Stage Left

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything - all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important.” (Steve Jobs, American businessman)

            I never wanted to be one of those people who regrets not seizing the day, not making the most of each moment. In my youth, I did just that. I never took the time to appreciate my time and I rarely stopped to smell the roses. Time, it seems, can change a man. Circumstance and experience can shape a man. These days, Carpe Diem is my forte. It is part of my mission statement. I care about wasting my life, even if only in increments, for a minute or two or ten or two hundred. It has become important to me that I seize the day like they say. It has become important for me to be kind and leave a positive impression when I meet someone. I must be kind, regardless of any reason that person has given me not to be. This position may come and go depending on the actions of the object of my rejection. I strive to be so, then be so some more. I want to be remembered as tolerant and generous and someone who loved loudly. I wish to be thought of as laughing. I strive to stay on this path. It can be easy to float away on all the negative bullshit that this world has to offer. I have, so far, stayed the course. It has been challenging and, quite often, it has been a struggle. In the most sincere manner, I try to love others as I would myself. I try not to judge, since we are all living a horror of our own. More than anything else, I am diligent in remembering that I am not dead, regardless of the realization that I really should be.

“Killing oneself is, anyway, a misnomer. We don't kill ourselves. We are simply defeated by the long, hard struggle to stay alive. When somebody dies after a long illness, people are apt to say, with a note of approval, ‘He fought so hard.’ And they are inclined to think, about a suicide, that no fight was involved, that somebody simply gave up. This is quite wrong.” (Sally Brampton, English journalist)

            As I hit the edge of Stratford, I downed them all like they were candy. One hundred little blue pills, one thousand milligrams of Valium, rushed into my system. I barely made it to the cemetery. When I finally managed to get inside the gates, I was overcome and headed right into the centre of a roundabout. I deserted my car, leaving the engine running and the driver’s door open. I crisscrossed the grounds, effectively facing the icy February cold. I made it to him, or at least so they tell me. Apparently, I tossed myself onto the grave and faded into the bitter night. There was no overcoat to comfort me. There were no gloves, no hat, no scarf, there was nothing to deter the frigidness of my surroundings. I did everything I thought I could do to leave this world that night. Both science and religion have agreed, I should not be here. Well, here I am. You could say I was given a second chance. You could say I was rescued, set free. All I know is that things changed for me after this incident. Although I still faced tremendous grief and pain, I began to notice individual moments instead of general occurrences. Each day was a gift and I refused to waste it. It was like a flashlight had been loosed in my darker place. This is why not wasting my time is so important to me. If this has been a second chance, I don’t want to misuse it. Sometimes I tend to forget my direction. Outside forces tend to distract our true purpose. Every time I want to give up and every time I abandon all hope, I remember I am not dead, yet.

“You’re going to die. You’re going to be dead. It could be 20 years, it could be tomorrow, anytime. So am I. I mean, we’re just going to be gone. The world’s going to go on without us. All right now. You do your job in the face of that, and how seriously you take yourself you decide for yourself.” (Bob Dylan, American musician)

            Death will change a man. To wake up to life, when I had departed by darkness, was a strange experience for me. To say the event was surreal is an understatement. One moment I was in my car turning into the cemetery and heading towards him. The next thing I knew, half a week had passed and I stood captured by an institution that was bound and determined to convince me to live. My stay in hospital really did me no good. When I left it behind, I still felt the same way about living. I didn’t want to. It was my brush with death that quelled my hand. Even though every part of me wanted to go, the idea of abandoning my second chance held me sure and managed to get me through. Occasionally, I have felt like a cat. I do not mean to imply I am a pussy, just graced with nine lives. It can feel like that sometimes. In my twenties, the good Bipolar that I am took it upon himself to exit stage left at any time he chose to. I have more than just scars to prove it. I could take it personally. In my time, there have been over a dozen suicide attempts so I am left feeling unwanted, in a sense. Perhaps I don’t deserve to die. God doesn’t want me and neither does Jesus.

“When you arise in the morning think of what a privilege it is to be alive,

to think, to enjoy, to love ... ” (Marcus Aurelius, Roman emperor)

            A month had passed since our suicides. My grief was unending, at least it seemed like it at the time. I barely functioned and obsessed with the idea of removing myself from the planet. It was hard enough getting through one day without having to think about holding the moment, seizing that day, or even thinking about tomorrow. For weeks, grief caused me to suffer but it was by my own hand. Those moments were dark, foreboding and destructive. I did not wish to move past it, it was all I had left. The last time I thought about taking my life was on Sunday, March 19^th, 1995. I had hidden a bottle of tequila near the flour mill where he had jumped just a few weeks before. I sat staring at the tower, wishing I had the balls to climb it myself. This is why I held that bottle, that is what I had come here for. Perhaps the drink would force me to the top. I just couldn’t do it. Despite any inebriation, I walked away from that fate. As I sat there, I closed my eyes and felt the sun all around me. A breeze washed over me and calmed my soul. For a moment I was one with the world rather than wanting to be off it. It hit me and it hit me hard. I had already gone on with my life. I had already survived. Killing myself at that point would have been anticlimactic. Sitting feeling alive made me want to be. I have never entertained the self-harm option since that day. Sometimes I feel like everyone else. Sometimes I want to run and dying seems the ultimate refuge. I don’t ever really mean it. Over twenty years later and I am still not dead.

“The future depends on what you do today.” (Mahatma Gandhi, Indian activist)

            I can only imagine the toll smoking will eventually have on my health. Even though I have stopped, it has already done much damage. My teeth have suffered, my lungs have suffered and my pocketbook has suffered. The pain started in the most inconvenient manner. Any time I exercised, or even walked too far, I would seize up. I felt like I had been torn in two via my rib cage. I even entertained the idea that some Alien baby might just pop out of me at any time. The angina was fierce. When they took the Angiogram, I wasn’t surprised to learn I had a blockage in my heart. I asked if they could tell what had caused it and I was informed I might just as well have shoved a few cigarettes right into my arteries. Thirty years of sucking on death did nothing but make my life worse. It was a little scary at first but over time the proper medications made it seem like there was nothing wrong at all. I have always been lucky with my choice of doctors. The care I have received has been outstanding and, literally, saved my life. When I froze in the cemetery, they brought me back. When I lost my mind, they made me found again. My cardiologist is no exception. After that initial appointment, I came to the crossroad. I sat in my car and the first thing I reached for was a cigarette. Someone might as well have punched me in the face. This was slow suicide. A few years have passed and I am healthy as a horse. There is no issue outside picking up my prescriptions. I am still alive and I am still moving forward with life. After all these years, after all the complications, after all the drain, I am still not dead.

