White Bread

“Man cannot live by bread alone; he must have peanut butter.”

(James A. Garfield, 20th President of the United States)

            I will have to admit that my new hometown of Paris, Ontario is a little white bread for me. There is no real diversity as Caucasian seems to be the much favoured colour. I don’t think such exclusivity was planned, at least I hope it wasn’t. I’m not claiming that the town houses some branch of the Nazi movement but I notice it just the same. Over the three years that we have lived here, I can count on one hand the times I have seen anyone who might be viewed or come across as “ethnic.” I cannot even find a rule as to make an exemption. There was the African Canadian fellow in the Dollarama parking lot and an Asian couple taking pictures from the scenic bridge located downtown. Face to face, window from street and it all looks like something Donald Trump would approve of. It bugs me that people still live this way. You could argue that the matter is socio-economic in nature but I somehow think it is more than that. Anyone I have recognized as such was visiting or heading out of town. I saw an African Canadian girl driving her car just outside the Paris limits. I am not sure if that counts. There even appears to be a Latino police officer who I have come across on my journeys throughout Stepford. He is usually sitting in the Tim Horton’s coffee shop at our end of the village. Are donuts Mexican? Regardless of the few, there just are not many. Everyone is friendly and welcoming and most greet you with a hello no matter the time of day or night. It’s a safe place. It’s a simple place. It’s a white place.

     

“Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.”

(Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare  1599)

            I don’t know how my parents handled raising 5 kids. It’s not that we were hellions but one could make that assumption based on literal facts rather than just on mythos. Over a ten year period, my mother gave birth to 4 boys and a girl. I am the middle child, like you had to ask. Although we all spent time together as kids, it was my two younger siblings that I hung out with the most. My sister Tracey and I are closet in age and my youngest brother Christopher pulls up the rear. Occasionally, my brother Phillip joined in on our fun. The oldest child, Alan, was always off on his own somewhere combing his hair. A large group of us from our Toronto neighbourhood used to build forts and booby traps and play werewolves just under the Don Valley Parkway in Graydon Hall, Toronto. Phillip always seemed to take the lead. Unfortunately, most times we would follow. Summer vacation meant lots of time to get into trouble. We all thought it would be fun to make some lunch while our mother took a nap upstairs. There was a recipe to this disaster. Place an entire loaf of white bread out across the kitchen floor. Empty approximately a dozen raw eggs, one for each slice. Cover each open faced sandwich with one pack of Kool-Aid drink crystals, preferably the lime flavour. If you run out of Kool-Aid, Freshie or Tang would be just fine. Do not repeat. Do not wake up your Mom so she can clean it up. Do not tell her you’re still hungry and ask if she would make you some lunch. Say nothing or you’ll just make it worse. To my surprise, it wasn’t all that Kool-Aid, or the eggs, that pissed her off. For some reason, she was furious that we had wasted the loaf of Wonder bread she had bought from the milk man earlier that morning. As punishment, my sister and I were sent to the tuck shop down the way. She made it very, very clear. She wanted white bread.

“I do like not knowing where I’m going, wandering in strange woods, whistling and following bread crumbs.” (Tilda Swinton, British actress)

            My life is pretty tame. I am not sure that is a bad thing. Considering the rollercoaster that has been my life, I could use a little break. It’s time to ride the teacups for awhile. Preferably, for the rest of my life. I have become somewhat of a bore but I was going for that. You could even claim my existence has slowly become like white bread, crust and all. I have spent a great deal of time and energy making it so. I prefer the quiet to all the noise. I long for serenity and calmness and carefree ways. Peace attends to my soul. It is very important for me that I maintain some semblance of balance and control. I worked very hard over the past decade to make sure I stayed in focus. I had to develop an entirely new set of coping skills. I am forced to repeat. Doing the same things at the same time every day creates a pattern, which then becomes a stabilizing force. Change is okay because I can incorporate as needed. Primarily, it is people that are my biggest problem. I am convinced it is much better to not have expectations when it comes to human beings. Someone is constantly playing on my last nerve. Being Bipolar demands symmetry. Without it, there is no harmony, no sense of relief. The disorder has to be controlled. Pharmaceutical solutions are only part of the answer. Maintaining a stress-free life is impossible to do. After all, life is suffering to one degree or another. I have often wondered if people simply fuck you around because they have nothing better to do with themselves. Screwing up my life is not some reality show, for your amusement. People are petty and I am never pleased when someone needlessly complicates my daily grind. If you don’t have anything good to say, if you can’t speak in kind, I’ll gladly shove a piece or two of Wonder bread right down your throat for good measure. This should shut you up.  

“Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.”

(Pablo Neruda, Chilean diplomat/poet)

            Every week when I go shopping, I always buy a loaf of bread. Sometimes I’ll grab a loaf of brown bread but I usually end up tossing most of it to the birds. Whole wheat is much too extreme for my tastes, I prefer my toast to start out white. Life can be plain like white bread or it can be toast with jam. It is sweet and it is simple, all you need is a toaster. Personally, my entire life has been pretty plain when it comes to the choices I have made. I have never had a long-term relationship with anyone ethnic. I had many Latino friends in Los Angeles but they are all dead now. I have never really connected with anyone of colour. In high school, I was chums with Calvin Walters, the only black student to attend SDCI in the 1980s. His mother worked for my Dad at the same school. My brother Alan was married to a Caucasian woman who had a black child from a previous relationship. His name is also Calvin. Once, my first partner and I were confronted by an African Canadian prostitute in Kensington Market, Toronto. To be honest, standing there talking to her was one of the longest conversations I have had with a black person. There is only one other such woman to speak of and she was plain crazy. Brandy and I met through the Pentecostal Church. We spent a great deal of time together in Bible Study. We rarely spoke. Her dissension had nothing to do with her race. It was her claim that she had sex with the Holy Spirit that saw her tossed from the Church and the study group. Otherwise, my choice in friends and family has always been more Plain Jane than Fabulous Fred. Outside of homosexuals, I still don’t have any ethnic friends. This is the extent of my racial harmony. Sitting here thinking about who I have known in this capacity made me realize how limited my life has been. I didn’t consciously determine to have only white people in it. I do live in Southern Ontario, Canada after all. In my circle, I rarely ever had access. The store that is my past only sold white bread.

