for something that cannot be found. At least, I can never find anything, anything worth keeping at any rate. Maybe it’s not God, maybe it’s me. Perhaps I have been blinded and perhaps I have failed to see the truth before my very eyes. I think I know my way but I find myself lost, lost and fumbling in the futility of it all. It’s like hunting for Easter eggs on Halloween or opening Christmas presents on Labour Day. For all the struggle, for the challenges it brings, I always find there is nothing, there is nothing there, it would appear. God promised to take care of those who love Him, He would provide for His own, supplying every need (Philippians 4:19). Semantics aside, if God can thusly provide, then arguably there would be no one hurting, there would be no one hungry, there would be no pain, no separation and no misery. No one would have to rest in the doom this life can bring. If God supplies our every need then we would have none. This is the only explanation that makes sense to me. For all our hollering, for the bluster we crash about in, perhaps the God we thought was there was never there to begin with. Perhaps there is something else, something that, in a sense, reveals to us the answer, or some semblance of it at any rate.  Since “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23, NIV), the playing field would be level. Any blessing a “Christian” or a “Muslim” would receive from God would be a blessing that everyone receives. If we all are all equal, if there are no favourites, then we would all share in the wealth. Not even the righteous fall under the Grace of their Lord. We all suffer and continue to do so. We all hunger, we know misery. We are all truly alone. It is just not true that those who diligently seek God will find God (Proverbs 8:17).  

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7-8, NIV)

            It can be taken personally when you ask God for assistance and don’t receive it. You can wait and wait but it’s all for nothing, All the promises made in scripture really don’t meet the expectations we have regarding Divine intervention. I don’t believe that there is intervention, at least not in the conventional sense. God no more hands out blessings than he does hardship. Life is life and along the way we thrive and then we suffer. By asking God for assistance or favour or more blessings, we are simply clinging to what, apparently, never can be. Our struggle is ours alone and God dropping in to help us along seems to defeat the purpose of all our trials and tribulations. How can one learn from struggle if every time we fumble, the Lord makes it all better? It just doesn’t work that way, at least it doesn’t work that way for me. In all my years, God has never once directly answered a prayer or followed through on a promise made. I thought He did but I was mistaken. Yes, the mere idea of God can bring peace and contentment to a weary soul but that is simply you manifesting, not the Holy. We really do create what we need when it comes right down to it, whether Jesus lived that way or not. We want to find God’s favour. We want to feel special, enchanted and we particularly want to fall under God’s protection. Why worry when God will look after it? Why try to be better when we can let God take up the slack? The rub is, once we believe that God has elected us, we have little responsibility. It is now God’s will, not ours. Freedom will become an illusion. If God interferes with a person’s journey then it isn’t really a journey. It is more an amusement park ride we get off of in around 5 minutes time. If God steps in, if He intervenes in our affairs, what does that say about God? Most certainly, the world is full of starving, broken and damaged people but God, of course, helps the frustrated white housewife looking to lose weight instead. Rather than assisting the weak and the battered, Blake Shelton gets another Grammy, by the Grace of God. If you look, you can find this deity, he is the father who loves some children more than the others. If you look, you can find him ignoring everyone but the chosen few. If God works this way, if only the elect matter, then the rest of us are lost.

            I believe in God as much as I ever have. It is my definition of Him that has changed over the years. I have spent countless time looking, seeking for even a morsel of sustenance. I mostly got nothing. There have been moments throughout my life I felt a presence, when I thought God was near. While those experiences seemed real to me at the time, I am no longer sure exactly what they were. For all the bells and whistles, I never received anything that I could not have manifested myself. God is not a feeling, even if we tell ourselves He is. I have fully surrendered. I have reached and wrestled and earnestly sought to not only understand but have the rewards I was taught would be mine should I relinquish my will to God’s will. Maybe I am doing something wrong? I keep looking, striving to find it but I rarely do. It has taken me a great deal of time to let go of the God that I knew growing up. I had to dump it into the ether. It became clear to me that “sometimes surrender means giving up trying to understand and becoming comfortable with not knowing” (Tolle). I have had to abandon my upbringing, cancel the course. I have had to re-examine everything I was taught about the Christian God. While seeking Jesus got me nowhere, the disconnection garnered me everything. When you pray and beg for mercy and it never comes, you eventually turn to a position that explains that away. If there is nothing then there is no reason, it’s not personal, it is just the way God really works. One day I woke up and I realized, I came to see that we are not to know, we cannot see. All the searching in the world accomplishes nothing if the truth just isn’t there. There is no Otherland in these terms. I consider myself a man of god, despite what my worst critics would claim. I have much faith that I am right in my thinking. I stand firm. It is not that we cannot seek better things and hope for a better life. There is nothing wrong with gaining knowledge or strengthening your mortal resolve. I don’t believe God has anything to do with it. He just isn’t involved, not because He isn’t there, or doesn’t care, but because He can’t be.