“Beginning today, treat everyone you meet as if they were going to be dead by midnight. Extend to them all the care, kindness and understanding you can muster, and do it with no thought of any reward.” (Og Mandino, American author)

            Recently, a family member claimed to  have taken an entire bottle of pills with the hope of leaving this world. Fortunately, it takes more than a few aspirin to off yourself. Youth is wasted on the young. The attempt got me to thinking. The very idea of dying is so alien to me now. Every day is another reason to keep going. I’ll take each one of those days, thank you very much. Most certainly, I am still not dead nor do I wish to be. I prefer to just stay away from that kind of otherland. I am even looking forward to the aging process. While I do not fear death, I respect it so much more than I ever did in the past. Dying, in a sense, has become part of the process rather than an obstacle, or something to avoid and not think about. It has no power over me. I have become a patient man. I can wait for it, even if I want nothing to do with it. Living has become my focus. Every moment is so appreciated that I forget to try and I just do. It has become my natural state. Like everyone else, I still experience heartache and I still suffer at the hands of fate. I am constantly reminded of where I have come from and where I am going. I may not be dead but one day I will be. I can count on that.

“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  essayist)

Photo

http://www.iwasbornveryyoung.com/2012/03/i-told-you-i-was-sick.html

What if?

            There are lots of things people wish they could do over. What if we could? What if we could make things different, as if we had some great power to warp reality? What if we could manifest how we want things to be rather than the way they are? Our lives are filled with the most disturbing events. There is a life of guilt and agony and misery that haunts us even when we are okay. I am sure we all would change things, to one degree or another. Life is set in stone. We don’t get to change the course we have followed but we would if we could. Given half the chance, I believe we would all start over without a doubt or regret. Every one of us dreams about being given the opportunity to right our wrongs, to fix the past and all the mistakes that go with it. This is why we turn to religion and all its promises. What then? Will our “new life” be any better than the one we abandoned? You need to be careful what you wish for. There is no guarantee that your new world won’t be more chaotic, more savage than the one you left behind. You should never assume what tomorrow may bring. Still, in my mind I play this game, of sorts. I entertain the different worlds I would wholeheartedly go to if allowed. You might think hopscotching through the past would cleanse us but we are bound to our lessons whether we change our circumstances or not. No matter how you run, you cannot hide. The things you are supposed to learn will follow you wherever you go. Until you embrace them, you are bound to repeat them, no matter where you might wander off to. For me, that is the meaning of life: to learn. I am bound to ascertain, whether I want to or not. Asking yourself “what if?” might show you a different space but you’ll end up in exactly the same place (if you fail to pay attention). You keep what you sow. In the end, what occurs in Otherland, stays in Otherland.

            Two days before my mother died of a massive heart attack, I ventured home for a visit. I had been at a medical appointment in the neighbouring city so it was nothing but a skip and a jump to get to my folks’ place. I almost didn’t go. Things were not good when I got there. My Mom’s depression, resulting from her physical health, had been a roaring beast for many years. She was often overwhelmed by her own misery. She had been here before and so had the rest of us. This day, my mother was despondent and asked me to move home. There was no real rhythm or reason to her request but I believe she thought it would help things for her. I think she felt isolated by mere circumstances and just wanted an ally in her own mind. I told her no. I have always felt guilty about that decision. Maybe if I had said yes, she would have lasted longer than she did. I have to wonder “what if?” As I left her standing at the front door, she waved goodbye, a final image in my mind. This was literal.

            When I got to the house, things were rather anxious. My Mom was pensive, sorrowful and appeared like a deeply wounded creature. You could feel the sadness  flowing from her in the most disturbing way. I think she knew. She seemed defeated. When she asked me to move home, when she begged me to, at first I wanted to say no. Instead, we came to an arrangement that I would come home for a few weeks to help her out but I would not move back as a permanent solution. She waved goodbye just the same as she always did. Although my partner was not pleased with this arrangement, it mattered little in the short term. Two days later, she sat up in bed and dropped to the floor, as dead as you can be. It didn’t matter that her course had shifted. Fate will not be fucked with. You might wish things could be different but it matters little in the greater scheme of things. What will be will be, even if you twist it into something else altogether.

There is nothing to venture, we can only manipulate, not change our course.

            Every day of my life I think of him. He died in the most nasty way I could imagine, at least at the time. He walked out the door into the harsh winter night and he landed face up. I remember the last interactions I had with him like they are a familiar song. They play over and over again. The night before I deserted him, I could see him sitting on the couch down the hall. As I lay in bed, he must have been planning to be dead. Just before I headed to Toronto, early the next morning, I said goodbye to his sleeping form. We would have to wait for a different weekend. Work had to be put first. The last time I saw him, he seemed as lifeless as he did in just a few days. He was cold in a very ironic sense. Soon would be a last mortal sleep, this is for certain. I spent the day dreaming of home. On that Saturday evening, I was even tempted to say fuck it and head home instead. I decided not to make the proverbial turn. What if I had decided to just go? If I had not cared about the requirements of my job, I often wonder if he might still be alive. I still have so much guilt over having left him alone that it tends to haunt me. My sleep is often not so sweet.

            I decided just not to go. He seemed so distant the night before. He was so sad and appeared quite defeated. I could not just abandon him. Work didn’t matter, he did. I called in with one excuse after another and then crawled back into bed with him. The weekend was pretty much the same as the one before. I wasn’t sure why his world seemed to be falling apart but, for a brief moment, having stayed with him seemed to carry him through. I could not have been more wrong. Apparently, it was inevitable. Two weeks later and I headed to Toronto to make some more money. I did what I was required to do and then headed home. I always went back to the place I had come from. He was not there when I made it to our abode. I searched and searched to no avail. The middle of the night found me wanting. The knock on the door found his doom. The icy river on the other side of town left him barely floating. The bridge was high enough to do some damage and the subzero temperature of the watercourse finished him off. I am sure that he jumped thinking Clarence might just show up but he did not. I don’t think it would have mattered. You can’t be a little bit dead.

            It only lasted for about a year but the toll it took has been long lasting. With very little time having passed since Doug’s death, I went with Andrew because I was lonely. I could have done better but I settled out of desperation. This would end up being a costly mistake. I tried, month after month, to carry on and start a new life with him. I was just fooling myself. Eventually, the fighting and the screaming made it impossible for us to be even friends, let alone live together. A little later, I abandoned the entire thing altogether. I thought, as an adult, I would have the opportunity to gather my belongings and move on without him. I should have known that a nasty, chaotic relationship usually means a nasty and chaotic parting. It got so bad that I was left no choice but to scare him into leaving. I told him I had looked through his front window but I only put the chair there to freak him out. It worked. Unfortunately, I never saw any of my belongings ever again. In his basement sat 14 boxes of comic books. My entire collection, every comic I had ever collected, sat victim to the ways of a crazy man. I never saw a single issue again, not those originals at any rate. When my lawyer inquired as to the status of my belongings, Andrew lied and told the authorities I had already taken all my property. I was left quite empty. I swore I would never purchase a comic book again. I also swore that I would never again date a chubby, balding, little dicked motherfucker. I was so angry and so humiliated that for years I could not even look at a comic let alone start building a new collection. It was almost as if I was not meant to have them.