“It is written: Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.” (Matthew 4:4, NIV)

            The last time I sat though a church service was also the last time I would ever take communion. I was raised Christian but that is no longer the case. One of the biggest issues I have with Christianity as an organized religion has been transubstantiation. I was raised to believe that there is a literal change in matter when consuming any representation of Jesus’ flesh and blood. We are to believe that the second the bread and the wine touches our tongue, it becomes Jesus. To many, this is an actual manifestation done in memory of the Christ. Most Sunday mornings you can find over a billion people chewing on the Lord and gulping down the blood of Jesus. While it is true that scripture claims he asked us to consume bread and wine whenever we sit to eat and drink together (Luke 22:19-20), nowhere did he elaborate that this consumption would be magical and downright cannibalistic. It was the Last Supper, not the last semblance of common sense. When I was a lad, I did not partake in the tradition because I was much too young. I remember watching my parents breaking bread and pouring wine. I observed them sipping from a chalice then munching on a piece of broken crust. I never noticed any part of the Lord coming out of either one’s mouth. Once I became a member of the church, I was allowed to partake. I got to choose for myself how I felt about masticating  the Saviour. If this practice is literal and true, it gives the old adage “you are what you eat (and drink)” an entirely new meaning. This would explain why some religious folk walk around thinking they themselves are God, or at least the mortal equivalent. It appears the transformation in the mouth means a transformation in the spirit, not necessarily in that order. I was in my early thirties the last time I visited God at one of his many mansions. I was not comfortable being there despite my friend Rob and my father, who were with me that day. They served us communion but I found no flesh to eat, no blood to drink. Welch’s grape juice and a rice wafer are not the bread and wine we had been ordered to consume. I had noticed this shift in dietary salvation throughout my years of attending one sanctuary after another. The tradition went from what was supposed to be a literal experience to a convenient and compact downsizing, What happened to the vino? What happened to all that white bread? What happened to actually eating Jesus rather than figuratively playing the part? Still, I have no reason left to dig in. I am not even hungry. I do not thirst. I’m rather full, if you ask me.

 “It is not accidental that all phenomena of human life are dominated by the search for daily bread - the oldest link connecting all living things, man included, with the surrounding nature.” (Ivan Pavlov, Russian physiologist)

            On weekdays, I am usually up by 7 AM but more often than not it is 6 AM that greets me. I boot the computer, stop in at the bathroom then head downstairs to start my day. We lock the cats in the basement at night to protect our property. It is a large living space so I have no issue with leaving them in their den while defending the right of my stuff to exist. Letting them out is the first thing I do when I reach the ground level.  Next comes the most important event of the day. Every morning, all set and ready to go, I engage my closest friend. Coffee is so precious, my precious. I then go out to the garage, turn on the light and start my regiment. I take the birdseed container in hand and I fill it up. I don’t fill it to the top so I am forced to control through the use of portions. I also grab the compost container. This is where crust and leftovers and pieces of this and that find themselves waiting to be consumed.  Since we eat only white bread, whether as buns or a loaf, the birds and the squirrels and the chipmunks get only white bread.    

“The danger is not lest the soul should doubt whether there is any bread, but lest, by a lie, it should persuade itself that it is not hungry.” (Simone Weil, French philosopher)

Photo

http://footage.framepool.com/en/shot/742548061-tin-loaf-toast-bread-white-bread-slice-of-bread

Beautiful Mine

“Feels good just to be alive

On a day like today

I see the world through different eyes

On a day like today

Sometimes all the stars align

And everything is okay

And everybody says ‘Hey’

On a day like today”

(On A Day Like Today, Amy Sky 2012)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_qC_3xMGm8

            It is difficult to embrace beauty when life is so ugly. It can be a challenge just to face each moment, even without all the pressure we place upon ourselves to seize the day and appreciate one’s lot in life. Gratitude is a conscious choice. I am not sure I would feel the same way I do about living if I had not been encouraged by experience to do just that. Life is dark, volatile and very unattractive at times. Life is also rich, and wondrous and good for the soul. I guess you get what you pay for. Still, I find myself refreshed and able to go on better after witnessing great beauty. Something moves within me and I wish to linger in that place. My entire life, I have had little reason to embrace the world around me so any reasons that I do have tend to make it all worthwhile. There are times when the grandness of nature and the creativity of mankind leave me breathless. When I come face to face with something inspirational, I am reminded that there is more to this life than we know. All you have to do is look around you and you can see it. You can feel it. It is often quite a powerful thing. Sometimes you have to let life flow over you, stopping only to see what is before you rather than beyond or behind you. I now wish for those moments of awe. I search out the view, whether in the city or on a country road or sitting beneath all those stars. This world sometimes takes me away. It is an otherland unto itself.  More often than not, there is beauty in all that I see.

           

            I had to wait almost 3 years before I was allowed to take the plunge. I had been permitted on the 5 metre board but the 10 metre board would have to wait until I grew. I am a swimmer, I always have been and, to be clear, have always been very strong and able when it comes to the water. Years later, I completed my instructor’s certificate and could have been a lifeguard had I chosen to be. Swimming has little to do with diving. Although I had no real training, I wanted to climb up to that 10 metre platform so bad I could taste it. The Donald D. Summerville Olympic Pool offered multiple swimming areas but the monolith in question garnered all my attention. Located along the shoreline of Lake Ontario, this Toronto recreational centre sits only a few seconds away from the sand. I started my ascension like any prepubescent boy would. I had trepidation but it only made me want it more. Up I went, stair after stair. I walked out on the diving platform, right to the edge so I could jump. I was fearless. In a heartbeat, I was overtaken. The view of the lake and miles of beachfront mingled with the Toronto Islands in the background. The panorama stretched off into the distance. I had never seen anything so beautiful, so lovely. It moved me despite my youth. I just stood there as the lineup behind me started to back up down the staircase. All of a sudden, someone shouted, “Hey kid, are you gonna jump or what?” So I did.

            My family lived in the Greater Toronto Area in the 1960s and 1970s. At the time, you could not see the downtown core of the actual city from where we were located in the suburbs. From our vantage point in North York, the horizon was rather empty. In the summer of 1973, the city of Toronto began building the CN Tower. For years, one could look out on the distance and witness the rising. Bit by bit, little by little, it rose from invisible to unavoidable. They finally finished on April 2^nd, 1975 although the Tower did not open to the public until June 1976. For almost two years, I watched in wonder as the obelisk-like column arose from what appeared to be nothing. I could hardly wait to see it in person. We moved from Toronto to Strathroy in August of 1976 and I was unable to experience the Tower up close and personal. I did not get the chance to return to my hometown until spring of 1981. The English department from my high school organized a trip to Toronto and we set off to the city to watch Macbeth at the then-O’Keefe Centre. The play starred Glenda Jackson and Christopher Plumber and remains the most cherished work I have seen in live theatre. It was stunning and kept me captive the entire time. When the drama was done, we all headed a few blocks away to stand at the base of the CN Tower. I was almost tearful that the moment had arrived. Finally, my ever evolving friend would rest before me. I was not disappointed. I stood with my head tilted up for as long as they would let me. I even reached out and touched the thing. It may have been made of concrete and steel but it was beautiful just the same. I have stood beneath that structure 1000 times since then. Every time, I am amazed at the magnificence and beauty of such a construction. I am bewildered, not so much by the idea of it rather by the actual physical structure itself. It confirms my faith that men can do anything if we set our minds to it. We can even reach for the stars.

