Heart of Darkness

            I’m a pretty good guy, at least I tend to think so. I’m smart. I’m funny. I am even sexy if you’re into that sort of thing. I have spent my life always trying to do the right thing versus just giving in and not caring about doing the wrong things. At this point in my life, it is important for me to be kind more than anything else. I am determined to rise above, to reach for the pinnacle of enlightenment and drive away my demons. After all these years and those demons sure are stubborn buggers. No matter how I try to place myself above it all, I am constantly drawn into the shadows that just won’t go away. At times it can feel like a schism, a duality that has become my life. I want so much to be good but a part of me never can be. This dichotomy tends to piss me off. No matter how I strive to be better, my internal dialogue and impulses never fail to stir the pot that is me. I tend to be weak, especially when it comes to temptation. I tend to be easily influenced, regardless of anything spiritual or transcending I may have experienced.  I may not follow one central religion but I am still a believer (even though I imagine there is really nothing to believe in). Many are the secrets we all carry with us. I have no exemption. I try to get through life just like everyone else. I try to stay away from the shadows. I am constantly keeping a watch. I tend to fail almost every time. I’m a nice guy but sometimes you can tell I have a heart of darkness. I am bound to surrender, I cannot help myself. No medication can chase the devil away. I am unrighteous and faulty to the core. I do not wish to ever go there again. I am definitely not a man of purity but I would very much like to be. All shadows bear regret. Voices cry out in the night. There exists within me an animal, a creature so base it can avoid definition. I am yet to be torn in two by it but it seems to have stretched me, quite often to the limit. No matter how I struggle, no matter how I try, I fall prey almost every time. I am certain that we all do, we all have to keep a watch on our shadows.

“Inside each of us, there is the seed of both good and evil. It’s a constant struggle as to which one will win. And one cannot exist without the other.”

(Eric Burdon, English singer-songwriter)

            I must admit that I find it difficult to believe in the literal idea of evil, particularly in the Abrahamic traditions. Personifying the devil is as stupid as personifying God but way more dangerous. It’s the ultimate in crowd control. To imagine that such a creature exists is to imagine a God who would do such a thing. I’m not sure that we need some “evil” being tempting us and damning us by our own hand. We do well enough on our own, thank you very much. After all, evil is a relative thing. It has no absolute existence outside of itself. It does not function as a separate entity, it does not manifest all on its own. It is only an appearance. Just as darkness is only a lack of light, so too evil is only a lack of goodness, or at least what we think is good. We measure within our cultural and personal interpretations. It is our exposure to such ideas that shapes what we will end up believing in the long run. I have never once, in all my years, witnessed evil in any form. I have never seen a demon. I have never seen the devil. Not one voice ever asked me to do something. No words from a song ever influenced me to sin. I have, on one occasion, been exposed to something I couldn’t explain. I think I made it up in my mind, to be honest. I was only 16 years old but it remains with me as the only time I ever thought there might be something to this whole evil concept. I was walking home from choir practice like I did every Thursday night. I headed through the downtown core of Strathroy and cut over to a side street, hoping to avoid any complications one might procure along the way. I cut through the Catholic school grounds and followed Head Street down towards the fire department. I was singing some silly song to myself, walking in streetlight’s safety. I remember I was carefree and, most certainly, was not looking for any trouble. Suddenly, the street went black. There were lights way up in front of me and lights far behind me but I was enveloped by shadow. I could feel it approaching. I started to tingle, my senses keen and aware. At first, I though someone might be playing with me, out there somewhere and I could feel the energy. I was dead wrong. The fear grew greater within me. I felt this heavy frightening presence all about me. It scared the living shit out of me and I have never forgotten. I still get goose bumps, it was that effective. I started to run to the light. I didn’t stop, I didn’t turn, I just kept going until I felt it no more. I have never been sure what it was but I know my reaction was conditioned. My response to run ingrained in me. Still, it was a nasty experience, and has only clouded my judgment of all things supernatural. For me, there has to be another account not yet available. There has to be something other than what they have told me. There has to be something I am missing.  

“Evil is unspectacular and always human,

and shares our bed and eats at our own table.”    