            It was over and I knew it. I’m pretty sure he knew it too. There was little left between us but that final goodbye. I waited for him to leave but he refused to. Over and over again, I had to deal with his insanity while trying to rescue my own. I came up with a stupid idea. I figured if he was scared of me, he would finally lay this torture to rest. I went to move the white plastic chair under the window to make it look like I was stalking him. Something told me not to. Something moved me and I realized there would be consequences to this action. I changed my mind. Instead, I walked to the front door and knocked. I removed my comics to the safety of my car and I drove away. I never saw him again and for over 20 years, he has stayed away. All that mattered was that I secured my collection. It was time to move on. I met Ben during the fiasco. Eventually, we moved in together. It was love that first night, I suppose. Still, I was hesitant to bring all my property into the new living space, especially my comic books. I left them in my parents’ basement, stacked on each other like in that Jenga game. Fear settled quickly and I started a new life, a new direction and many new additions. I kept collecting immediately after Andrew’s departure. They were stored in a safe place, or so I believed. My family got out safely but the fire consumed the entire structure. They called me and I arrived just in time to watch the last embers float away into nothing. We were all devastated. Insurance would help them recover but my comic books had not been covered by the current policy. I was fucked just like that $50,000 worth of ink and paper. It seemed, in the clearest manner, I was not supposed to have them.

            It has occurred to me that I may have been wrong about fate, kismet and serendipity. I’m not sure but I may have been incorrect discounting them. I still don’t believe that events are set at God’s “will,” but I am convinced the lessons we are supposed to learn are not so ethereal. Life gives us everything we need. We choose to reach for more than this mortal existence. We choose how we think and how we feel. Yes, circumstance will often direct your position but in the end, you only end up learning the lessons laid out before you. You really do get what you pay for. You are what you eat. You cannot change anything unless you learn that lesson. You cannot move forward  if you keep repeating the past. There are no “what ifs” in reality. You can journey to an Otherland all you want, you can escape every day if need be. It doesn’t matter, not really. The lesson stays the same even if there is a different ending.

Photos

http://whatifandthen.tumblr.com/

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/356628864231596791/

http://www.fumcoly.org/what-if/

https://www.toolshero.com/decision-making/what-if-analysis/

https://www.caregiverwarrior.com/stop-asking-what-if/

Joyful Noise

“For there is one God, and one mediator between God and mankind,

the man Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 2:5, NIV)

            The other day, I found myself explaining my theology to this Christian chap. It was a polite yet conflicting dialogue which initially occurred between us. Despite the pleasantries, he did what many followers of Jesus tend to do, assuming their path is the correct one and the rest of us are lost to the devil or whatever entity they create that day. We discussed the character of God and the anthropomorphic tendencies mankind has little trouble placing upon It. We both agreed to the possibility of there being a single deity. At one point, it seemed obvious to him that I worshipped the “one true God.” I clarified that this was not the Hebrew God or the Christian God but rather the Unknown God, something more akin to agnosticism than some organized religious movement. He chastised me while maintaining his polite manner. Putting a rose on a pile of turd doesn’t make it smell sweeter. Eventually, the conversation jumped from civil to judgmental. Apparently, his way was the only way, although people who believe their way is the only way still finish at a dead end, just like the rest of us. He tossed scripture after scripture at me, accosting me in a much less civil manner. I knew the requirements of salvation from his point of view and he reminded me that my soul was in jeopardy. When I told him I left Christianity years ago because of views like his, he hammered at me with condemnation after condemnation. It was as if Jesus had tossed me to the curb or under the proverbial bus. I felt a little assaulted and insulted when He claimed any other way than through the Christ was a road to oblivion, not salvation. He did not understand why anyone would turn away from such promise. He didn’t understand why anyone would stop believing. I told him, just before the end, that it wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God, I just don’t believe in his God.

“In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, we command you, brothers and sisters, to keep away from every believer who is idle and disruptive and does not live according to the teaching you received from us.” (2 Thessalonians 3:6, NIV)

            When I attended the Pentecostal Church of Strathroy throughout the early 1980s, I learned rather quickly to shut the hell up or, ironically so, face the consequence. No matter what any scripture might claim, accordingly, I really couldn’t express an opinion and to say the least, I shouldn’t have one. As a disciple of Christ, I was made to follow. It was not my place to question, hell, even thinking for yourself was frowned upon. Unfortunately, for them not me, I have never just laid down and done what people tell me to do. I am outspoken, which could go either way. My power can serve the good but it might as easily serve something wicked. It’s up to you, really. It’s all in the presentation. Don’t tell me what to believe, show me what to believe. Support your evidence, even if you don’t have any. Don’t just expect me to lay there and let you fuck me over. I am not a Stepford Wife, I am not your good little boy, and I never will be. I tried really hard to be an exemplary Christian while I attended the fundamentalist Church. I wanted so badly to fit in and be accepted, not by them, but by Jesus. I believed the lies they told me about Electivism and God’s Favour. I wanted the Spirit, I wanted it all but I just couldn’t keep my comments to myself. If something made no sense, I tried to objectively observe and then make my stance. Even as a little boy I often played journalist, in the most condescending way. Little has changed for me since back then. I have never just accepted what they say. I need proof of the claims made in the name of God or Jesus or even Zeus. When the minister sat down for Bible class, I should have known we were in for a rocky ride. His claims regarding the exclusive nature of salvation I had heard many times before. The formula could be found in those pages. When asked for an opinion, I pointed out the sheer number of people who would be cast into hell if this way of thinking is true. I did not understand why the wants of a few outweigh the needs of many. Why would God hold one person above another when in fact we are all equal in His eyes? We all bleed the same and you would think an omniscient creator would know that. I guess I forgot to mind my place in light of this pseudo-theology. The words had barely come out of my mouth when I was reminded that I was in Bible study, not Philosophy 101. He may not have told me to shut up but he might as well have. All I remember, at this point, is the confusion and angst brought on by the situation. So I just sat there, alienated and muted.

“Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer. I tell you, the devil will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution for ten days. Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you life as your victor’s crown.”

(Revelation 2:10, NIV)

            For several years, she followed me around like a panting dog in need of a drink. She was my friend but otherwise I was just not into her. The fact she had a vagina made things a lot more complicated than they needed to be. You could tell she liked me, she even told me that she did. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in her but my penis was not. I didn’t tell her the truth until after my first partner died. For weeks, I would talk to her on the phone for hours, every other day or so. She helped, until our conversations started to focus on our personal theologies. While I maintained my unbalanced view of that time, she made it clear that salvation was only for a few and the reward for a Godly life was a crown covered with jewels and gold. Each failure in this life meant a jewel would be removed from the diadem. The Elect can never lose their salvation, their crown might well be barren but it is a crown just the same. When I asked her for a scriptural reference, she tossed it out like an old friend. I have always found it amusing how religious people most certainly know their words but rarely meet them with action. I was not comfortable with the notion of physical reward in heaven. Heaven had always meant something ethereal to me. Even as a boy, I recognized that paradise was untouchable. My Mom used to say, “You pick your heaven while you are still here on earth.” Eventually, I came to understand that our ideas of heaven are simply anthropomorphic. It’s really the best we can do. The very idea that we are rewarded by God, in trade, struck me as absurd. I actually laughed to myself at the thought of it. Some people don’t like to be motivated into thinking. Safe archetypes and high myth bring safety and security to billions of people every day. We are led by our ideas rather than our ideals. We worry about our just reward of one day and forget to live this day. I suppose I should have expected no less. She told me the second she realized I was a heathen. I refused to allow her to talk to me that way and attacked accordingly. I pointed out that I don’t recall seeing any crown on her when she offered me her pussy just the year before. She was then gone and all that friendship nothing more than wasted time. It was all irrelevant anyway. Her salvation was secured so she could do anything she wanted or say anything that came to her convoluted mind. It has been a quarter century since I last heard her voice and her school of thought. I have read about it, this doctrine of crowns and jewels. People actually live their lives believing such vacuous notions. Apparently, inane should be considered a lifestyle.

“Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth.

Worship the Lord with gladness;

come before him with joyful songs”

(Psalm 100: 1-2)

            I grew up singing. I always had a passion for it and I always took my performances in the most serious of ways. I was born to carry a tune. I trained my voice in the same manner I cultivated the instruments I played. I may be considered an amateur but I never once felt that way while I was belting out one song after another. I sang at charity events, talent contests and mostly in the churches I attended. It didn’t matter the character of god they followed, I was there to sing and little else. I made the most appearances at my family’s final sanctuary, the United Church of Canada, Strathroy edition. I sang solo, I sang in chorus and quite often would sing with my Mom. She would sit on the front stairs leading to the choir while I lingered beside her, standing before a congregation and my memories. There is much less music in my life now that my Mom has left us. I’m not sure where she left us to go to but I am sure she has an autoharp with her and the time to crank out a ditty or two. As I got older, the depth and expression of each piece, that I chose to perform, became very important when deciding whether or not to appear. I reached for new heights and in doing so ended up with little to show for it. The first words out of her mouth when she heard the song was, “We gotta sing it!!” So we set out to do just that. Heaven, performed by Michael English, is a blend of traditional and modern gospel, with a touch of Pop to stir it all in. I love, love, love this song. It speaks to the true nature of any divine being and reminds us that there is a place called hope if we just believe it. You really do create your own heaven, the rest is still just a dead end. We practiced that song so many times we would sprout wings by the end of each rehearsal. It was good, we were good. Just three days before our performance and the choir director joined us in the sanctuary. He sat on a pew and watched the entire thing. He left as swiftly as he had come. The next day, they pulled the rug out from underneath us. We both got tossed under that bus and just left there. The choir director refused to allow “that kind of music” in HIS church. His contract gave him exclusive rights over content. Fucker. When I sat down with the minister to discuss the how and why of it all, I was insulted at the lack of response. It didn’t seem to matter to anyone but me and my friend. Twenty years have come and gone since our censoring. I still have the sheet music and I still get pissy when I think about what happened. The death of the villain meant little to the overall story itself. You can try to silence me, to control my message but you cannot take away the one thing some may never have, resolve. I just keep going. Fuck them if they can’t handle the joke.

“Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” (Matthew 7:6, NIV)

            It would be the last time I would lecture anyone. I only agreed as a favour to one of my friends. The topic set a gigantic task before me, editing down an entire theology to a twenty minute speech. It did not help that the class was made up of teenage boys and girls, each one staring aimlessly out the windows right behind me. I tried to present the logical and scholastic approach. I was not surprised when they started shifting in their chairs. I went off-script. I ventured into personal opinion rather than staying on the original course. Always follow the prompter. When in doubt, don’t do it. You could tell that it worked, I got back their attention. My reproof only made it all worse. I should just learn to shut my mouth in mixed company. Some Christians can be so touchy and defensive. The class instructor let me have it good. Right in front of all those kids, she tried to put me in my place. I’m sorry but if you align yourself with a problem then you become part of that problem. If you do not condemn a person for their “behaviour” then you condone that behaviour. I think she wanted more learning and less subjectivity. She was right but she could have handled it differently. When the display was well over and the lights all turned out, I walked past her in the hallway and went outside to smoke. Apparently, my craving for nicotine was a common ground for us. She waltzed outside like a cocky chicken, all ruffles and plumage and peck peck peck. Apparently, it was enough to chastise me in front of children but I didn’t even merit standard protocol in public. She just stood there, puffing on a fag not knowing that I was one. She chose to be there. She saw me from the side door and still came out. She could have easily waited, or went to the other side of the building, but she decided to venture into my personal space. She drained the life right out of that cigarette. I think the filter was charred by her powerful nursing. She downed that sucker before mine was half gone. Her absence did not make my heart grow fonder. I guess there are those people who cannot handle the truth, at least not the truth as I know it. Of course, everyone has a difference of opinion and that opinion is always right. This is not the issue. I decided to take the scholastic approach with the lecture. I did not have to be considerate, no prerequisites or restrictions were placed upon me. I could have easily taken a different angle, an angle which may well have expressed the same views that I was being chastised for. Sometimes you are damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth: make a loud noise,

and rejoice, and sing praise” (Psalm 98:4, KJV)

            I am at a point in my life where I don’t give a damn about what people think of me. It’s not that I cared before. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, even if they are wrong. My writing, my profile, my lifestyle are only your business if I allow them to be. I find religion and related social issues fascinating. I have studied both for well over twenty years now. I suppose one of the greatest challenges for me as a theologian has been dealing with the religion of my youth. Christianity regularly reminds me just how myth and fable can be used to imbed moral ideas in the very fabric of a society. This is the purpose of all those tales people used to tell. They still do all over the world. I, for one, never wanted to just sit there and let someone tell whatever they want to me. I’m not comfortable with anyone going around speaking for God. I was tamed in my youth by restraint and a promise that I made to my mother. I kept it back, never questioning in public, never throwing things back in the face of hypocrisy and xenophobia. Those days, like my mother, are long gone. The times have changed. Do not tell me what to think and most certainly don’t assume that I believe as you do. This is my life and I hold little room for silly ideas or superstitions. It is strange the way things are for me now. Somehow when God is near to me, it is I who is near to God. I even sing with greater conviction than I used to. Somehow amidst all the baggage. among all the relics, and all the dogma, I have found my voice. 

It is a joyful noise.

Photo

Hanover, Ontario

Summer 1985

Mister Vehement

            I am not proud of it but I tend to respond violently to certain factors. I am not much of an instigator but have always had little trouble reacting in kind. I have always liked to fight and have had little difficulty excelling at it. I am rather good, if the truth be told. It has been a few years since my fists last encountered a face. As I age, my reaction, my impulse, has been easier to control and seems to have found a peaceful place. I am not sure if my Bi Polar disorder has something to do with the way I once was. Most certainly, since the proper medication found me, I have had little reason, let alone the drive to react in such a manner. At this point in my life, it seems, I have been tamed through pharmaceutical means. This has little bearing on the way I used to be. My fervid nature apparently started right from the get-go. I was a bully throughout my first 16 years. I had my reasons, at least I told myself that on occasion. Being handed the name “Kelly” gender fucked my social game rather inconveniently. I became rather vehement when someone would state, right to my  face, “That’s a girl’s name.” I hated those seventeen letters more than anything and they have always rubbed me the wrong way. I have to wonder if gender neutral names like Tracy, Sydney, Alex and Taylor all inspire the bearer to react in the same fashion. It is from this quandary that I first learned to punch someone right in the face. I have had much practice doing so over the past 50 years, not that I have been counting. Things always change. I have gotten used to a non-violent moderate reaction. I’m still nasty at times but it is usually directed and in the privacy of my home, office or automobile. I’m not sure if my road rage and verbal onslaughts are not just a venting system for my true violent nature. The main volcano seems to have been dampened. I have control, there is no impulse, not anymore. The extreme intensity of both my emotions and my convictions seem harnessed, well, until someone does something and I want to punch them right in the face.                                                                          