            Algonquin Provincial Park is approximately 280 kilometres north of Toronto.  Located in south-eastern Ontario, Canada, the playground covers 7,653 km² and was established as a Provincial Park in 1893. Named a National Historic Site of Canada in 1992, the designation recognized the area as the oldest Provincial Park in Canada. The vastness of the park’s interior holds escarpment, thousands of lakes and a wildness not known in the city. With over 2400 bodies of water, the area attracts day-trippers and campers alike. We signed in to the cottage. With 5 children, my parents had piled into that old red Volkswagen van and we rode from Strathroy, past the big city and arrived at our new home away from home. It was a quaint motel disguised as an outpost. It was surrounded on all sides by the tremendous forest that is the park. On the next day, we hiked. Beaver Trail is but one of the multiple hiking paths you can adventure on. The group of us headed into the dense to discover the view. We trudged, not an easy feat, considering. My youngest brother was disabled at birth but my father managed to carry him on the entire journey. At the top, there was great beauty. One might have imagined that this panorama would be the highlight of this trip for me, but it was not. If nothing else, nature is unpredictable and consistently surprising. With the intent of beating the morning rush, we got up at 5 AM and were ready to leave around 6 AM. As we finished packing the car, it roared. Just down the way stood this enormous beast. I had not encountered such a large animal before. It was as big as my childhood ego. We all stood in wonder. The silence was encompassing and the moose started to move towards us. It was this moment that I remember the most. There was a magnificence to the creature I had not witnessed with the deer and livestock I had seen. It took my breath away, it really did. Such literal beauty I have rarely encountered again. This experience was pure childhood joy. It took me and it took me well. The entire time, as the moose moved about, I kept looking for that damn squirrel.

            The first time I saw an ocean was in August of 1976. The trip to get there was almost as significant. From Toronto to Rexton, New Brunswick runs around 1450 kilometres. We travelled right up the St. Lawrence seaway. I spied with my childhood eyes, whales swimming along beside us. Several very white beluga whales bobbed in and out of the stream. Later, a school of Atlantic white-sided dolphins approached the sea as we did. They dodged and weaved and skimmed across the water. I just sat in the van as it sped along and I gazed at all that wonder. The day after our arrival in Rexton, we headed down to the beach at last. My toes dipped in and I was thrilled. Not even the hundreds of dead jellyfish down the shore could sully my indoctrination. Actually, I walked alone through that sea of jellyfish. It was humbling to witness such death, such randomness and such capriciousness. To go from having witnessed the glory of those whales of August, to the graveyard before me, was a little overwhelming. Sometimes such adult notions are not always comfortable for a growing boy. I just kept walking until the carcasses ran out. I had no idea how far I had travelled on my quest. I turned around and headed back from whence I had come. The sight of it all stopped me. In this southern direction, the skyline completely changed. The bluffs in the distance seemed mere reflection of the sand below. The entire sightline was filled by it. It seemed to stretch on forever and ever. I have never forgotten that moment and I pray I never do. Apparently, in life there is beauty and there is even a sad beauty to death, although they are not exclusive to each other.

           

            

            While the east coast granted my first dip into the ocean, it was the west coast that cemented my love of the sea. From the Gulf of Mexico to Hudson Bay, I have rarely been more enchanted than while watching the waves. Only a starry sky could ever compete. More often than not, I would swim in each just to say that I had. I had already done the whole “beach thing” while vacationing in Los Angeles. I had some idea just what lied in waiting. With Hollywood out of the way, I could focus on my true direction. There is a scene from the movie Foul Play (1978), starring Goldie Hawn and Chevy Chase, that always captivated me. The song, Ready to Take the Chance Again (Barry Manilow), plays over the opening credits as Goldie and her yellow Volkswagen Bug head down the California coastline. I remember watching that intro over and over again on the VCR. It left me longing. I also noticed the backdrop to several scenes from the original Planet of the Apes franchise. Hard cliffs and secluded beaches simply made me want it all the more. We got to Big Sur and we checked in at my friend James’ place. It was on loan thanks to his friends and we settled in for a few days of rest and relaxation. The noise of city living did not follow me here. The abundant forests covered almost every square inch of land. Roads dissected one area from another. We sat on the beach and we admired the scene. For  hours, we danced with the late afternoon sun. As darkness approached, the moon shone brighter and the depth of shadow fell across the water. Suddenly, as if by magic, the moon reflected and the sand turned into the color purple. It was so beautiful and so moving that I cried a little, sitting on the beach watching the landscape become like a lavender blanket. I have seen a lot of things on my travels. I have witnessed such beauty, such majesty but nothing has even come close to the experience I had that evening. I just sat there, my jaw dropped almost to my rib cage. The experience moved me. A storm started to move in and the moon disappeared from over the Northern California sky. I cannot remember the last time I was witness to something so beautiful, so fulfilling. Even the fading of it left me speechless, sitting there breathing, watching the dimming of the day.

            I have been through New York City several times over the years. I never stayed for long as I was usually travelling though Manhattan by train or Greyhound bus. My first memory of the place is grand and spectacular and energizing. The George Washington Bridge ferried me into this unknown. Heading across the Hudson River made me feel like I was sojourning into someplace surreal, someplace where the mythos ruled the reality. As we approached the crossing, I felt like I was dropping by rollercoaster. My heart beat loud in my head, and for a moment I lost my breath. I couldn’t absorb what was before me. I had always dreamed of this place, and how it would feel to go there and be part of a New York State of Mind. The city laid out just beyond the bridge. The view seemed to be all encompassing and I felt like a 10 year old discovering a stash of money. I could not believe my eyes. It was beautiful, and almost everything about it was intact. In the distance still stood the Twin Towers, nestled by sight to the Empire State Building. I noticed these icons right away. They floated in a sea of metal and glass and time. The entire skyline looked overcrowded and stuffed together. I have never forgotten my welcome to that city. I am convinced that I felt the same sense of wonder, every time I went to hang out in Gotham. I was driven to see this site but it was experiencing it that really made all the difference. Not even Toronto, with the CN Tower, SkyDome and 200 years of progress can match the awe-inspiring quality of the New York City skyline. My bucket list has only a few remaining tasks I need to complete before death takes me to a new set. Christmas in New York would be a dream come true for me and my partner. Unfortunately, any trip to the United States will have to wait until President Trump has been demoted or impeached. It’s a matter of principle regardless of how one might feel about the view. It will have to wait like I do.

