Four Seasons

            I absolutely love winter, for the first few months at any rate. Like everyone else, as it reaches for spring, winter becomes unbearable in a sense. This inevitable disdain does not impede me from relishing early winter frost, and Christmas snow, and the January thaw. I find a snowstorm peaceful and shovelling, at times, can be quite rewarding. I am enchanted as I watch children build forts of ice and toss snowballs like they were weapons. Growing up, my favourite part of winter was tobogganing. I’m not talking about some kiddie ride, some safe plateau. I’m talking about a thrill ride, a steep slope and ice to boot. I have to admit it’s been many years since I indulged in this kind of rally. I have to go back to the mid-1990s to garner an example. It’s not that I gave up the joy, it’s just that with age comes the challenge of effort, effort and access. Almost every place one could luge has transformed into subdivision after subdivision. All the hills have found an alternate purpose. Some remain. The high school in Strathroy, Ontario may be long gone but the enormous hill out back carries on like it always did. There is something nostalgic about the place. So many experiences sliding down the slope, spinning out at the bottom and ending up face first in the white stuff. The last time I was gratified by this exhilaration, my nephew was still a young boy and the high school still existed. I remember the rush, the sting of chill and the laughter. It can seem silly to find so much joy in such a simple act. Resting my nephew on my lap and attacking the incline, made for a great photo op. I can still feel winter all around me. I still walk in the falling snow. I still smile watching birds dance in the blanket of white. I can feel myself gliding down one hill after another. I remember it all so well. It makes each winter a wonderland, an heirloom that comes back every year. I love winter, at least until New Year’s.

            Spring can be raw and damp and wet, oh so wet. As the winter thaws into a process of renewal and rebirth, so too do we mere mortals embrace the coming of this conversion. It’s a major changeover. What was once solid and cold and bitter now mushes with the warmer ways of this season. Soggy becomes a part of living, at least for a few weeks, sometimes more. Early spring brings the melt and later spring brings resurrection, both literally and figuratively. As Jesus heads off into heaven, heaven on earth returns again and again. All the flowers, all the green, such beauty slowly rupturing the season before. What once was covered in white now rises from the frost. Cometh the swampland. It can be a challenge to not get stuck in it. For me, my most daunting memory of spring comes at a cemetery. It had only been a month since he had been buried. With the thaw, it was time to remove all the flowers, the crosses, the terms of endearment from the grave. There were so many that the ground beneath seemed to not unfreeze. I cleared them all in random order. With my rake in hand, I stepped onto the mound, thinking it was still solid. I could not have been more wrong. I sank in, one foot after another, and headed for the box below. I used the rake to halt my descent. It reached to harder ground on either side and acted like a stopper. I dangled in the earth and stones. The entire experience was maddening. I cried out in good measure. For a moment, I felt like he was calling me, bidding me to join him in the mire and slush. I do not hold a good place for this memory. It has tainted the entire experience come warmer weather. Spring is a lovely time of year, once it gets going. Soon, the Lily of the Valley bloom and the black-eyed Susan’s smile at me. Life begins again, although not necessarily for all of us. Most times, we don’t get to come back and try all over again. Our rejuvenation is not guaranteed. Unlike with the dandelions, all the weeds, and the English Ivy in the front yard, there are no second chances. Spring is a time for launching new life while old life still keeps trying. It is fresh, and glorious and a miracle in itself. At the same time, it is decay and destruction. The constant yin and yang, the push and pull of nature, can often be more than one has bargained for. I try to shut it out. There is something to be said for denial and dismissal. I try not to dwell on that sinking feeling.

            In my teens and early 20s, I was a sun worshipper. I would lay out back for so long that I looked aboriginal. With nothing but a humble pair of shorts to cover me, I stayed in the sun for hours at a time. I was so obsessed with my color that I would raise my hands over my head and hold the position so my armpits got some tan. One summer in 1983, I fell asleep holding this stance. I slept for over an hour with my pits to the sun. By the time I woke up, the damage had been done. Let me just say that blisters in this location  are one of my least favourite conditions, ever. Summer is a time for outdoor activities. Fairs, festivals and Monster trucks are common here in Southwestern Ontario. Almost every town between Windsor and Kapuskasing welcomes one summer celebration after another. My hometown of Strathroy hosts the annual Turkey Festival come mid-July. Stratford, Ontario hosts art shows in the park running along the Thames River. From Rib fests in Kitchener and London, to the Taste of the Danforth in Toronto, summer food attracts huge crowds. Tiny places calling out for attention offer Street fairs and Tractor pulls, all bringing crowds to bask in the summer sun. I am not so good in all that heat. I now burn like a son of a bitch. In 1990, I attended the London air show. It was a clear and very humid day. I sat hatless, watching every plane go by with a sense of nostalgia and fascination. Like with my armpits, the blisters were not my favourite consequence. The top of my head looked more like a fried egg than a noggin. When I got home, I tried a cream to soothe my forehead. It was more like putty than lotion. Getting it all off ripped open each and every fester. I had to soak my head in the bathtub just to settle the sting. I have always been a swimmer. Even as a child, I spent as much of it as possible near the water. I trained as a lifeguard and excelled in lifesaving procedures. My heart was never in it for that glory. I simply loved to swim and I took advantage of anything that promoted me doing so. I have entered every Great Lake and bathed in both the main North American oceans. Unfortunately, there is something wicked coming this way and I mean in the water. Since 2000, I have not been able to walk into a Great Lake without breaking out in a rash. Lake Ontario is the worst offender. It can become rather inconvenient. It sucks no longer being able to swim in the rough. These days, I enjoy some heat and I don’t even mind sweating if the reason is right. I just try not to melt completely. Summer has become more about my garden than my tan lines. I appreciate a little colour here and there but I can’t be bothered to earn it.