            All I did was keep the class a few minutes into the lunch hour. I still believe my question merited the time and my teacher’s response. It wasn’t really a big deal to anyone else. Out of nowhere he jumped right onto my back. I was only 8 years old (or so) but I handled the situation like any pro would. The first shot was an elbow to the face. He fell off me like a bug that had been swatted. I gave him the time to get up although I later wished I had just kicked him a few times in the head. This was not my style. I paused as he stood and regained his focus. A crowd began to form when he rushed me with ill intent. It only took one hard shot to the nose to stop him in his tracks. He dropped and curled up in pain on the sidewalk. I towered over him, waiting to see if he had anything left in him, not that there was anything there to begin with. I left him and so did the crowds. He wobbled on the ground in a blood-soaked mess. I turned around and I laughed at him. His mother was not amused by my actions. She claimed I had beaten her boy for no reason at all. I attacked him and not the other way around. She called me a bully so my mother called him a weakling. It was a screaming match almost immediately. The same energy that met us boys, apparently lived in our parent also. For the record, like mother like son. My Mom could have easily wiped the floor with her, just as I did with her whiny kid. At least the two women did not take to fisticuffs. I have always been hard on myself for reacting the way I did. I wish I had been a different person back then and simply walked away. I remember why I didn’t. I was left no choice. He first attacked me, then continued his rampage even after being met with an elbow to the head. Yes, he deserved everything he got but I still wish I had been the better man, despite the monkey on my back. I did not welcome this assault nor do I feel my reaction was beyond reason. If I had truly followed my impulses, I would have taken a few shots to his noggin with my foot. Despite my age, I tried to hold myself in reserve. You really do get what you give, tit for tat and all that stuff.

            At 22, I spent most of my weekends hitchhiking back and forth between London, Ontario and my home in Strathroy, about 50 km west. I was exploring my sexuality, I was exploring my youth. One August evening, I found myself rather intoxicated with nowhere to go and no way home. I don’t remember much about that evening, at least not after I drank more than half of a bottle of tequila. I was shit-faced, to say the least. I must have found myself overcome and passed out on a bench in the middle of Victoria Park. Located dead in the middle of the downtown core, I am surprised no one called the police or interrupted my inebriation. I woke up in a haze. I was just sitting there trying not to puke all over myself or the bench I had slept on. I heard them coming from a distance. You could clearly hear some girl who was shooting off her mouth. She looked like she had escaped from Newfoundland and he was a shadow that reigned from behind her. I just sat there and waited for them to pass. She saw me and started right away. I have no idea what provoked her but I imagine it was valid in her mind. She was as drunk then as I had been the night before. When I told her to “shut the fuck up,” she reacted like any attention whore would. She rushed me, screaming holy war. I simply avoided her. She would pass in one move then fall on her face in momentum. It was like trying to escape a moth that keeps floating in your face. She just kept coming and coming some more. At one point, as I stood in front of a very large tree, she tried to cannonball me with the full force of her body. In one swift move, I avoided her completely. She just kept going, face first right into that giant trunk. She bounced off it like an Indian rubber ball. It didn’t knock her out but she just laid there, blood dripping from her face somewhere. It was at this point that her silent partner finally had something to add. He called me this and he called me that but it was when he accused me of beating a woman that knocked me over the line. In one motion, I walked over to him and laid one full force into his face. Blood started flowing from an orifice. Suddenly, he backed away and started shuffling towards  the centre of the park. She scurried behind him like a wet rat would. Their retreat failed to shut them the hell up. All  the way through the  park and into the next lot, they hemmed and hawed. The last time I was verbally assaulted like this was when they kicked me out of the Pentecostal Church I used to attend. I will have to admit that the entire experience left me slightly dazed and confused. Perhaps it was what was left of Jose Cuervo within me that made me think I might have been dreaming. It was like waking up from one of those pseudo-nightmares we all have. I wasn’t sure it was real. All I know is that I never laid a finger on her during the entire melodrama. In grade 8, I had punched Judy Wardell in the face when she pulled down my pants, and all, in the middle of the Colborne Street public school football field. Years later and the same impulse was apparently quelled by tequila and only a few hours sleep. I had a choice in the matter. I could have easily nailed her hard in the head, defending myself from her onslaught. I did no such thing. I simply did what any pacifist would do and got out of the way.

            In all the years of confrontation, for all the battles I took with glee, I have only lost one fight. I’m not bragging, it’s just the truth. I suppose the savage within me has something to do with that. I never stopped, but the once. If that part of me was activated, it doesn’t matter if it’s dirty fighting or just straight violence, I would never give up, I would never stop fighting. I’ll rip the eyes out of your head and skull fuck you to death if you give me a reason. Unfortunately, this is a part of me. I may have mastered it but it remains intact for the most part. I have learned over the years not to give it attention. The internal struggle isn’t even much of a struggle these days. I am calm, I am in control and I certainly don’t believe that people should beat on each other, regardless of the reason. I find it strange how the one time I lost a fight has influenced me more than any one of the other scrimmages from my past. It humbled me. I could blame the alcohol. I could blame my big mouth but it was those two guys who literally kicked the shit out of me. It wasn’t even a real fight. It was more like some experiment in silent terror. I really don’t remember much. I know I was standing in line at the Taco Bell drive-up window when they started shooting their mouths off. The two of them stood just a few people behind me.  I was so drunk but it only helped me block out what happened next. As they started making holocaust and Nazi jokes, I turned around and told them to “shut the fuck up.” It’s an old adage of mine but still works best. The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning in the drunk tank. The officers were oh so friendly and I thank them for leaving me handcuffed all night in a sealed cell. Apparently, someone called the police as a few gentlemen kicked the crap out of a drunk fool. By the time the police got there, they were gone. I was, I am told, curled up in a bloody ball. When they released me, I realized I was damaged goods. My face was swollen with large cuts under my nose and across my bottom lip. Both eyes were beaten into blue. My ribs, my back, my legs were all covered with a large and small mix of bruising. I ached, my head ached and my ass ached. There was not one part of me that didn’t look like it had been to boot camp. I am much more tempered these days. I still have a big mouth but I no longer rely on brute skill to defend myself. There have even been a few times when my temper has served in helping others defend themselves. The gay bashing I interrupted with a kick to the balls is but one example of always being prepared. All in all, I find the entire idea of fighting irrelevant now. If I need to protect myself or some other, I have the technique and the will to. Being vehement does mean you have to surrender to the chaos. You can tame it, but that doesn’t mean it will ever go away.   