            The most comforting part of my parents’ home has always been the night sky.

The town of Strathroy is located 40 kilometres west of London, Canada. It rests in the heart of south-western Ontario and lies approximately 70 kilometres from the United States border. There is little city glow out in the country. Despite development over the last decade, the evening sky still darkens and the stars still come out to play. The backyard of my youth introduced me to the wonders of this universe. I remember spending warm summer nights lying on a sleeping bag with my siblings staring at the vastness of space. While the stars changed with the season, the view of them never did. It was deep, clear and glorious and remains always surprising. Come August (the 11^th through the 13^th) and the Perseid meteor shower was revealed in predawn splendour. Perhaps the most inviting part of that backyard is the depth of the scenery. You could see glimpses of our galaxy mixed with distant stars and all those asteroids. Every night, weather permitting, the sky was filled with them. In 1997, the Hail Bopp comet sat so clear in the night sky that you could see the tail burning away. My admiration is cumulative. I have been sent into wonder so many times out back that I often think there is nothing more beautiful than the night sky of my family. Not even the ocean can measure up to the sheer magnificence of the ether. Anytime I have taken the time, I am spellbound and rather lost in it. Yes, the sky at night varies from place to place. What someone in Sydney, Australia sees in the heavens we never will, not by our own device at any rate. I have laid out under the stars all over North America. I have seen pieces of this universe most people will never get the chance to. The stars at night really do shine bright, deep in the heart of Texas. In the city, not so much. My friend James, who just moved back to Ontario from San Francisco, had not seen the North Star or Big Dipper in over a decade. He claims to have been clouded to their beauty due to all the city glow. I rarely make it to my folks’ place during the evening hours. My visits usually consist of a day trip. I miss that sky. I have my very own now. Life is Paris, Ontario is rich and so is the view. It may well have been dimmed by the stupid street light at the end of our driveway but out in the yard, you still get the full gamut. Once again, I am lucky to be taken away. I am still overcome by the beauty of it all. Each glimmer still takes my breath away. This world holds great beauty and home is were the start is.

            It’s about 60 kilometres from our home in Paris to Selkirk, Ontario. Near the defunct Nanticoke coal plant, Selkirk, a small country village, is not a destination so much as a point along the way. Located just north of Lake Erie, it is here that you head south towards the water. One last turn and then the tour begins. Stretching out for more than 30 kilometres, Lakeshore Road is an enchanting and quaint thoroughfare. It is a cottager’s wet dream. Kilometre after kilometre, rows of little cottages blend in with enormous million dollar homes and the lake itself. Unlike Grand Bend or Port Burwell, one does not travel here with the intention of swimming. You couldn’t if you wanted to. Everything here is private, private, private. All the way down you would be hard pressed to even find a spot to pull over. Apparently, it’s an exclusive club with thousands of members. This jaunt is all about the scenery and the amalgamation of man and nature. This stretch of road is littered with visitors of all shapes and sizes. The background sometimes roars and sometimes lies quiet, but it is always there, waiting for recognition. The rest is overcrowding. It would be difficult to find one green space that didn’t belong to someone. It can seem quite cluttered but it is a lovely mess. Many an abode stands against the great lake behind them. Little nooks act like refuge that some stranger will never know. The road runs until the road runs out. Along the way, the unification of man and nature is clear. Some of this and some of that makes the experience a beautiful thing every time my partner and I visit. It sort of calls to us. We revisit this area at least twice a year. It makes for a great day trip and a better memoir.

            It’s a beautiful world. Quite often, it can feel like all that bounty is mine alone to behold. I have never been one not to notice. I was always just a little more aware than a regular Joe would be. I have had many more moments with this type of beauty than I can recollect. There have been so many that my mind could not possibly remember them all. It is the greatest effect that holds the greatest recall. It has always been this way for me. It is not so much what I see but rather how it makes me feel. I spent the latter part of my youth trying to capture the wonders of North America. I travelled across the United States and Canada in an attempt to entertain myself. I even managed to drop into Mexico for an afternoon. I am home now. It is quiet and peaceful and there I am well with my soul. It is familiar, this feeling I get. Whether sipping coffee on my front porch or sitting around the pit with Ben and a bag of marshmallows, each moment has its own beauty. If it wasn’t for this beauty, both natural and man-made, I do not believe I would have made it through. They energize me. Without them, there would be little to hold my breath for. Such exposure always lifted me up, each and every time. It restored my faith in something more. Each glimpse is now a mere reaction to where I have been and what I have seen. It has all been so beautiful and it has all been mine. You do not need some otherland to appreciate your life. Look around, there lies the exquisite in all our misery. There is more to this world than we know. The view can bring you to life. It reminds me that the one sure way to survive almost anything is by noticing everything.

“If you see the moon

Rising gently on your fields

If the wind blows softly on your face

If the sunset lingers

While the cathedral bells peal

And the moon has risen to her place

You can thank the Father

For the things that He has done

Thank Him for the things He’s yet to do

And if you find a love that’s tender

If you find someone who’s true

Thank the Lord

He’s been doubly good to you”

(Doubly Good to You, Amy Grant 1984)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pz_8WR6gkZ0