(W. H. Auden, English-American poet)

            Most of us have done things we wish we had not. Whether we are ashamed, embarrassed or even contrite, there are moments in our lives we wish we had done differently. Not all of us feel that way. Some people could give a rat’s ass about fixing the past, let alone changing the way things are. Each of us comes from a different place in our thinking. Our experiences, whether for good or bad, have shaped us and set us on our course. People do awful things all the time. More often than not, they do those things to other people. In this modern world, half the sins that were unacceptable 25 years ago have become regular fare. Hubris is a lifestyle. People don’t even think about concepts like good and evil, let alone recognize them. This generation is as lost as the one Jesus preached within. Only a few seem to care about anyone, or anything, but themselves. Call it haughtiness or unrighteousness, or even ungodliness, but this void in realism is rampant, or at least it appears to be. I talked to a young man just a few weeks ago who actually believes that Santa Claus is simply Jesus but very old. He believes that the Bible has told him so. Seemingly, the dismissal and denial of things like morality, ethics and discernment have only added to a rapidly growing problem. The Christians would have me believe that the youth of today serve a devil rather than a saviour. Even if they don’t consciously serve it, they are minions all the same. An entire generation is nothing but the pawn of Satan. Ignorance isn’t the worst evil, but perhaps training a generation to be so could very well make it. I have to wonder if God above empowered a creature that could control and manipulate thousands of people. Are not laziness, hopelessness and ambivalence the very things we have taught our children to embrace? There just seems to be little consequence when we can just blame our apathy on a scary red fellow with a stupid fork tail and some horns to boot. Evil takes away the responsibility. When you have an outside force shaping your actions, it is easier to blame than to perform your duty or meet your obligations. In the end, the devil did not make you do it.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

(Edmund Burke, Anglo-Irish statesman)

            What one person may assume is evil, another may claim as good. We seem to pick and choose what we demonize and we change it from one day to another. Again, good and evil are relative concepts. A fundamentalist Christian may condemn and persecute homosexuals, thinking they have been instructed to do so. Scripture can serve our own purposes. An Islamic Iman may discard one truth for another, using the Qur’an to justify his feelings and biases against women. Our way is always the right way. We do not view such destructive and limiting behaviour as something dark and forbidding because God said it or commanded us to do so. The truth is, the Abrahamic scriptures of Judaism, Christianity and Islam can themselves be viewed as something quite evil. More people have been killed, in the name of Yahweh, Jesus and Mohammed, then any other factor throughout history. Most of those deaths were easily justified in the eyes of those men and their God. Who needs a devil when 5000 years of religion can take care of all that for us? It’s like Satan is merely God is disguise, giving men and women every reason to run from one deity to the safe arms of another. Evil is an optimal wingman. It boosts itself up in order to deflect then guide others to some heavenly place. The technique works very well on unsuspecting sinners. It’s like engaging an ugly girlfriend so your buddy can score with some hot chick. It all just seems like smoke and mirrors. I do not believe I have ever met anyone I would necessarily call evil. If the devil is in the details, I have yet to be educated. When I was a boy, twin girls from across the street were drowned in their bathtub by a mother driven insane. She had to be. The abuse laid upon her by her husband did not serve the neighbourhood nor their judgments. She must have been evil to do such a thing. The devil must have taken possession and drawn out her demons. Everyone was convinced that she had a heart of darkness, it was the only way to explain such a senseless act. Perhaps it was not so senseless. We can’t really understand a person until we walk around in their shoes (Atticus Finch aside). I think it is safe to assume that when the mother then killed herself, something far beyond the devil was at work here. Imagine the pain and fear one must have to end not only the lives of their children, but then their own. Was it fire and brimstone at play or mental illness and spiritual abandon? I don’t think that woman really saw the act as evil, rather, desperate and apparently her only option.

“It is a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways.”

(Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha)

            My mother loved to explain her view of heaven to me. I was an adult but somehow those times with her made me feel like I was still but a boy. She thought outside the box even if it was anthropomorphic. Heaven was all beauty and such but getting past the pearly gates was a judicial matter. God is the judge, the devil is the prosecution and Jesus in our defence. Every time Satan brought evidence against us, Jesus would pop up and yell “covered by my blood.” It was a simple but profound theory. For her, evil had no power, no matter what it tried to do. God was always forgiving and evil was but a pawn in the way that fish bait is. It serves this purpose but otherwise it’s just guts. Historical figures like Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin interned the weak and vulnerable to promote their own effort. These men are viewed as evil and beyond the mercy of any God they may have  held in standing. Serial killers like Jeffery Dahmer and Bruce McArthur have secured for themselves a place in the pit of eternal torment. In a modern sense, they epitomize the very idea of evil. I have to wonder why these souls are much more lost than the rest of us. Scripturally, all sin is equal in God’s eyes. The price of sin (all sin) is death (Romans 6:23, NIV). God doesn’t separate and categorize our failings. He offers life, in this case through Christ Jesus. I have to wonder if evil is not simply a reflection in the mirror dimly. I do not mean to imply that the aforementioned sinners do not meet some fate we cannot understand but that is really not up to us. Mortals punish in our own way and so will God. I do not wish to seem sympathetic in my presentation but there is a huge difference between doing something wrong and doing something evil. People use scripture as a weapon all the time but that doesn’t make anyone a pawn of the devil. Concentration camps and xenophobia are senseless but they both exist, even after all we have learned. Clearly, there is a line where one goes from sinner to savage. I have a mental illness but somehow I have avoided eating anyone I know. There is a bull’s eye in there somewhere. At some point, what we call evil manifests. With the murder of 6 million Jews, it just goes without saying. Then again, murdering your own children can be viewed in the same measure. Evil is as evil does.