“The Lord is with you when you are with him. If you seek him, he will be found by you, but if you forsake him, he will forsake you.” (2 Chronicles 15:2, NIV)

            It would be easy for me to give in and fall in line. I have enough faith to serve the cause. The problem is that I no longer believe that any Christian cause I may follow holds any more real truths than any other religion, cult or belief structure. God is not exclusive to “the Way.” I could fake it. I could artificially earn my salvation, appearing saved to others while lost within myself. I just can’t do it. I just can’t say that I am okay with the representation of God claimed through the Judeo-Christian scriptures. It’s not okay for God to be more human than Holy, more punisher than Prince. It’s not okay. I would have to once again trust that any entity watching over me has my best interests in mind. Such a deity that would be willing to disrupt reality with magical answers to prayers, prayers, that for the most part are self-serving. In fact, the Church and the Bible have been so misguided when telling us just where we came from that I find it impossible to listen when they tell me where I am going. It is a narrow path indeed. I seek but cannot find. I knock but no doors open. I have found it and its like there is nothing there. 

“God warned the people of an earthquake that would swallow up the waters of the land. The water that replaced them would make everyone insane. Only the prophet took God seriously. He saved up a supply of water in his mountain cave to last him till he died. Sure enough, the earthquake came, the water vanished and new water tilled the streams and lakes and rivers. A few months later the prophet came down to the plains. Everyone had indeed gone mad, and attacked him, for they thought it was he who was insane. So the prophet went back to his mountain cave, glad for the water he had saved. But he could not bear his loneliness so he went down to the plains once more. Again he was rejected by the people for he was so unlike them. The prophet then succumbed. He threw away the water he had saved, drank the new water with the people and became one with them in their insanity. The way to Truth is narrow. You always walk alone.”

(The Narrow Path - Song of the Bird, Anthony De Mello 1982)

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Photo

https://www.shutterstock.com/video/clip-14463112-stock-footage-boston-ma-feb-studying-holy-bible-with-magnifying-glass-on-february-the-holy-bible.html?src=rel/3668972:9

Sources

https://www.gotquestions.org/seek-first-kingdom-God.html

https://lifehopeandtruth.com/prophecy/kingdom-of-god/seek-ye-first-the-kingdom-of-god/

http://www.tellthelordthankyou.com/blog/2017/8/31/matthew-633-god-first

http://www.arvindguptatoys.com/arvindgupta/songofbird.pdf

Inventory

            When I was a young man, running away from life was my forte. Over a ten year period, I visited almost every major city on both the continental US and in Canada. At the slightest sign of trouble, I packed a bag and roamed. It became a habit of sorts. When life got me down, or backfired against me, I fired back with escapism and abandon. One could argue that I was driven to this reoccurring state. Due to my untreated chemical imbalance, I never really needed any help throwing it all away. Chicago, New York, Los Angeles may have been my destination but it was the journey that determined my sense of self. Without fail, as soon as I reached over the rainbow, something in me cracked, resulting in guilt, and contrition, and a Greyhound bus ride back from whence I came. I repeated this cycle over and over again, weekend after weekend, year after year. Granted, I have a flood of memories that many people will never get the chance to know for themselves. I was able to travel without limit and discover for myself the world outside my reality. In my mind, they were all a trip to bountiful. As destructive as the behaviour was at the time, in hindsight each flight was so much more. If I had been well-treated, if someone had bothered, I would not hold memories of the purple beaches at Big Sur, or scuba diving just outside Corpus Christi, or watching the Twin Towers fade in the distance on a warm July evening. Regardless of the pleasure, whenever I returned to my place in life, a greater struggle always waited for me. It’s true, you can run but you cannot hide. Life will simply wait until you’re sleeping and ghosts will always come back to haunt you. There is no refuge, no calm in the storm. The deep down, broken, choking, suffocating misery that life will hand you is not easily dismissed.