Photos

https://www.thespec.com/community-static/73968-donald-d-summerville-pool/  

CN Tower

September 2014

https://www.discovermuskoka.ca/things-to-do/provincial-national-parks/algonquin-park/

https://www.flickr.com/photos/daiseykat/391259082

https://www.ourbreathingplanet.com/purple-sand-beach/

http://ramlogue.com/george-washington-bridge-loop/

http://dailyhive.com/toronto/quadrantid-meteor-shower-2017

Lakeshore Road

Lake Erie, Ontario 2014

Paris, Ontario

Summer 2017

Sources

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

Requiem

            The older I get, the more I appreciate the life I have lived. It has been a fun ride, despite the speed. I have seen some scary shit. I have experienced great joy and known great beauty. Quite often, they all tend to blend together. From the time I was a boy, I seemed to notice the world around me. I took inventory as I moved forward. I remember much of it, as clear as if it was yesterday. I do not know of many people who can claim a happy childhood. Although my childhood was not perfect, it would seem it was far better than most. I can go back in my mind and I can see just how lovely things were for me. Despite outside forces, I had a good relationship with God, Jesus and even the devil. I had many friends, my family was intact and my social game was rather successful. I miss my Mom but she was with me at this time. Regardless, I could usually be found sitting by myself, playing with my action figures or reading my comic books. I really just wanted to be left alone. Even then, I could not always handle all the noise. I had to escape to find peace. It is from here that my Otherland began to form. Usually, it was at the expense of others. I couldn’t have cared less. I still prefer to be alone. It was not so much about having people around me so much as it was having people be quiet and letting me breathe. I have always preferred the silence, even when playing with others. I have always liked myself and preferred my own company to most others. I have always said that you can discover yourself in your history. My childhood apparently built me strong. It made me who I am and how I feel about most things from my life. I can re-examine it all like it was a nightmare but I much prefer to view things from a more productive place. I have much to be grateful for. I have so much more than most people will ever have. In spite of this growing older crap, I can still go back and pluck specific memories of just how content I was back then. I can draw upon all the darkness and how I escaped from its clutches. These are not random episodes, mere seconds in a lineup of minutes, mere minutes in a cascade of hours. I can flip through most of them, day by day. They are self-contained and honest. They prove that I am right in my thinking and somehow I always have been. I really have had a wonderful life.

“Your baby blues

So full of wonder

Your curly cues

Your contagious smile

And as I watch

You start to grow up

All I can do

Is hold you tight”

            Fenside Public School rests in the heart of North York, a suburb of greater Toronto, Canada. In the 1970s, I covered Kindergarten though grade 5 at this elementary station. It was an easy life. I was intelligent, good in school, healthy as a horse and, I have been told, a delight (at least to my mother). I loved her just as much then as I do now. I remember there was always this sadness within me. It made me walk home from school alone some days. I was melancholy when it overtook me. It seemed liked there was something missing from within me, an empty I could not ignore. I have often wondered if my relationship with God didn’t somehow make me even sadder. Both Him and Jesus seemed far worse than the fallen angels I was supposed to fear. Perhaps, it was more chemical than anything else. I often wonder if my emotional state has not constantly been bombarded by my Bipolar disorder. I always assumed, and was told, this imbalance began in my mid-teens but I imagine it has always been there. I wasn’t just sad, I was stolen. I sank into a sea of what the fuck is happening. It has always been there, deep inside. I led a happy life in spite of this void. Fenside Public School was around 8 blocks from our home. You could walk to and fro in a quick minute or two. It remains a very middle class neighbourhood. It looks the same despite my 40 years of absence. I thought it was safe and comforting and it guided me along the road. Every weekday, I walked to the school in the morning, home for lunch and back around noon, and finally ended up where I had earlier began. It really wasn’t that much of a feat, unless there was heavy snow. I was in one of those moods as I journeyed home at the end of my day. I was about halfway down Roywood Drive, walking on the sidewalk than runs all the way down to the corner near our house. The car pulled up to just past me and I could see him unrolling his front passenger window. When I got beside the vehicle, he asked pretty standard fare for a child mutilator. He stretched over and he opened his door. Unfortunately for him, I paid attention to the news and was well aware that this type of situation happens all the time. My parents conditioned me to run as fast as I possibly could, so I did. Still, I almost pissed my pants. I am grateful I did not look at his face or connect with his eyes. This event was horror enough for any child. It was even worse that I was aware of what might have happened. When I think of what could have been, it reminds me of how fortunate I have always been, regardless of any circumstance from my life. I have had bumps and rough patches on this road but all in all, I have done pretty good. I don’t play with action figures anymore but I most certainly collect comic books. I also do not dwell on those things from the past that are counterproductive to my mental health. Like in my youth, I have a real problem dealing with so much noise.

            I can recall almost every Halloween I have known. My infant recollection is very limited, if not at all, but from the age of 5 or so, I can picture myself standing in one room or another, tingling with glee at the idea of roaming the neighbourhood hunting for candy. I still do this once a week but it’s usually in the Wal-Mart rather than at some house down the street. The list of characters I have costumed as over the years is quite simple yet silly and rests with my memories, each and every one. I was cute little ghost one year and than a big black bat the next. I have been a witch, a woman and a warrior. This one night meant complete freedom for me. Despite living in the largest city in Canada, we were safe to wander the streets. Regardless of that old man and his thwarted plans, I cannot recall one Halloween night (living in Toronto) that wasn’t sheer joy for me. I don’t want to speak for my siblings but I imagine it was the very same way for each of them. Of all the cast of characters I have played, my favourite is the Bruce Lee character Kato from the 1966-1967 television series The Green Hornet. The show aired on ABC and introduced the world to Lee before he entered any dragon. The Green Hornet is a masked vigilante, fighting crime with cool weapons, a wicked car and the martial-arts expert Kato as a sidekick. Dressed all in black, with a dark chauffeur’s cap and eye mask, Kato kicked the crap out of anyone who got in his way. He was terrific and the entire world noticed. I already had. Even though I watched the show in syndication throughout the 1970s, I was caught up in the attraction. The series had been cancelled after one season but I discovered it one Saturday afternoon in reruns and was hooked.  I have the complete Green Hornet comic book series, several in fact. I am hunting for the DVD/Blu-Ray collection as we speak. I absolutely loved watching Kato on TV but actually dressing up as Kato threatened me with heaven. So I stood there, from head to toe, dark as any dark knight might be. I was unattended and able to come and go from my chaperone as I pleased. Suburb living meant candy and lots of it. We had to use pillow cases to avoid breakage and spillage. When I got to each door, the experience was different. When anyone dared to ask me who I was, who my costume was meant to be, I did a little bitch fest at them. “I am Kato, from the Green Hornet,” I would snap at their face. Even then I was a grumpy Gus. This night however, I was and always will be, an ebony avenger, a mid-Knight and a blast from the past.