“One must be cunning and wicked in this world.”

(War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy 1867)

            I do not believe that I have ever done something evil. Yes, I sin just like everyone else but my intent is always goodhearted. I wish to do no harm. I have known people who have done the most terrible things. Homosapiens are not the most friendly tribe on the planet. I’m not sure we ever could be. Our consciousness has a mandate. We must subjectify in order that we may understand. This does not mean that we didn’t do something wrong but wrong to whom? Pygmies practice incest without all the commentary.  They do not consider it wrong, let alone evil. It’s all in the presentation. They do not know they are doing something sinful, which is exactly why they do it. Ontario, Canada has its own brand of demon. In Toronto, Bruce McArthur has been charged with the death of 8 victims, for now. All have a connection with the city’s gay community, and many subsequent cruising options. He looks like Santa Claus, a special yuletide treat for all the terrified homosexuals. His large pot belly is second only to the girth of Elizabeth Wettlaufer. In Ontario, I think it’s a prerequisite that you weigh over 300 pounds before you are allowed to call yourself a serial killer. Wettlaufer, size aside, killed 8 elderly patients at different long-term care facilities. She attempted to kill 6 others. She pleaded guilty to all counts. Her motive remains unclear but she is no way claimed to be some angel of mercy. She admitted to killing a few of those victims  because they were “mean” to her. Touché. Whenever I question something, or need a clue, I always go to the evidence. It is with her own words that we can discern her villainy. In her confession, she claims, “I knew the difference between right and wrong, but I thought this was something God, or whoever, wanted me to do it, but I was starting at that point to doubt that it was God.” No shit.

“The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life.” (The Interpretation of Dreams, Sigmund Freud 1899)

Photo

https://marketplace.secondlife.com/p/Evil-Eyes/1524762?id=1524762&slug=Evil-Eyes

Sources  

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/eilzabeth-wettlaufer-confession-1.4142647

The Side of the Road

            Every time I see the carcass of a dead animal, I am compelled to bury it. While this is usually not possible, I am obligated to try, under optimal conditions. Usually, I am exposed while driving my car. I do not slam on my brakes while doing 100 km. I do not stop traffic to remove the thing. I do not drag it off the course and bury it with a frown. It usually gets dumped somewhere on the side of the road. At least, it will not face the indignity or have its guts squished out on the asphalt that already claimed it. I can only consider my pets and how I would feel discovering their intestines strewn about the highway. I am selective in my consideration. I rarely stop to help the animals that lie already dead at the side of the road.

            It was a massive pile of blood and guts on one end, and what was left of a cute and furry muskrat on the other. I had no idea that my partner was the one who had done the deed. For two days, I avoided it like any respectful person would. It just sat there, half guts, half creature, all roadkill.  Having dropped off the guilty culprit, I headed back from whence I had been. The beast was still there and I imagined that after all this time, it was festering. I could not help myself. My resolve to remove it had me pull over to the side of the road and pop my trunk. I simply grabbed a few plastic bags and doubled them up with each other to create a heavy glove. I took hold of the poor thing by its face and I dragged it to the edge of that thoroughfare. I dumped it into the long grasses that riddled the roadside. I discarded my cover into the backseat and I drove away. Unfortunately, you could still see pieces of that muskrat littering the route.

            The pig on the stick did not go round. The flames licked only the bottom of it. The rest sat pink and fresh and very much dead. It was almost more than I could handle. I have never been much of a pork eater and the eyes of the creature stared right through me. I avoided the pit for the rest of the day. When dinner was served, side dishes were all we dared to consume. I wasn’t even sure of them, if the truth be told. I felt like bacteria was lying in wait. We sat down to eat what we got and were joined by a nice enough lady and a few of her children. The fact they were indigenous is beside the point. As we picked at our food, somehow the topic of roadkill was brought up. I made a few smart ass comments and sat waiting for the chorus to join in. To my surprise, we did not see the matter in the same way. In fact, I learned that day, that roadkill was just as good as the store-bought meats. Some of it was even better. All her children wholeheartedly agreed. 

I never ever imagined that such plenty lay at the side of the road.