            Who would imagine that so much death could be so beautiful? It is ironic that my favourite season of all comes with such decomposition. The world begins to change from deep green to vibrant, if only for the shortest of time. It’s like watching a pretty corpse rot on the spot. Autumn is falling leaves, and Halloween and cold overnights. In Southern Ontario, from late September to early November, it is orange and yellow and red for as far as the eye can see. It is breathtaking, at least if you pay attention. How could you not? Everywhere you go there is a rainbow, a line of colour unending until all those leaves finally drop. The wind brings a chill and finally you can wear your heavier clothes. As the shorts disappear into limbo, sweaters and long pants and my much favoured jacket all call to me for their freedom. Raking leaves is much more than a duty. It can be a joy if you get to watch someone else do it. Fall has always brought with it the most wonderful aroma. There is nothing more reminiscent of Autumn than the smell of burning leaves. It is now illegal to burn them within town limits, but when I was growing up in Strathroy, almost every home, from town end to end, had smouldering piles of dead things ablaze at the curb. Later in the season, the smell of pumpkin lingers on your hands after all the carving is done. Canadian Thanksgiving comes in October but with much less pomp and circumstance than how our American neighbours to the south celebrate. I bask in the season. I find serenity walking in a changing woods and peace driving along the highway, glimpsing tree after tree as they shed their bounty. There is no other season that makes me feel so good about something that really is kind of sad. Melancholy can be a warm thing if taken in good measure. As a boy, piles of rejected foliage built in depth and were pulled into each other. I used to love to run and throw myself into the middle of each. It was not only the little thrill I did it for. For me, there was nothing more compelling than the pissed off look of adults who had to start raking all over again. These days, all I am left with are the pretty pictures in my mind of Autumn days and frosty nights. I am fortunate that at this time of year, they coincide with the real deal. There is still magic however, mingled in with life, there is death but it can be such a lovely thing.

            Every season has something magical about it; whether those falling leaves in Autumn, rebirth in Spring, the warmth of Summer or crisp snow on a Winter’s day. It is so true that you always find what you are looking for. You can enjoy the heat or enjoy the cool inside, because of the heat. You can stomp through puddles or walk in the mud instead. You can make snow angels or simply pile up the white stuff. You can run through the leaves or bag them as you go along. Everything has this duality. It really all comes down to how you see the world. For me, the four seasons each bring great memory and much nostalgia. At times, a wave of sombre visits me as I visit them. Like clockwork, they work me every time. Year after year, each one chases me, always reminding me to breathe in deep and notice, one must notice. I am fortunate to live in the Great Lakes basin. We get the full foursome, every year. Each brings with it an unpredictability that is not always so gentle. Each season is qualified to stand on its own. I don’t dread them coming. I don’t try to wish them away. What I do try to do is embrace them, take from them those things which delight me decade after decade. I don’t need Vivaldi to inspire me. I don’t need anything but I’ll take it.

Photos

http://www.osnatfineart.com/painting/2156-every-season-has-its-change

Winter 1996

Strathroy Ontario

Spring 2016

Paris Ontario

Summer 2013

Port Burwell Ontario

Fall 2015

Brantford Ontario

What Not To ...

“If you are good for nothing else, you can still serve as a bad example.”