“Story books are full of fairy tales

Of kings and queens and the bluest skies

My heart is torn just in knowing

You’ll someday see the truth from lies”

            Housing 5 children, our 3-bedroom abode lacked much free space throughout my childhood. My sister Tracey, for obvious reasons, got a room of her own. So did my folks. The 4 boys got bunk beds and several years of no privacy. I claimed the top bunk, just inside the door and over my oldest brother Alan. Phillip matched up to me on the other side of the room with my brother Chris underneath him. It was a crowded house. Regardless, I cannot locate, in my memory, any real conflict we shared while we lived like an army base. There are, of course, moments of tension I can recall but nothing significant or long lasting. My view of the top of the stairs and down the hallway was a prime location for spying on almost everyone. I had a vantage point and often watched my parents go to and fro. I lost a part of my innocence laying in that bed. One Christmas Eve, I witnessed my mother carrying toys down to the tree below. At one point, she held a giant doll, which I assumed was for my sister. The next morning and that doll sat pretty underneath our real tree. When it was revealed to be from Santa, things changed for me. Realizing Santa Claus was not real did not take away my love of all things superhero. As a matter of fact, I seemed to go deep into myth at this time. Every action figure I owned was assigned a superpower. Every comic I collected was just full of them. I saw it in the gumball machine right away. I thought it would only cost me a dime to get it. It turned out to be an expensive venture. I had to go into my comic book money to keep playing. At $1.60, it fell down the chute and into my clutches. My precious. In spite of my loyalty to Marvel Comics, my hard earned prize came from the DC universe. I always thought the Green Lantern was cool, despite his association. Now, like Hal Jordan, I possessed the powerful totem. It was emerald green and both smooth and silky in appearance. The Green Lantern Corp insignia was prominent and I shook a little as I took it out of the plastic egg it came in. In the car, on the way home, I first donned my mighty force. For months, I was caught up in a different place. Everything was about that damn ring and the world that came with it. I have always supposed that during this episode I was annoying, to say the least. I even suppose the reason someone took my ring was valid at the time. It disappeared, never to be seen again. I had only left it on the window ledge to dry after I washed it. By the time I got back to it, it was gone. I was heartbroken and still remember how I felt. I spent the next few weeks hunting for it, just like candy. In all my days since then, in every antique market, consignment store and thrift shop, I have never managed to recapture that glorious ring or the way it made me come alive inside. It’s strange how something so small, or insignificant at the time, can steal you away into another place. More than 40 years have gone since that ring went into infamy. I have to admit that I still watch for one as I am strolling from booth to booth and table to table. I would love to recapture that part of my innocence, that part of my youth. I fear it would be fleeting. I fear that this otherland is closed for business.

            I have to admit I was a little shit, at times, growing up. I suppose I still am, to some degree. As I mentioned earlier, it seems to me now that I was greatly affected by my non-diagnosis back then. I often could not control my emotional state and that usually affected my social state. I was often mean just to piss people off. I was often nasty so they would just leave me alone. Sometimes, I was just plain grumpy. No otherland could tend to my sense of isolation even though it was easier to hide than face another day. I used to get so sad, so alienated by my gloom and doom scenarios. There was no real reason (in my mind) for being that way. Although I no longer experience this state, only my medication has seen to that. Without it, I am sorrow and distance and miserable. I have carried the sadness with me throughout my entire life. When that dog bit me at 7 years old, I had been wallowing in my own emptiness and swimming in a world turned to blue. When he came to me, I thought it was safe to pet the puppy but I was wrong. He took most of my right hand into his trap and he slammed it shut. For decades, I feared dogs even more than spiders. This experience really taught me to be careful. Even the most friendly monster will still chew your face off if given half the chance. Sometimes, I was that monster. We used to walk to Graydon Hall by passing under the Don Valley Parkway. From one side to the other was a brief journey and we made it often. A large wooded area, an abandoned riverbed and tons of hills and valleys met one’s arrival. It was a refuge among all the city dwelling. We use to build forts. We claimed our ground. We even made booby traps to keep people away. Having established our territory, we whittled a large branch down to a point and latched it against a neighbouring stump. Anyone caught entering that fort would be greeted with blunt force. I loved the idea and encouraged setting the trap. My brother Phillip refused help while doing so and he pissed me right off. I have always been a powder keg. Once the trap was set, we stood back to witness the magnificence. My brother got all proud and cocky. With one quick tap, the weapon sprung out of its place and slashed him right across the face. Blood poured. My sister stayed with him as I ran ahead to inform our mother. When I got away from them, I laughed a little. These days, you can find Graydon Hall but it is not the same. Most of the woods have long ago been removed and the dried up river got up and went away. There are several large condo towers sitting right in the spot where we used to play. I have tried, on one occasion, to see if I could find our fort, or at least what is left of it. Over forty years later and it’s as long gone as my behavioural imbalance. The condition may remain underneath it all, sometimes it calls out to me in the middle of the night. I can hear it but at least I am no longer prone to being a monster.  

“When the clouds will rage on

Storms will race in

But you will be safe in my arms

Rains will pour down

Waves will crash around

But you will be safe in my arms”

            I take an awful lot of medication to control my Bipolar disorder. The darkness that hung over me as I aged has found an otherland of its own. I rarely pay a visit. I am under control. I just wish I had been treated from day one. Regardless, I am aware of the monster inside me. I am convinced that God dwells within me just as much, if not more. I still believe, no matter, that He is somehow near me, watching over me, even if I can’t see Him. I have finally come to a place in my life where I can handle all the noise. I suppose I don’t need to be untreated to be unhappy but comparatively, there is nothing to compare. I have learned  how to swim in that river without trying to drown. Despite the constant chaos that comes from living, I have managed to find a happy place. My demeanour may be gruff but that just comes with the territory. I embrace the simple things, the random moments of this life that normally pass us all by. In a sense, a light bulb went off when my current medication kicked in. I actually have a normal life. I strangely find myself repeating. I am drawn to my defining moments, moments I can look back on with clarity and assurance. I finally see the truth more than the lies. I even mimic my childhood in the most friendly of ways. There is something sweet and familiar about doing things that you once did as a kid.

            When we purchased our home in Paris, Ontario in 2015, the life of a wild man was finally put to rest. The longer I take my medication, the more balanced and complete I tend to be. Stress and circumstance occasionally try to push me across the line but I seem to have control of myself, more often than not. I am inclined to still be a powder keg but you really have to work to make me blow my top. I am much more tolerant now than I have ever been then. I am calm and as a result, much less volatile. I find myself reliving my past while creating my present. Even Halloween remains essentially the same for me. We decorate and then carve pumpkins. We get so much candy that we can eat it as we please. For each child who comes to the door, I consume one chocolate bar. Tit for tat, I say. I eat so much candy that I dare not check my blood sugar levels for a week after. I still collect comic books and I am still compelled to dress like a hero. Every Halloween night since we moved here has found me wrapped up in costume. The last few years saw me as Captain America, shield and all.  It made me feel like a kid again each and every time someone knocked at the door. The charm of Halloween rests in the memory of it, not just the immediate gratification it gives millions of children every October 31^st. I never would have imagined that at some point in my life I would find peace. I also never imagined that a normal life would be enough for me. When I look back on the way things were, I am reminded they are no longer like that, not to any real degree. Still, I often feel like throughout the entire journey, I was safe. While I have little trouble relying on some happy place to take me away, to my surprise I would rather dwell here, in reality, than return to that otherland. 