            I have never, not ever started a fight. There is no first blood on me to bear the stain. I have only ever reacted to violence. I have never instigated a single physical response. I may become vehement but I manage to keep it in check. If you rush me or strike me or try to, I have the right to stop you from doing it. I believe in a fair fight until someone gets dirty, then all bets are off. I occasionally find myself standing in position, ready to go and then my conscience stops me. It’s not that I can’t act on my impulse, I have been granted the ability to control my impulses. They become just that, impulses, not actions. There are always exemptions to the reality we create. I have on more than one occasion reacted to a situation more than I should have. There is no excuse but I will say considering the severity of my Bipolar Disorder, I think a 90% success rate is a miracle in itself. Sometimes when a feeling rushes over you, it doesn’t matter your resolve, the amount of medications you are taking, or best wishes from Jesus, one can lose it. Anger is a serious weapon in the right hands. Not everyone has control all the time. We all explode but not everyone is violent. The adult me looms over the angry me and seems to win out every time. This is supposed to be a good thing but I often wish things could sometimes be the way they were rather than the way they are. I am constantly running into people who deserve a punch in the fucking face. 

Photo

https://enlightenednonteachings.com/2013/06/01/pic-new-theme-you-cannot-change-the-world-but-you-can-change-your-perception-of-it/

Silver Lining

“Everybody falls sometimes

Gotta find the strength to rise

From the ashes and make a new beginning

Anyone can feel the ache

You think it’s more than you can take

But you are stronger, stronger than you know

Don’t you give up now

The sun will soon be shining

You gotta face the clouds

To find the silver lining”

(What Faith Can Do, Kutless 2009)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1JBSQMkQEo&list=RDu1JBSQMkQEo&index=1

            One of the most difficult things a person will have to do in their life is grieving over the loss of a loved one. To degrees, dealing with the death of someone we know can be an emotional challenge. It’s not even the initial shock that does the most damage. Sure, we weep and mourn and cry out through the pain, especially at the onset of things. It is the constant pang of hunger for the person that rules the roost. The ending is simply the beginning, maybe not for the dead but most certainly for the people who loved and cared for them. Grief is a hard road, with very expensive toll booths set up along the way. It can seem as if we keep on paying but we go nowhere. Although each person goes through this wave of sorrowing, it is the process of moving on that is the true obstacle to healthy emotional survival. It can take weeks or even years for a mourner to return to some semblance of a normal life. The gaping hole left behind may never be full, not ever. Depending on your relationship with the deceased, you may never really be whole again. Death can steal any hope, any resolve you may have gained along your pathway. Most of us eventually heal, able to face the world again regardless of the missing pieces stolen away. We don’t really heal, if the truth be told. We simply get used to the pain, we get used to the empty. Grief is like going bald, you just get used to it.  You adjust to the loss. There are those who do not adjust accordingly. They wallow in it, basking in the pain, basking in the misery. For some, the death can mean surrender, a means of letting go of everything, including themselves. People hurt so bad that they literally lay down and die. On the other hand, there are people who rise above the situation and carry on to lead productive and balanced lives. The variables are apparently connected to both our coping skills and our sense of something greater than ourselves. It is hard to find a silver lining when all you have to work with is ashes.

“Every silver lining has a cloud.”

(Mary Kay Ash, American businesswoman)

            The world stopped turning the second he walked into the place. They had only lived there a few short months but it had felt like home regardless. He could smell her in the bathroom, her scent lingered like this on most good days. Her could hear her on the messages left while he was away. He was at work when the call came in and it lead him to the darkest of places. He just stood there. Her body looked cold and seemed hard and unforgiving. Death did not become her. They had to remove him from the room, when he collapsed in agony on the cold morgue floor. Identifying her was a memory he would never escape. As a matter of fact, he could never escape the wretchedness that enveloped him from the start. The car that took her at 100 MPH, took him as well. There was no blood, no shattered glass, just a tunnel that swirled deeper and deeper into the recesses of his being. He jumped right down that rabbit hole. He told himself he would never really get over the loss of his soul mate. They had been so happy together that he just assumed it would last forever. He was wrong in almost every way. The void she left grew more hollow and his world completely fell apart. For days, he tried to face this life without her. He did not do a very good job. The empty was more than he could handle. He had been with his wife for almost 10 years, but each day he existed without her seemed to last forever. It had no end, not for him at any rate. One day his mind shattered. It was much too soon for him to rifle through her things. When he found her wedding dress, tucked into the back of her walk-in closet, he went from mental to insane. He started screaming and he could not stop. Every day he sits looking out the window, rocking himself into some semblance of aware. He is as lost as he could be. There are others in this place, different souls but all yearning for even one second of clarity. He just sits there, day after day, watching for her to appear just outside heavy glass, on the patch of land beneath the window. At night he waits for her to come to bed. She never appears but he keeps on waiting. In the end, the numbness of his madness was nothing but his escape. He never had to say goodbye. He never stopped looking for her to show up. Perhaps, for him, the madness was more like a silver lining.

“Every dark cloud has a silver lining, but lightning kills hundreds of people each year who try to find it.” (E.L. Kersten, American author)

            She was 84 years old when her husband died in his sleep. She awoke to his coldness and then life went on without him. After 58 years together, you would have thought she would shed more than a few simple tears. She was balanced even though the world they shared together had disappeared in the blink of an eye. She carried on without him, or so it seemed. They both knew that the day they parted would come sooner than later. For years they planned for each other’s passing. Preparation made things easier, easier and quicker. She didn’t have to think if she didn’t want to. She handed the undertakers a copy of his wishes and left all the hubbub to them. After the funeral, after they lowered him into the ground, she went on in the strongest of ways. The first thing she did was move from their 2-bedroom apartment to a small single bedroom 3 floors above. She lightened her load, raising concern that giving away most of their belongings meant something more than mere survival. They were wrong. For years she lingered alone, always planning, always making sure that what needed to be done was done. She was finally able to feel some sense of freedom, at least after the initial shock wore off. She missed her husband, on occasion, but she meant to seize the day regardless of any grieving she might encounter. For over half a decade she danced by herself in the proverbial corner. She hunted down the silver lining. Her faith didn’t help her through. Her family, her many friends all did nothing but to try and ease her pain. She really didn’t have much to speak of. There was something in her resolve. She picked herself up when she wasn’t even down. She went on and she never looked back. She should never have tried to take the stairs by herself. At almost 90, she was fearless still. She slipped and did some grave damage. They say she may have had a heart attack, which precipitated the fall. No one can be sure and she never revealed what had happened. From her hospital bed, she made it well known that she would never return to that building and especially those apartments. No one could really say why. They placed her in a lovely retirement home where she could chat up a storm all day and read in the privacy of her room come the night. It didn’t take much for time to claim her. Mere months after the fall, she passed away, quietly, peacefully. She had gone ahead and planned for this. She made sure she was ready and, apparently, she was when she left us. Sometimes things just happen and there is no rhyme or reason to them. People die every day.  