(Peter L. Berger, American-Protestant theologian)

            For over twenty years, they somewhat struggled through life together. It was not much of a challenge. They had everything anyone could want and so much more. Their only child was healthy and seemed to know what he was doing. In fact, the entire “picture” of their life together seemed less burden and more bounty. They would want for nothing, yet they would fight to gain more. Life seemed easy for this little family living out in the country. Life can change in the blink of an eye. One day he came home from work and his entire history had gone missing. The furniture was gone. His family was gone. Everything was gone but for some clothes and a few scrapings. His wife and child had betrayed him. He just about went out of his mind. The worst part was the reason, a reason everyone seemed to not mention, not ever. When his son came out of the closet months before, it had done little to provoke. When the same child expected him to still go to his wedding after robbing him blind, the line was drawn in the sand. To this day, they have not spoken. He was forced to carry on without them both. He needed time and space but he never really got what he needed. He just wanted to know why. No one ever said. He was abandoned in the silence. He was haunted by the question, haunted by the love he still carries to this day. A few years after the wedding from hell, she was building her life again. One summer day, not long ago it seems, she was with her mother in the country heading home. I will assume life looked pretty good from the passenger seat. The truck hit that side directly. She was decapitated, while her mother survived. Father and son were devastated by the news but managed to go on in life without her. If the truth be told, she might as well have never been here at all. So far, they continue to go forward without each other as well, not that anyone really cares.

“Your life is a personal lesson. For everyone else it is a loud example.”

(Richelle E. Goodrich, American author)

            The group of them played in the area on many occasions. The warehouses in this commercial and industrial district granted adventure each and every time. Two brothers always led the way. The other children simply went along for the ride, always ready to abandon the ship if it started sinking. There was little consideration given to silly things like danger and legalities. This clan came for an escapade, not the details. The five boys ranged in age from nine years through twelve years. They were only looking for fun, not trouble. The Milk factory called out to them the moment they spotted the logo. Chocolate milk would be their reward. All they had to do was find a spot to enter the operation. Once they had accomplished this feat, the rest was just so damn easy. A few arms full and the gluttony began. They drank so much that they made themselves sick. The brothers refused to lay down and die. A liquid diet always makes for a grand food fight. Eventually, both were covered in the brown. Carton after carton flew about with casual disregard. The price was about to be paid. It only takes one empty chocolate milk carton to knock down a hornet’s nest. The hive dropped and both the boys were swarmed and assaulted. Their crew now abandoned ship and fled as fast as they could from the torrent. The brothers were not so fortunate. From head to toe, both suffered one sting at a time. The experience seemed like hundreds of painful pinpricks, each coming after the other. The swarm was unforgiving and followed them even as they ran away in terror. By the time they arrived home, they both looked like a case of the Mumps had covered all their visible body parts. Their heads and necks were swollen. Their arms and legs were swollen. The horde had consumed them both. The greatest casualty for the boys was having stingers removed from almost every area of their bodies. They both stood in their shame as their mother plucked out each needle as if they were eyebrow hairs. No explanation was ever gathered from either of the boys. They never returned to that area of their city. It was a place they did not want to bee.

“Maybe the best way for you to get us to summon our better selves

 is for you to show us yours.” (Téa Leoni, American actress)

            At nineteen years of age, he thought he knew everything. He most certainly acted like he did. The 1984 red Firebird was filled to the rim and he headed towards the highway to smoke a joint. When he took the onramp just a little too fast, his bottle of water fell to the floor from the front passenger seat. He continued on and merged with the main road. The way was rather silent, with little traffic on the westbound lane he just entered. His speed increased to unsafe. When he finally reached over to pick up his bottle of water, the car swerved, hitting the roadside gravel and tossing him into abandon. He fishtailed and crossed the median into oncoming traffic. The car rested after flipping around to an eastbound position. He clipped a minivan which ended up in the ditch. A line of cars began to form behind him. The fleeting idea that he was going to die left well enough alone and he floored it and headed for safety. He just wanted to get home. He immediately left the chaos and went back onto the city streets from which he came. He zigzagged, panicked and made his escape by flight. He took the indirect way home, thinking he could evade the police and avoid consequence. Eventually, we all pay for our sins. In most cases, the cost is not so immediate. It was not long before the police appeared, and six cop cars surrounded him. It was like he was a criminal. The dark winter evening settled in at the edge of the road and his misery began to consume him. Regret hung like stockings on any Christmas Day. The holding cell was an instant reminder of the deed he had so stupidly committed. The act he would always remember and the shame would always linger. Given the chance, he would surely go back and do it all again. He would purge the entire experience. He would learn all the lessons without all fuss. Too bad for him that life doesn’t work that way. 

“If you can’t be a good example, then you’ll just have to be a horrible warning.”