           

“I’ve been bound to leave you, we’ve known that for awhile

I’m sure it’s something I can’t do if I can’t leave you with a smile

I don't know how far I’ll have to go ‘til I'm sure those eyes won’t cry

And in my mind I’ve left enough to know that I can’t leave you

With a bad goodbye”

(Bad Goodbye, Clint Black w/ Wynonna 1993)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLA8sUvCLeU

            The hardest thing I have ever had to do was move past the suicide of my first partner. After six years together, I did not see it coming. I was instantly thrown into a world in which I did not belong. Day after day, I kept thinking this couldn’t be real. Somehow, I concluded, I had been tossed into some otherland from which I could not escape. My grief was intense and long-suffering. My entire life had to be placed on hold while I spent a year bawling my eyes out. I then believed I was getting exactly what I deserved. It goes without saying that the first few months were the worst. It wasn’t until a pre-existing condition forced me on pain management that the world shifted into a new direction. For four months in the summer of 1995, I sat in my parents’ basement and I gave in. The Morphine was just the ticket. Once engaged, I felt nothing but the nagging urge to shoot up some more. Between the injections and the oral prescription, I didn’t have to really do anything but fucking float. I lingered in this ether, visiting this prescribed otherland any chance I could. It was heaven floating, even if I was in hell. Once the scripts ran out and the doctors caught on, I was left to withdraw, cold turkey. In a week I was walking like Frankenstein, rigid and sore and throbbing. I have rarely known such pain. The discomfort was even greater. It was like every spot where I had injected turned to stone underneath my skin. Moving was agony. I thought it was all better than my other options. When I came out of the daze, I was standing in exactly the same place I had gathered before. Nothing had changed and I was left with the same sadness, the same misery I held all those months behind me. There was no escape. It would be weeks before I finally stopped this new bought of crying. I remember the last time I wept so. I felt like a wolf howling in the furnace room. I have never broken down that like again.

“I’ve gotta keep on paying the rent

And I’ve gotta keep on making the bed

And I’ve gotta keep on walking around acting normal

And I’ve gotta keep on saying a prayer

And I’ve gotta keep on giving a care

And I’ve gotta keep on breathing

And I don't think I will

If there’s ever no more me and you”

(No More Me and You, Amanda Wilkinson 2005)

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

            I am sorry but I cannot stand people who whine and complain about how hard life has been for them. Life has been difficult for me too but I don’t cry and pout because it was unfair. Everyone at some point shares their story. It’s important that we use our past to teach ourselves and others the lessons our experience presents. You don’t need to snivel, you don’t need to sob like an infant to put your point across. I have always assumed that it is a sign of weakness or emotional immaturity that causes people to break apart like a bad puzzle would. Sometimes people just can’t hold it together. I have been in this place and managed to falter in private. Initially, I fell to pieces anywhere the feelings met me. The identification of the body cut me to the core and the funeral did little to quell the chaos. Somewhere in those first few days of my nightmare, I managed to harden like cement. I felt it all inside but I refused to allow anyone to see any trace of the emotional baggage I was carrying. Over twenty years later and I am still made of stone. I have become an unfeeling rock, a monument to control and self-discipline. When someone whines or destabilizes in a public forum, I cringe. I’m not saying that people who express themselves in extreme manners or belittle themselves with public displays of rejection are lesser people than me. I’m not even saying that I view them as I would a crying toddler, hell-bent on screaming until it gets what it wants. Perhaps I am the weakling. Perhaps expressing one’s pain is far better, a testament to a different kind of strength. I really had no choice in the matter. If I had not turned myself off, I would have self-destructed. The madness left me barren but intact. In private, I was a basket case. In public, the iceman cometh. It has become my natural state of being. I am a self-taught  roadblock that appears to feel nothing at all. It all lies just beneath the surface. I would argue that I experience far more now, in my walled up state, than I ever did in the land of the feeling. I just shut it up in a much more pretty manner than the whiners do. 