“Live with the assumption that every day it will rain. If it does, you were right. If it doesn’t, you were fortunate.” (Zack W. Van, American author)

            His grandparents had passed away in his youth. He knew what it meant to grieve and he thought he was prepared. He was not. It had been years since he saw his brother, years since they spoke a word. The cancer took him slowly, they said. The funeral was an experiment in horror. So many faces brought together by the most horrible of fates. Each member of the family was a reminder of the way it all had been. Name after name was chiselled in the guest book, people wanted to be recognized for coming. He would have liked it, one may suppose. All those years he spent alone, outside of his family, and now they all magically appeared with little contrition or need for absolution. Most of the day was spent holding it all in. It really didn’t hit until he got home. It broke him in the most savage of ways. The world turned upside down then right side round again. Perhaps it was the grief talking, perhaps it was the guilt. Perhaps the combination is what made it so hard for him to breathe. His wife stood at a distance, unsure of what to do and what to say. His insanity raged on, his anger vented at himself and his situation. He had never felt like this before. Sure, his grandparents and other family members had passed away throughout his history but his response was never so extreme. This was his first death, at least in a sense. His panic, his instability seemed to grow with each passing day. His only wish was that things had been different. Most pipe dreams rarely come to be. It was weeks before his temperament started to settle. Like all good mourners, he picked himself up and he tried to move on. The pain, the horror would return to him in surges. The further away from the death he got, the more critical those surges got. Each episode sent him back to reeling. Time keeps on going, that’s the silver lining in all this misery. No matter how affected you are by the death of a loved one, no matter the loss, eventually enough time will have passed that you can move forward, move past it or at least try to. Some people face death head on, pushing back against the ways of our mortal coil. Some people run in the face of such complete sadness. A fair amount of time has passed since that day and this one. He walks softer in a sense, aware, much more aware. Time has made things better, he can cope with much more resolve. His still misses his brother. If only he could go back and change the way things were. We can never go back. The best we can do is affect change here and now. We must make the silver lining.

“Our happiness is certainly mixed in with the tragedies of life.

You have to find the lemonade.

You have to find the silver lining in the middle of everything that happens in life.” (Chandra Wilson, American actress)

            One moment he was there and the next he went missing. It’s not even that he was missing, rather just gone. They found him cold and dead near the train tracks on this side of town. The bottle of gin was frozen to his hand. His coat discarded only 500 feet away.

His frozen body more a statue than some mound of flesh. The coroner simply confirmed his fate. He was not only drunk, he was smashed. He died of exposure and that was that. The first weeks were trying. She had no choice but to pick up and carry on without him. After 6 months, she started to be social again. After a year, she started dating. She began a new life even though she did not wish to leave the one she had. Each step on her journey seemed a challenge. She had not escaped without consequence. She felt guilty, mostly for mere survival. She felt remorse and contrition. She felt every emotion you could imagine she did, all the while she kept pressing onward, moving forward, eyes straight ahead. The second year without him brought more struggle and more pain. She lost almost everything to a monster in disguise. He could scream louder than she could. As the dust started falling, she met the next great love of her life. He was everything that she needed at the time. He needed her just as much as she needed him. They found each other and stayed that way. Twenty years later and she still goes on. Times are not nearly as chaotic as they used to be. A long marriage, a peaceful life and serenity have come with the territory called living. She often sits in silence, listening for the clouds that would pass her by. On occasion, she can hear a tinkling, a little ringing from somewhere beyond her. She imagines it’s just the silver lining. 

“Too many people miss the silver lining because they’re expecting gold."

(Maurice Setter, English football player)

            When it comes to grief, I don’t believe that most people even consider a silver lining. We go through life always desperate so we lack the ambition to notice. It can be difficult to get past one’s lot in life and recognize what you have. People just don’t get it. With every good there comes bad. With all the bad will come good. There is always a silver lining. You may not see it. You might fail to even register what it is but it is there nonetheless. The grass really is greener on the other side. When someone dies, we rarely stop and see the purpose found in their lesson. We fail to recognize the significance of our feelings and where they lead us. There is always this schism, between what is and what might just be. When we experience the death of someone close to us, we change. When we change, we affect greater change. In hindsight, we all see it. There was something there all along, we just didn’t stop and pay it attention. Death is nasty, there is no doubt about it. It does not have to be so harsh. We can learn, we can conclude, we can summon things worth knowing but we cannot escape its grasp. Either way, even in the darkest cloud there is always a silver lining.

“Hey mister don’t shadow box with me

Cause I don’t wanna someday be an old man cursing what I might have been

Now I realize what I see that the wind was never chasing me

And I don’t feel so alone

I can close my eyes I’m going home

Behind the clouds the sun is shining

Some rain will fall no use crying

Oh no, not me

Got a picture in my head that won’t let go of

Young man running in search of

Count your blessings

Cause it’s in your soul”

(In Your Soul, Corey Hart 1988)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMdm72iE2Fw

Photo

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/507796217  

The Omnist

            I’m not really that political. I do not enjoy the exercise. It’s not that I have no sense of fairness or interest in justice. I simply think that using politics as a measure of a society is like basing the character of God on the Bible. We are more than mere representation. I tend to not become involved. It’s not that I couldn’t care less, but it’s entirely possible. I consider myself a democratic socialist although the label is not my favourite part of being Canadian. I am far left of center when it comes to governmental policymaking and any related social matter. I support free speech and as a journalist stand firm on that position. I encourage social movements, especially those that are inclusive rather than selective. I believe that while Black Lives do matter, the movement would be better served if it unified with other voices, other matters of societal concern. In fact, I believe that All Lives matter, and therein lies the rub. All these movements, standing alone, screaming to be heard. We need to come together, to stand together, to rise up together. One voice should be all that is heard. Each splinter faction, each individual expression would not find itself lost in the whole, rather each would make up the whole. If all these lives count then we should merge and stand hand in hand, arm in arm. I do not mean to suggest that we should institute communal ideologies. Perhaps it may be that a unified articulation would better serve the masses. Regardless, lumping all causes, all movements together under one banner may not seem like the solution but it strikes me as better than the way things are. We pick and choose what we buy into. We select our crusade and not the other way around. We decide our position in the same way that we pick and choose the God that we worship.

            At the end of the Bible, the book of Revelation (Chapter 17) warns humanity of an anti-Christ setting up a one-world government and a one-world religion. In these  scriptures, mankind is forced to choose between their own personal God (from a long list of modern options) and the “one true” God (who just happens to be the demagogue in question). I hope that things don’t end up that way. My Christian conditioning always leads me to an unbalanced place. I often question my position, especially on the matter of social justice. I would not want to do anything or say anything that would make the cavern between the Lord and I grow larger. What if all the warnings are true? What if the New World order to come is a platform for evil to manifest as man? What if it isn’t all commentary and what if I am wrong? What if one religion, one political system would  only seal all of our doom? I would argue we must come together now as a collective so that we can preserve our own sense of faith and salvation. As with any political position one takes, deciding what God to serve is a very subjective matter. We give our loyalty based entirely on how we see the world and particularly how we see the focus of our divination. On a good day, people tend to validate their belief structure based on those things they find most appealing in a saviour. On a bad day, they either chastise themselves for error or blame themselves for the void left regarding any unanswered prayer they may have released. Each person believes differently, even if raised in an identical manner. Our faith is unique, exclusive to the individual. I was once asked how many Gods are worshipped on this planet on any given day. I could have easily researched the answer, claiming a number that really doesn’t mean much. Instead, I went with my gut response and stated “7 billion.” When asked to explain myself, I simply elaborated on how each person has their own concept of the universe and that unity comes down to whether you agree on a name for your God or not. It is within our own hubris that we assume our salvation. Since our own way works for us then everyone else’s position is flawed or repugnant. Our overbearing pride lies to us, often.