(Catherine Aird, British author)

            The chest pains came between smoke breaks. Sometimes the discomfort was so severe that it laid him out on the floor. He would occasionally think he was about to die. It could have happened. He was playing with fire. When the threat would subside and some time had passed, he always ended up with a fag in his mouth. One after the other, he would suck a little more on death at least once an hour. He would even get up in the middle of the night to drain one. All those years built up like the plaque in his arteries. For weeks he tried to ignore the pain. It always passed so it was easy to dismiss. His physician referred him to a cardiologist. He had eleven cigarettes on the way to the appointment. It was the stress test that almost killed him. He almost fell on the floor. It felt like he was having a heart attack. A Cardiac CT scan was the next hurdle. He was not surprised by the images brought before his eyes. He had a block, primarily caused by smoking. Oh goody, he thought to himself. Each doctor that he left, each appointment he would keep, only gave him more reason to quit. Not that he needed one. In secret, he had a puff every now and then. There were even times he consumed heavily. It still owned  him on occasion, even when he went months without partaking. The medication they gave him does a most excellent job of hiding the problem. He feels so well that he sometimes forgets. Day after day he adds to this fate, puffing here and puffing there. Every once in awhile the angina reminds him, whether he wants it to or not. He carries on as if there was nothing to concern himself with, dragging away his lifetime, adding to the walls that have built up within him. He wishes it would end, that the power it has over him would fade like smoke, then he has another.

“You will finally have dignity when you realize that you are not on the path,

but have become the path for others.” (Shannon L. Alder, American author)

            The world constantly reminds her of the loss. Her husband is long gone. Her parents have joined him. Her son was the latest to go. Almost everyone she has loved in her time has disappeared without warning, always leaving her alone. She has gotten used to the pain, used to the loneliness and the emptiness and the weight of it. Her life has become a period of grieving. It has gone on for so long that she doesn’t really know another way to be. Her daily grind is more memorial service than anything else. When she rises, she cries. When she falls, she cries. The sorrow seems constantly with her although so many years have gone since then. At work, she is crippled by her secret state. They call her Mrs. Freeze for a reason. She can never let the facade shatter, not even for a minute. In public, she is exactly the same way. Her demeanour tells the story. She is unapproachable, stoic and elusive to any real contact. The world goes on without her when she finally arrives home at the end of the day. The place is like a temple to the dead. Pictures of her loved ones cover almost every surface in each room. There are monuments. Fragments of hair, the clothes someone wore, even the empty cologne bottle she got out of the trash on the day her husband died. Every morning she sits all alone. Every evening she is by herself. She will not take the chance again. She would rather be alone than to ever feel that way again. Her grief has become a touchstone of sorts, a constant reminder of how she will never again let things be.

“We ought not to let either our joy at their faults or our grief at their success be idle, but in either case we ought to reflect, how we may become better than them by avoiding their errors, and by imitating their virtues not come short of them.”
(Plutarch, ancient Greek biographer/essayist)

            We all spend our lives trying not to do the things that bring us damage or chaos or even conflict. While we learn from our own personal experience, we can also learn from observing others. How those others behave, the mistakes they make along their path can teach what we ourselves should avoid doing on our own journey. Sometimes, other people will inspire us. The product of their actions speaks volumes about how we should behave. We emulate. We recognize. We learn. Sometimes, people and the baggage they carry are a prime example of what not to.  

“Be careful how you live. Someone is always watching and will look to you as an example, an excuse, or a warning. The message some choices send is why struggle to do the right thing when you can do the wrong thing and be happy. Should we be happy or should we be right?” (Donna Lynn Hope, American author)

Photo

http://appliedrestorationgroup.com/2016/02/16/water-facts/

Pipe Dream

            Most of the things I liked when I was younger have faded with my youth. I don’t play with GI Joes and they don’t even make Big Jim anymore. The hundreds of action figures I collected as a boy disappeared over time, gone to the garbage or thrift stores throughout Southern Ontario. I don’t enjoy puzzles either. I used to sit up at night, night after night, on the floor of my room putting together box after box. While insomnia is a condition for many bipolars, I did not know this at the time. I rarely create poetry anymore. It used to be my main source when writing. Although I have, on occasion, produced a few poems for my blog, I just don’t enjoy the process the way I used to. I have burnt out on religious stuff, the childlike innocence I saw the world through is long gone. The God of my youth has died a long, cold death. I no longer think I know everything, that insatiable urge to understand started when the pubes set in. I don’t play baseball at all, a contradiction to the years I spent in right field. My favourite meal is no longer bologna sandwiches with tomato soup.  My long blond beautiful hair has fallen from me, my shiny head is all that remains. My puerility, it left me. For the longest time, I held very little from my childhood in high esteem. I simply believed that, with age, one automatically stops all those childish things. There is a time and a place for almost everything, at least that is what they tell me.