            The town of Strathroy is surrounded by green space. A few small towns like Watford and Mt. Brydges sit just out of reach. Otherwise, fields and forest and pasture follow you throughout the area. It is the picture of Southern Ontario, Canada. Its charm lies in the standard fare. Cornfields, herds of cow and horse litter the scenic tour one might take. It is  not far to the 402 highway. It is not far to Poplar Hill, then to Denfield, then to Stratford, all on the way home. My folks built their house in 1980 and remain on the property to this day. My mom died here. My dad carries on here. Just down the street and one finds themselves on the 10^th concession, a shortcut to the northern edge of neighbouring London. You can skip a lot of traffic heading this way. I use the back direction mostly to make my descent. You can go pretty fast along this country road. I was doing around 90 km when the cat just jumped out at me. Unfortunately for the cat, he bounced off the car and ended up dead in the middle of the road. I pulled the car over. I got out, walked over to it and proceeded to check if it was dead. It most certainly was. I pulled that orange tabby across the road by one of its paws and softly tossed it into the long grasses that grow along the side of the road.

            I was clocking around 100 km when the ball bounced out onto the road. I didn’t even have time to brake when the dog did too. Only one of them bounced to safety. The other one met its end. I don’t know how many times I have hit an animal, like a bird or a stupid squirrel. I always stop if I can. This day met no exception and I pulled over to the side of the road and got out of my car. They knew it was not my fault. You could tell they knew, they should have leashed the old puppy, especially on a busy county road. It was heartbreaking to see that little girl crying over her best friend. I offered my sincerest apology and then I offered my assistance if they wanted to bury him. I didn’t even wash my hands before I got back into the car. I just wanted to escape how I felt. I went from killer to gravedigger all in one swoop. As I sped away, I looked back on the scene and I noticed that no one was standing at the side of the road.

            My car has killed at least 1000 birds. While that may not be an accurate estimation, it feels like it at any rate. While driving, I have rammed them, dinged them, squished them and have run a few over, I am sure. Most times, birds have me convinced that at heart they are truly stupid. Even a chipmunk knows not to run into oncoming traffic. Over and over, some idiot beak will take a chance and play chicken, so to speak. More than a few have bounced off the car and landed on the side of the road. It can feel like it is littered with the corpses of one species after another. The damn things just keep flying right into my way. I often feel like they deserve to die for doing so. I rarely stop for any bird smaller than a hawk, not that I have firsthand knowledge of such an event. If a large blue heron met the front of my speeding car, I would most certainly pull over and investigate its fate. The rest of them will have to settle for the side of the road.

            My brother and his wife at the time lived outside the Strathroy area but in the country nonetheless. The town of Alvinston was barely a village at the time but it served my sibling and his family well. For years they lived in a large white colonial home. The grounds were huge, at least 4 acres. It was a country drive home every day for him. In the fall and winter, he drove back home mostly in the dark. Any change in the weather made the road even more dangerous. One night, my brother had no need for bad weather. Out of nowhere (although it was probably the woods), a large doe jumped out from the passenger side of the car, leaping right into the oncoming vehicle. He hit the creature full on, killing it instantly. He got out of his car, checked the scene then popped the trunk. Using some handy rope, he managed to tie the beast to the back of the car and he drove away into the night. He didn’t leave a morsel at the side of the road.

            My brother’s home was beautiful. Polished silver and blended patterns made the place stink of culture and class. It was nice to live there, I am sure. On occasion, my family used to vary the host when planning the annual Christmas gathering. My brother pulled the proverbial rabbit out of that year’s hat. The place was actually quite lovely, or so I remember it to be. The meal was extravagant, with multiple choice in meat such as turkey, ham or roast of beef. All that beef sure looked good to me. I have to admit a pink centre is my carnivorous delight. I looked around for the horseradish then took a good portion of the meat and laid it on my plate. The first piece I remember well. It sort of burned at the back of my throat like an aftertaste would. You could discern the wild in it. I could feel the slight sting as I swallowed just one piece more. I had never eaten anything before, nor since,  that came from the side of the road.

            A carcass is not garbage, especially if you put it there. You have an obligation, if possible, to at least remove it from the line of fire. I almost scream when I see some rodent or canine or cat, dead as a doornail in the middle of the road. Too many times have I been witness to guts and no glory. If you can stop, get it out of the way. Always be safe but if you can, spare the critter from a nastier fate. You never know who you might be sparing from a gruesome discovery. It is okay to be kind to animals too. Hell, someone might even need it as a food source. There is a grocery store along the highway, it seems. I suppose that one good thing about being human is you don’t have to worry about people eating you if you should die at the side of the road.

Photo

http://carolinawildlife.org/deer-in-the-headlights/

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