“And even though our love is doomed

And even though we’re all messed up

You're the only thing worth fighting for

You're the only thing worth dying for

Even though our love is doomed”

(Even Though Our Love is Doomed, Garbage 2016)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lpcdAR9ij0

            Sometimes, it is a better idea to walk away then stand and face the music. I am not cynical about music but I digress. Sometimes, we don’t have a choice, there is no other option than to tuck our tail and run as fast as we can to safety. It’s never easy, letting go. Moving on with one’s life can be, at times, a greater struggle than remaining to fight another day. It can be quite difficult, the process I mean. There is not one goodbye I have no regrets about. There is no way I would be the man I am without some sense of futility and wasted time. Each life touches another and we are changed in increments. For the few months directly after the funeral, long before my arms became an injection site, I struggled to maintain any semblance of the life I knew at the time. I suppose, in a direct way, it was my own fault for expecting anything more of people. As I battled my grief, one by one the friendships I had maintained for years began to drop off like flies. It was like the burial had sealed my doom as well. Almost every single person I had a relationship with suddenly decided that enough was enough. Not one had the courage to say goodbye. Yes, I had lied to them for years regarding my sexual orientation. Yes, I came out to them all in a fury, rushed by circumstance and the longing for recognition. While I understand their reservations, their withdrawal only added to the chaos. It was as if they did little to consider me. Perhaps it was the death of my partner or my suicide attempt a week later. Perhaps it was the complexities of the situation, in a sense each one abandoned what they viewed as a sinking ship. Some just pulled off the band-aid, some rubbed salt into the wounds. As the morphine became a thing of the past, I recognized they had all used the opportunity to vamoose. It was at this point that I decided the best thing to do. I gave up on every single one of them. I could have chased them all down and tried to force myself back but I realized anything resembling what once was would now be artificial. Over the last 23 years, I have had little to do with anyone from that time in my life. It just wasn’t worth it. I’ve seen glimpses of some throughout that time. The bleakness of each failure only serves to remind me that I made it through with little to no help from even one them. I have come to the conclusion that I saved myself a lot of time and energy. Not one of them was deserving.

“If I’m not over you by the time I get to Georgia

I’ll be Alabama bound

There was a time when I’d do anything for ya

But this time baby, I won’t turn around”

(Georgia, Carolyn Dawn Johnson 2000)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=El1M3dJDFv0

            If there is one thing I have learned over all my years of paying attention, it is not to fear my mistakes. The truth is, there really are no mistakes, just platforms for understanding and learning and survival. Treasure lies within our scars. There are no bad goodbyes. Everything we know in life contributes to our inventory. It is what you take from each experience that will determine whether you simply survive or whether you flourish. You may need to learn to make lemonade. You may need to learn when enough is enough. Sometimes we don’t need to walk away, we need to run away. More often than not, we don’t even need that final goodbye to know things are over. Years later, you might just get to see that those things which once governed you were nothing but a waste, useless moments that in the end meant nothing at all. Every February 12^th, I stand looking at the headstone, remembering our time together. He has been gone for decades but I still have yet to really say goodbye. I’m not sure that I ever will, if the truth be told. I am never really alone there. I always flash back to the funeral service, to the coffin and to the dozens of people who stood with me in the final goodbye. Ashes to ashes and all that jazz. I believed them all when they made their promises. Their tears more performance art than any real sorrow. Only a handful of those mourners remain in my life and my life is completely different these days. I do not look the same and I do not feel the same. I fear my late friend would not even know me if our paths cross again someday. If there is something to learn from all this pain and sadness, I can, we can, survive anything if given half the chance. I don’t run away anymore, looking for a place to hide. I don’t escape anymore, there are no pinpricks in my life (speaking literally of course). I am set in stone, walled in for real. I live in a state of mind rather than a state of impulse. I do not escape as a knee-jerk reaction. I have come to realize that all those missing people are a blessing rather than some curse. I never really had to run away to realize not one of them held any value except in their absence.

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