            I started collecting comic books when I was five years old. The first one I  owned/purchased was The Uncanny X-men #66. It was the flagship of my entire collection. For more than 25 years, I ferociously collected many titles. By the time I was 30, I had well over 3000 comics, each one stored in its place, sealed in its bag with an acid free cardboard backing. I hoarded the lot. There was something addictive about adding to my accumulation. I spent my entire childhood chasing one superhero after another. Sometimes the acquisition, the hunt, was a powerful and driving force. With the financial limitations a boy knows, aggregation was a complicated matter. I delivered newspapers and flyers to get comic book money. I cut grass and did garden work, all to get me some more. Amassing glass pop bottles for their deposit was my speciality. Each dabble in commerce brought me closer to another title and another book to savour. I started to lose the wonder in my late teens. I still collected but that powerful force was a little more dim. In my twenties, I continued to gather but it was more from habit than any joy I received. Slowly but surely, the pure simplicity of collecting turned into a financial weight and somewhat tiring duty. Every year, comic books got shorter and shorter but continually gained in price. The first comic I owned cost me 25 cents and is now valued around $250.00. Today, a regular monthly magazine can cost from $3.99 to $9.99. This does not include graphic novels or speciality items. When I lost my collection to divorce (so to speak), I learned to live without them. The urge I had throughout my childhood left me. I abandoned the cause out of futility. There was no way I could recollect all of the very expensive issues I had acquired. I could not afford to go back and start all over, not that it even occurred to me to do so. Circumstances added to that futility and the inutility of the hobby set in. I suppose, I finally put my childhood ways behind me.
            Sometimes I miss being a kid. I would give anything to have my original collection of comics back where they belong. This is a pipe dream on my part. They have long ago been resold or destroyed at the hands of the asshole who stole them. I resigned myself long ago to the fact that not even one of them will ever return. A few years ago, I found myself driving past a “Comic Book Warehouse” every time I was in Kitchener, Ontario. I wasn’t tempted at all, not really. As Christmas approached, I decided to secure a few comics for the two children next door. When I walked in the place, I almost crapped my pants. Both levels of the enormous storehouse were ceiling to floor with boxes and boxes and boxes of comics. I had never seen such majesty. I was humbled at the sight of it all. Despite the limitations of the owner and staff, something moved within. I’m not sure but I believe it was at this point that those old feelings churned up inside of me. After more than 15 years without touching a comic, not collecting did little to faze me. I would see racks of comic books and walk right past them. I had no notion, no idea that I would ever again show an interest in the hobby. One stop for Christmas presents and I was back, my Wonder Twin powers reactivated. Slowly but surely, one comic after another, and soon I was hooked once again. The visitations increased and so did my spending. In the last few years, I have collected hundreds of comic books that I once owned. I am not unrealistic. There is no way I could afford to replace the X-men books I once collected. Some of the other titles run into the high 100s, a daunting challenge to say the least. I chose to stick with what I knew. I started collecting more finite titles, obscure and easier to complete. Comic books like The Champions, The Invaders and A Man Called Nova had all been part of my original collection. Now I hold them in my hands once again. Not one of them, I am sure, is my original copy but I have to admit it feels good to gather my childhood around me. I thrive in a comic book store, even if the experience puts me face to face with comic book men and their nerdy ways.
            My partner Ben is a DC Comics man. He loves Wonder Woman and the Justice League. He had informally collected these titles when he was a boy so when I introduced him to Haganland, he caught the fever in spite of the rub. I have always been a Marvel Comics kind of guy. From the Avengers, the Fantastic Four and the Uncanny X-men, the Marvel Universe never failed to garner my attention. In the heyday of collecting, I would occasionally purchase two copies of each comic. One was sealed away, never touched, never read. The other was a reading copy. It’s just too much money to do that with my current hobby. I purchase a single copy, seal it up and place it among my hoard. In less than 2 years, I have managed a rather healthy collection of several hundred editions. While each and every original copy was lost to circumstance, I have rallied myself around each new one just the same. Each is like a touchstone that I rediscovered. There is a joy I cannot explain when it comes to acquiring titles I once coveted as a boy. Each one took me to my Otherland even though I didn’t know it at the time. I do now. There is escape in finding something you love and holding it to you. People get so worked up about materialism but sometimes things with some value can be more heirloom than just investment. Things with meaning hold more than just worth.

            Call me silly but collecting comic books, once again, has brought something within me back to life. Recently, I came across the second comic book that I once owned. Avengers King Size Special issue 2 (1968) was a visual favourite of mine back in the day. I came across the copy at Haganland and rather than paying $120.00 for a mint copy, the owner granted me access to lesser condition comics. I paid $5.00 and was absolutely thrilled with my accomplishment. I didn’t need to  have it for value, just the nostalgia, the conquest from the hunt. It is framed and hanging on my office wall. I anticipate my next purchase with bated breath. I almost obsess over each and every want. I find the pursuit, the hunt, quite thrilling. Somehow each turn makes me feel like I did when I acquired each comic as a boy. It’s not just the condition of each edition, it’s the content, the direct relationship each book has with my childhood. I only accumulate those titles that I once owned in the past. I collect nothing else. What used to be came naturally for me. I moved on into adulthood thinking I could not maintain any semblance of my youthful days. I no longer play with action figures. I no longer dip my sandwich into my soup. I no longer believe that God is involved and will take care of everything. My infancy is gone for good. I am fortunate, I have rediscovered a joy that relates directly back to my past. In this Otherland, I am once again enamoured, enchanted and enthralled. Each time I hold one, I remember. I remember each and every one. I am transported to a kinder time, a place when the simplest pleasure was more than enough to see me through. It’s not the same as it was back then but it’s close enough. How often do we get to feel like we did when we were children? How often do we get the chance? I cannot imagine a more pleasant experience for a full grown man.