            There is common ground. Each religion holds something of value. Every religion, every esoteric idea, even the most outrageous cult, holds some form of the divine within it. If you take the time to look, it can be found. It all depends on what you’re looking for. Like a mustard seed, it starts out small then it fills with more. With enough time and attention, it becomes something much greater than it was. No matter who you are, there is room for a harvest. You have to cultivate if you intend to reap what you sow. If God is within, then He is within us all. We already have one voice but we do not use it. I’m not even sure that most of us know how to. Despite any warning from the Christians, I believe that coming together and worshipping together is much more productive for ourselves and our society than striving within the duplicity of varying theological positions. Rather than worshipping the many, we should worship the one. Whether we follow this deity or that deity doesn’t matter in the long run. All our prayers go to the same place. All mercy, all grace, all our salvation is filtered through the same process, regardless of what we call the object of our attention. This kind of thinking is far more successful than one could imagine. For example, the Bahá'í “ is a religion teaching the essential worth of all religions, and the unity and equality of all people.” With over 10 million followers worldwide, Bahá'ís regard “the major religions as fundamentally unified in purpose, though varied in social practices and interpretations.” Their base teaching strives for the wholeness of all people. Their mandate is to bring “a unified world order that ensures the prosperity of all nations, races, creeds, and classes.” If they can do it, perhaps we all can do it. It works for them. The idea of a New World Order has been demonized throughout the history of the Church. It may be viewed as evil, and the cause of our destruction, assuming the results are predestined. I would rather come together than continue to be apart. Look at the world around you and ask yourself whether the gods we worship actually work in the greater scheme of things. In fact, all the different religions and cults seem to exemplify the problem. I just don’t find all the subjective interpretations are something I want as part of my thinking. All lives really do matter, regardless of their faith. I suppose I have become an Omnist.

            I am an Omnist and I believe in the validity of all religions. This does not mean I do not have one specific faith structure that I exist under or a name for the God that I myself worship. Omnism is “the recognition and respect of all religions; those who hold this belief are called Omnists.” The earliest known use of the term was by English poet Philip J. Bailey who, in 1839, claimed that “I am an Omnist, and believe in all religions.” It’s all about the legitimacy of all those religions. For the person who doesn’t make claim to any one faith, who does not practice or believe in one set deity or energy, the truth lies in all of them. Omnism is “a way to accept the existence of various religions without believing in all that they profess to teach.” In fact, to an Omnist, “all religions contain truths, but that no one religion offers all that is truth.” It might be thought of as a “syncretism taken to its logical extreme.” The very idea that there is a “single transcendent purpose or cause uniting all things or people” makes great sense to me. If all religions hold “different elements of a common truth,” then the Omnist is open to any such potential truth. The entire ideology is more expression than formula, more esoteric than dogmatic. Actually, there is a strong influence from existentialism, where "consciousness is a power or force that helps determine the reality, yet is not a divine influence.” Omnism affirms “the necessity of one arriving at an understanding of reality based on personal experience, engagement, and inquiry, and an acceptance of the validity and legitimacy of the differing understandings of others.” While it is more speculation than theology, there is an “implied system of values or ethics.”

            I was a hardcore Christian, even for a fag. The suicide of my first partner only pushed me further down that rabbit hole. I, once again, became somewhat of a fundamentalist, holding to the literal readings of any scriptural text. I was lost and tossed myself on Jesus. The Bible became my touchstone. Even though I knew deep inside it was probably a fruitless endeavour, I had to see for myself what this lifestyle really had to offer. If Jesus was the answer, I was willing to field the questions. After all, you cannot determine whether you are going the right way if you fail to follow the path in the first place. I hoped against all hope and wished for the things that my faith had always taught me one should pursue. I got washed away in the blood of Jesus. I started to believe all the hype. I closed my mind to other ideas and other belief structures. Like with any truly “good” Christian, I turned my back on everything in hopes of gaining everything. I had to try, even if a part of me cringed at the idea. Initially, it was confusion to have such a schism fracturing inside my head. At first, it was easy to ignore reality when I was safe in the Father’s arms.  I was so broken, so defeated that any offer, any tinge of rescue was pounced upon in desperation. I had been to this place before. My late teens found me born again almost every weekend. Despite the outer appearance, back then I did not discover any true reward in my surrender. Everything I was told to hate about myself stayed with me after every altar call. I never felt anything but I had to try. I just played the part then went off to suck some cock. Jesus took nothing and gave the same in return. When I met my current  partner, 20 years ago now, Jesus took a back seat. Eventually, I just kicked him out of the car. I did not need anyone else’s interpretation to clear the way. I studied. I have studied theology for so long now that I pee scripture, and that’s on a good day. From my early days of university through hundreds of exegesis after exegesis, this inquiring mind is never satisfied. It has always been my intention to simply understand rather than condemn. As a matter of fact, Christianity saw to it that I view the world this way. They are an example, for sure, but a bad one I suggest. Still, this way holds the same consideration any other faith would be granted. There is truth in all religions, after all. I no longer believe that Christianity holds all the answers. I do not believe it is the only way to have a relationship with God. Like any other theology, there are truths that lie within it. I guess I never had to turn my back of Jesus.

            My relationship with Christianity did not end well. Eventually, I realized the restrictions any religion might use to hold their position. Christianity was no exemption. It is because I was raised so that I had the hardest time separating The Christ from the dogma of the Christians. It’s the same with any other religious ideology. There is a grain of truth in everything but nothing is exclusive in that truth. It was a hard day for me when I walked away from my faith structure. I was trapped, suffocating on scriptures that I shoved down my very own throat. I reached out for guidance and compassion and any semblance of peace. All I found was a judgmental God with little concern for anyone but his own congregation. I expressed my concerns regarding other faiths, other ideas on salvation and was instructed just how wrong that interpretation was. I learned quickly, as my virtual assistant ranted off a list of the things that make following anyone but Jesus a fatalistic choice. Any other way (John 14:6) meant sheer doom. There is no other way, at least that’s what they keep telling me. At the time, I left Christianity because it seemed to offer me nothing but exclusivity. I never ever wanted God all to myself. I discarded my faith and surrendered to the unknown. A silent God is so much more friendly than a deity riddled by the tendency to associate with only a select group. All these years later and I realize my folly. I wish I had been freed long ago. I wish I had paid more attention to the ethereal nature of God rather than the anthropomorphic side. My faith changed and so did how I view God. My faith evolved and I became an Omnist, even though I had no idea what that meant at that time. It was by definition, not recognition. Distinguishing that truth is relative only convinced me further that the way I am going, how I travel, is what works for me. I no longer practice any organized religion or faith structure. I do not need one. I rest safe in the Father’s arms, even if you think He only cares about you.

Photo

http://www.1freewallpapers.com/coexist-cool

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bah%C3%A1%27%C3%AD_Faith

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

https://www.compellingtruth.org/one-world-religion.html