“Castles, they might crumble

Dreams may not come true

But you are never all alone

‘Cause I will always,

Always love you”

(In My Arms, Plumb 2007)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jvEDmGweXo

Photo

http://www.sana.org.sg/index.php/2018/03/05/innocence-lost-found/

http://schnettepics.de/index.php?showimage=158

https://www.toronto.ca/data/parks/prd/facilities/complex/649/index.html

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Green_Hornet_(TV_series)

Pot Holes

            On October 17^th, 2018, marijuana became legal in Canada. This fall, my home and native land has become only the second country in the world to legalize the herb. Uruguay was “the first country to legalize marijuana’s production, sale and consumption back in December of 2013.” The truth is that Canada has been tolerant of medical marijuana for many years. For more than a decade I have used medical marijuana, the dispensary I frequent is more like a bank than a den of sin and iniquity. Change has come. The general decriminalization of the product has already led to huge profits for those dabbling in the production and distribution. Government has stepped into it, of course. You will be “allowed” to carry up to 30 grams on your person in public. You will be “allowed” to cultivate and grow up to 4 plants for personal use. There will be an immediate $1.00 tax on every gram, heading straight into the Federal coffers. Marijuana must be purchased from “retailers regulated by provinces, territories or when neither of those options are available, federally licensed producers.” Changes to the impaired driving laws have been implemented “to address repercussions for driving under the influence of cannabis.” The entire world around us is evolving, even if we can’t see it. Change is usually slow but in this matter, things have taken a more rapid advancement. It took decades to become a reality but it just happened overnight. People now need the time to just get used to the idea and move past any moral consideration. After all, God Himself told us years ago that cannabis is okay to consume.

“Then God said, ‘I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food.’”

(Genesis 1:29, NIV)

            I was the epitome of a good Christian, or at least I played one on TV. Camouflaging  myself in the Church just seemed like the safest way for this abomination to hide. My life as a teenager was in constant flux. The part of me that is Bi-Polar ran new and free and wild at this time. This part of my youth holds some of the darkest times of my life. I barely made it through. All the while, I managed to maintain the appearance of righteousness. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink. I most certainly did not partake in illegal drug use. I was boring by today’s standards. I dated good Christian girls so that I didn’t have to put out. Other than kissing a few women, I have never engaged in heterosexual play. Not once, not ever. I suppose based on Biblical criterion, I am still a virgin. In the summer of my 17^th year, I had my first beer after cutting grass on a very hot day. It was well into my twenties before I tried it again. The same goes for my use of illegal drugs. The first time I smoked a joint, I was 20 years old. Ironically, the first time I got stoned was on the date I met my future partners. August 31^st has always been a major touchstone for me. It is there that I began a life with Doug and then Ben, but it was years before either of them that I started a lifelong relationship with Mary Jane. I remember it well as I enjoyed it immensely. All that jumble in my head seemed to silence itself the more I consumed. I have no idea why I accepted the joint from my friend. I thought the hot tub was more than enough heat for one night. I reluctantly accepted the hand off. I have never turned back. Given the right strain, primarily an Indica, medical marijuana has literally stopped me from killing someone, including myself. I was not successfully treated for my chemical imbalance until my early 40s. All that time and I used weed to somehow stabilize the voices and the feelings and the impulses. It didn’t solve the problem but it helped. I do not need to over-justify the usage. The experiences I have had with cannabis have been nothing if not enlightening. We demonize those things we wish to control. In nature, there is no disease without a cure. What one claims as evil, another claims as heaven. A mistress can be better than a wife. When it can be too much, she is there. When it hurts so bad, she cares. She has never brought me harm. She has always been my nurse, since that very first time. She always leaves me on a high note.

“Everything that lives and moves about will be food for you. Just as I gave you the green plants, I now give you everything.” (Genesis 9:3, NIV)

            Before what would become a decade of  higher learning, I took a year off at the end of high school and worked for my Dad. Working at Strathroy District Collegiate Institute provided me with a means of later attending university but also offered tons of cold hard disposable cash. I moved into a place with my friend Kevin and tried my hand at independent living. He was a pothead. I was soon to be. We smoked and smoked, then we smoked some more. One evening, Kevin called from a friend’s place in London and asked me to bring in a bag containing 4-5 ounces of primo shit. I gladly took the opportunity to head into the city. I had no idea that the license plate on that 1979 Dodge Magnum had expired. I also did not realize a police officer had discovered just that. I suppose, since the apartment was in downtown Strathroy, it figures that out of all the cars in the area he had to notice mine. I was just speeding up as I left town. The lights were not pretty and the siren’s sound was not sweet. With so much weed, sitting on the front seat, I floored the gas and sped away. Escape by flight. I managed to get far enough away from the chase to roll down the passenger side window and toss the treasure into a sea of grasses at the side of the road. I stopped the car the moment the coast was clear. I put the car in park, turned it off and I just sat there. The officer pulled up, got out of his vehicle and proceeded to draw his gun on me. He ordered me out of the car and down on my knees. I thought he might well shoot me. It’s a good thing I am not a black man or Latino. After searching my person and the car, he asked me why I tried to flee. All I could come up with is that I had a manic episode because I had never been stopped by a cop before. There was  no evidence to the contrary. He found nothing and I gave him nothing. The court gave me a 3-year licence suspension. I was more than glad to take this punishment considering that each count of possession would have got me 10 years in federal custody. It was the lesser of two evils. Two days later and we retrieved all that weed from the side of the road. I thought of Quick-draw McGraw (the cop’s last name and his real nickname) when I lit the first blunt. All these years later and I have never transported that amount of weed for anyone, including myself. Once bitten, twice shy. I try not to smoke pot and drive and I don’t like to carry a large amount on my person. 3 years of buses and walking has proven to be a great deterrent. It is now October and not much will change but for the distribution method and the reality that I will no longer go to jail for the pleasure of having a joint. I have even considered using edibles.

“The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.”