Facebooked

            I joined Facebook on March 2^nd, 2007. The first few years of membership were more blank pages than anything else. I didn’t really use the service, my profile just sat there with little to no expression. I’m not sure I displayed anything until after the death of my Mother in 2010. Something within me needed a platform for my grief. Although I started blogging, I also started posting. I will admit that it took me some time to adjust to using social media. I joined Twitter, I joined Tumblr, I even joined Linked In. Each one was more a vehicle for promotion of my blog than anything else. The entire Facebook experience seemed so lacking to me then. I had never really been one for chatting online. The death of Windows Live Messenger meant the demise of anything remotely social on my part. I didn’t have much to say to anyone. I would post, then abandon the cause until the urge would return. It always did. Year after year, I found myself immersed, little by little, day after day. Eventually, I reached the limit on my friends list. I hoarded the 5000 strangers like they were sheep or cattle. Using Facebook turned from mere propaganda to 

an enticing habit, one I continue to explore to this day.   
            Over the years, my Facebook experience evolved from mere publicity. I started to engage with others, allowing interaction and involvement well beyond the springboard I maintained to that point. Slowly but surely I began to develop actual relationships, something that up to that time I thought would be nothing more than artificial and benign. I never really understood how someone could call one of their contacts anything but that. My evolution on Facebook was a slow but worthy endeavour. While I still prefer not to chat, I find myself immersed in the lives of the people whom I choose to associate with online. My persona is carefully contained. My involvement is limited but sincere. I never would have imagined that one day I would consider some voice from the internet my friend, let alone someone I care about. A decade ago, I would have laughed in your face if you claimed some form of love for a cyber buddy. I could not conceive of such a thing. Somewhere amidst all the emojis, in the unsolicited guidance and political rhetoric, I managed to find great moments of laughter and fun. I have even experienced moments of pure grief and sadness. I finally understand why so many people use this platform for dialogue and friendship. I don’t really have any problems that I need to share with the world. My relationship is long lasting. I have more than enough friends. There is nothing for me to really promote beyond the blog I post weekly. Still, I find myself somehow captured by the words and online pranks of others. I am charmed by many and resigned by few. I have become Facebooked.

“Digiphrenia is really the experience of trying to exist in more than one incarnation of yourself at the same time. There’s your Twitter profile, there’s your Facebook profile, there’s your email inbox. And all of these sort of multiple instances of you are operating simultaneously and in parallel.” (Douglas Rushkoff, American media theorist)

            There are many characters I interact with on Facebook. Some are mere monograms, passing quickly before my eyes. Some have lingered, maintaining something although I have no real idea what that might be. Some I have known for mere moments, others I have cherished for a more substantial amount of time. Each profile, each new friend, brings something unique and special to the mix of beings already on my list. Some of these contacts fade quickly, my positions and opinions nothing but the reason to withdraw themselves. Sometimes people fail to respect your opinion although they make damn sure you know you are required to like theirs. My “blocked” option is fully locked and loaded. It is not lost on me that I have more people on that blocked list than most people have on their friends list. I see no purpose in wasting my time on someone who only respects their own perspective. For the most part, the people I engage with on a daily basis are harmless. I have come to a place where there is fondness for many of them. It has always been a foreign idea for me, this caring about people you wouldn’t recognize if you walked past them on a street. It is true, nonetheless. Somewhere along the way, my position has been reformatted. I have been overcome with the good in others. Each one matters to me, just like they would if they existed in my real world.

            Perhaps the saddest part of this story is my relationship with Donna. She lived in the same city that hosted my post-secondary experience. My family lives both in and surrounding London, Ontario. I never met Donna, although it could have been easily arranged. We were not fast friends. She seemed to hover over my profile, always present and eager to say more. I didn’t like her at first but she grew on me. Eventually a cyber buddy turned into a friend. I cared about her. When she revealed her cancer to me, I supported her the best way I knew how. I listened. She never whined or complained about her illness. Our friendship turned from pretend to present. I was glad to be a shoulder that she leaned on. She was one strong lady, that’s for sure. After months of testing and chemotherapy, the cancer finally took her. She passed away in February of this year, a week after our last conversation. One day, she just disappeared. I noticed her departure. It took three days for someone to post information on her profile. I have to admit I was not surprised by this turn of events. Anyone who cared to notice would have seen it coming. Still, I was deeply saddened by her passing. I may not have met her but I knew her. It seems strange to me when I look back on it all. My grief was so moving, a side effect of caring, I suppose. I just never expected to really give a shit. There wasn’t anything magical about my friendship with Donna. In a sense, we made the choice to be more than mere profile pics. Despite the platform, our camaraderie was as real as any traditional friendship would be. She was, literally, my friend.

            There are so many Facebook faces that I notice. Some stand closer than others and some are merely whispers that only make an occasional appearance. Since last winter, I think it would be fair to say that I entertain favourites from my friends list. They know who they are. I realized with Donna’s death that it was possible to have a relationship with someone on the other side of a computer screen. It has much more substance than I would have ever imagined. Loss changed the way I view my contacts. These days, I invest much more with a few than I do with the many. I am selective but only as an afterthought. I make an effort because it is worth it to me. It doesn’t matter how many people read my blog or like my postings. Even a lesser interaction can make some person’s day. Often, the posts of others will strike me in the same manner that I try to strike them. Sometimes I fail and sometimes I succeed but every day I make that effort. I consciously post no matter what I may be doing that day. I try to post each hour, if I can find the time. Working mostly from home has its benefits.  I take a short break from life to tend to my newest obligation. It’s almost like Facebook has become a shelter for me. If I want to laugh, or watch a cat, or share a memory, I need only engage. I am fortunate to have actual people in my friends list who seem to care. I wonder if they have any idea just how much they have come to mean. I find it odd, to a degree, that Facebook has become an Otherland of sorts just as real-time friendship has become disposable.

“I feel like I’m part of a generation of people who are stuck in the past and are really self-absorbed. I mean, we’re actually taking pictures of ourselves and posting them on Facebook, and keeping in touch with people that should have been out of our lives 15 years ago.” (Diablo Cody, American author)

            It’s hard not to get attached to someone you interact with every day of your life. It doesn’t matter that each interaction occurs using electronic components, it is interaction all the same. You get to know people over time, you get to expect them to be there when you sit down for a moment of escape. You can even come to rely on others just like we do in real-time. A friend is a friend is a friend. You can’t be a little bit pregnant. Still, on occasion, I find myself looking at Facebook and wondering why I bother. Most of the people using this vehicle seem to simply want attention and try as they might to get it. There are a few that make it worth my while. Donna aside, Pearl is probably my favourite soul. She entertains and interacts with little standing in her way. She has become someone I care about, even if she is a girl. Jorge and I have exchanged much with each other for many years now. I have followed him and I know he follows me. There is great fondness between us even though we have never met. Dan challenges me and John confuses me (in the best kind of way). Kate is just plain smart and oh so pretty. I’ve known Kathy and Lindsey since high school. It is nice to have people you like that you’ve known in person. Herb, despite his political views, is a constant over the last few years. I appreciate his approach and that he treats everyone with the same respect. I have noticed his character. In my contacts I have my family, and Ben’s family and friends I talk to more in person than online.  I like Mary, oh so contrary, even if she is originally a friend of my partner’s, just like Erica. There is Mike and Cookie and my dear friend Juan. One contact, Shawn, struggles publicly with his addiction. He is an inspiration every time he posts his status. Be it Carol or KD or Lynda or Scott, or even Cassie and Coleen, each has become a touchstone of sorts, a part of my life I never expected or thought would be. There are even those individuals that have tricked me into thinking they were worth it. I won’t make that mistake again.

            I went to high school with Teresa and was more than a little surprised to learn she was not only a Minister with the Christian Church but a lesbian to boot. I befriended her hoping that the camaraderie we shared in high school would find itself once again between us. I was wrong. Over a 3 month period I made attempt after attempt to reintroduce myself. How many chances does one get to restore something long ago lost? The best thing I got from her was nothing at all. I blocked her in resignation. Danny was someone I knew since the end of public school. We had history. With another buddy to help us along, at 14 years old we experimented. It didn’t last very long. I accepted his friend request and all seemed quite well for a few short months. One afternoon he began to post homophobic comments on his profile. When I asked him why the change of heart, he posted more. I guess it’s true when they say that the louder you scream, the harder you suck. I blocked him in protest. I was friends with Misty for over 5 years. We interacted daily with each other, posting on each other’s profiles, and engaging where appropriate. I have to admit I considered her a featured member of my fan club. She was a favourite and I recognized her among all the other voices on Facebook. Out of nowhere she began to post pro-Trump rhetoric, alt-right in nature and rather disturbing. When I posted right back at her, she began with the homophobic crap. It bothered me that I wasn’t aware, I didn’t see this part of her before. I felt deceived. I checked to make sure her account wasn’t hacked. I was more disappointed in myself for having been duped than I was at the thought of no longer associating with her. I blocked her regardless.