(Genesis 1:12, NIV)

            The dispensary I have used for well over a decade is located in the east end of  Toronto, Ontario in an area known as “the Danforth.” On July 22^nd, 2018, Faisal Hussain opened fire along the Danforth, killing 2 and injuring 13. Going back through the village again was surreal to say the least. I did not feel safe. This has never been an issue with my dispensary. Mounted external and internal cameras, heavy security and an entrance door that reminds me of a U-boat safety latch, have all guaranteed a sense of control. I’m not sure what will happen to them after October 17^th. All that weed and all those edibles have been part of my life for so long that I would most certainly miss them. Although I like to simply smoke it, occasionally my partner and I have tried some of those laced treats. They are useful on long hikes, or watching a movie, or roaming through a convention centre looking for more comic books. The most powerful snack I have consumed is known as a Ginger Snap. It certainly has one. We each ate a cookie after we parked the car. By the time we got up to the ground level, I was overcome. I was riddled with the stuff. I think it ignited a hypomanic episode, but it may well have just been the drugs that made me feel like that. It was one of the least pleasurable moments of my life and I have never touched so much as a morsel since. It floored me. I had to sit down before I started screaming. He was just fine. For over 3 hours, we sat waiting for that extreme buzz to pass. It seemed to last forever. Harboured in between several skyscrapers, the courtyard and fountain served as refuge from the rest of downtown Toronto. There were people and pigeons everywhere. I can’t be sure just what bothered me more, the birds or all the ugly city folk. I have always been grateful that it was a lovely late September afternoon that I spent in outer space. I didn’t have to bake just because I was baked. The temperature got nowhere near as high as I did. The state I remember experiencing the most was one of dread; a sense of chaos, a lack of balance and an exaggerated fear of doom. I was flooded with panic and almost drowned in my tears. I never want to go there again, even if I get offered another cookie.

 

“Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” (1 Peter 5:8, NIV)

            In the last years of her life, my Mother’s diabetes advanced greatly. She developed ulcers on her feet and lower legs and was constantly scratching away any chance of healing. It was often painful and hindered her mercilessly. I made a suggestion. At first she shunned the idea. She could not see past the moral implications regardless of the health benefits she well knew, having been a nurse. We had discussed marijuana as medicinal and she agreed that it had assisted when I was still untreated for my Bipolar disorder. She would not hear of indulging. I explained that she would not be smoking anything, just applying cream, much like Vick’s VapoRub but with a much more pleasant odour. As time increased the lesions, she begrudgingly agreed to try it. For all the pills the doctors had prescribed, it only got worse and worse. I would only purchase one jar and if it didn’t work, I would never bring it up again. We had a deal. She was surprised at the small quantity for the price. I showed her how so little goes so far. Finally, she was willing to put her preconceived notions behind her. For $25.00, I purchased a cannabis based salve. The ointment didn’t smell like weed or look like weed so my Mom actually gave it a chance. I paid for it so she really had nothing to lose. I think she expected to get a buzz and seemed a little disappointed there wasn’t more of a kick to it. The salve itself is primarily for pain relief but is also a topical, anti-inflammatory agent. The main ingredient is cannabis Indica. The ointment also contains extra virgin olive oil, beeswax, wormwood, chickweed powder, teatree oil, cayenne, rosemary oil and vitamin E. The results were almost instant. By the time I got home that evening, the balm had started working. She never again had pain in her legs from ulcers. Eventually, she had no ulcers. With no ulcers, there was no itching and with no itching, she was able to fully heal. It was a miracle, it really was. Not for me or my theology but for my Mom. If an ulcer tried to return, she simply used the cream I had replenished. I know it may seem silly but being able to relieve even one negative from her miserable life meant the world to me. She knew it and told me so. Words cannot express how grateful I am to have lessened her lot in life, even if only for a few years. Mom came to understand marijuana relatively later in her life. She never smoked a doob, she never got a buzz. What she did do was allow nature to heal in its very own way. She finally understood there was more to it than just “The Devil’s Harvest.” Her journey with medicinal pot filled in the holes.

“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honour God with your bodies.” (1 Corinthians 6:19-20, NIV)

            I have smoked pot with my first partner Doug. It was more for entertainment value than anything else. My current partner Ben and I partake, we indulge. It serves a medical purpose, for both of us, but can be recreational. I’m not much of a drinker so a nice joint is always a pleasant surprise. I have smoked up my mother-in-law. I have smoked up with my Professors, a Rabbi and even an Oncologist. I have toked with a celebrity or two. Most of the people I have in my life have an open view on marijuana and its use. To most of us, it is just like drinking alcohol. I have always felt weed should be a controlled substance rather than illegal. Now that cannabis will be legal, the rules just got more complicated. Freedom always has a price. It may take a few years, eventually marijuana will be thought of in the same manner as other approved intoxicants. The medical and legal ramifications are exciting, as is the prospect of sitting on my front porch smoking a fat one. Not that I haven’t done that before but a new day is dawning. I could even ask a cop if he wanted a drag, as he passed me by. There will be absolutely nothing he can do to me now. I do not think of cannabis as a cure all nor do I think it does not have negatives attached to it. I only know that is has worked for me. It is an old friend that helped me through it all. Most people smoke up for the buzz. I have always smoked up because it took away the buzz. On October 17^th, we started again. Finally, instead of hiding, I can get what I need without fear of the repercussions. All I have to do is follow the rules and everything will be okay. I will never have anything to worry about again, well except for all those rules.   

“Therefore, since Christ suffered in his body, arm yourselves also with the same attitude, because whoever suffers in the body is done with sin. As a result, they do not live the rest of their earthly lives for evil human desires, but rather for the will of God. For you have spent enough time in the past doing what pagans choose to do—living in debauchery, lust, drunkenness, orgies, carousing and detestable idolatry. They are surprised that you do not join them in their reckless, wild living, and they heap abuse on you. But they will have to give account to him who is ready to judge the living and the dead. For this is the reason the gospel was preached even to those who are now dead, so that they might be judged according to human standards in regard to the body, but live according to God in regard to the spirit.” (1 Peter 4:1-6, NIV)

Photo

https://www.streetwisereports.com/article/2017/11/14/the-lowdown-on-getting-high-in-canada.html

Sources

https://www.cnn.com/2018/06/20/health/canada-legalizes-marijuana/index.html

https://www.canada.ca/en/services/health/campaigns/cannabis/canadians.html?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc_en&utm_content=cbd_1&utm_campaign=cannabis-18

https://www.ontario.ca/page/cannabis-legalization