“It’s just madness. First email. Then instant message. Then MySpace. Then Facebook. Then LinkedIn. Then Twitter. It’s not enough anymore to ‘Just do it.’ Now we have to tell everyone we are doing it, when we are doing it, where we are doing it and why we are doing it.” (Mark McKinnon, American media columnist)

            Relationships are pretty much the same regardless of where we harvest them from. The medium doesn’t matter, the moments do. This modern age and the technology it brings only makes it easier to interact with strangers and those we love. Sometimes one becomes the other. I have come to understand that there is little difference between a friendship based in cyberspace and a friendship formed in the real world. Sometimes it is even easier to get close to someone you know that you will never meet. There is a wall that comes down when we let it. The fundamentals all apply. It is trust and respect and consideration that will determine the extent of any relationship, whether online or not. I am grateful for each one of my contacts, even if there are some more familiar than others. I have been ridiculed for having 5000 friends on Facebook. People just don’t understand the attraction. I’m not sure I do either. At the end of the day however, it is mostly the people I interact with on social media that define the day for me. They make me laugh. They make me think. They make me feel. They have become important for what they are in spite of what they are not.

Photo

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=586890267

Holloween

            As a kid growing up in suburban Toronto, Halloween was an event. City living made perfect sense when you considered the access children had to hundreds of houses and a multitude of candy. Given the effort, you could go from door to door without end. Every year, we used pillowcases to carry our stash. You needed all that storage room for all the treats you gathered. Occasionally, you had to run home and empty the goods out, only to return to collecting like some beggar would. We acquired so much candy that it was almost Christmas before we ran out. Every year, Halloween was more than just the spectacle. Back in my day, Halloween was pure adventure with the greatest reward. Kids roamed the streets, mostly without the parental guidance you see these days. A group of us, including my brothers and sister, would move from one area to another, hoarding in a manner worthy of A&E. Halloween was not only great fun, each eve held a special place in time, unlike so many other holidays. When I think back on all the Halloween nights I have experienced, it is my childhood memories of the day that stand out as best for me. There was something grand and carefree about Halloween when I was a child. Sadly, these seem to be lacking in these more modern times.

            In Toronto, Halloween brought an onslaught of children knocking at your door, but at my parents’ home in Strathroy, Ontario, it was a different story. The move from the big city left you longing, at times, for better times. Each year, handing out candy seemed anticlimactic. Perhaps thirty or forty children visited their front door. My Mom and sister always made such a fuss about decorating. Gravestones on the front lawn and spider webs everywhere were standard fare. Between the two of them, Halloween lived up to the spectacle, not that anyone really ever noticed. Over time, the children going to my parents’ house for candy each year dwindled to almost nothing. Granted, my folks reside just inside the town lines, just a few steps and country living is the life you see. It’s not really surprising, this decline. New subdivisions swallowed that end of the town years ago. What child would make an effort to run down a country lane with 4 houses on it, when they can access the goods en masse just a block or two away? After my Mother’s passing, my sister took full control of Halloween. For a few years, the effort seemed worth it. For a time, there would be no display, no fright night. There was just no reason to go to all that trouble for a measly 3 costumes. In an attempt to restore tradition, this year my sister is at it again. It’s not hard labour, more a labour of love. They still hand out candy (with lots to spare) but there still seems to be something missing. It’s not that Halloween died, it simply changed and shifted. Things just aren’t the same.

            I knew many a Halloween where candy was the last thing on my mind. As a teenager, come Halloween, I was drawn to social events rather than tricks or treats. I used to spend hours costuming for one shindig or another. I went to trip the light fantastic, usually with Kathy, a good friend who liked to dirty dance. We met at Seekers, a church youth group. I could not tell you just how many times we paired up over those few years. She was fun and so was teaming up with her. Despite my unannounced proclivity, we meshed on that dance floor time and time again. We partied but it was innocent and simple, pure entertainment without all the complications. You hear about youth today and how they like to play. Hedonism seems to be the preferred flavour. A lifestyle of excess is only overshadowed by their inability to see beyond themselves. Fun isn’t dancing or spending time with your friends, it’s drugs and booze and far too much freedom. I am sure that somewhere, one group or another hosts some form of celebration come this Halloween season, but all I can picture is each side of an arena filled with adolescents, using each chair as they stare at their Smartphone, talking to a friend on the other side of room. Things just don’t seem the same as they once were. Granted, Halloween night will still find children running from house to house. Jack-o’-Lanterns and frightening displays still litter the lawns of both urban and rural dwellings. It all just seems so lifeless to me now. Getting candy was only one part of what made Halloween so special. We made our own costumes, or at least my Mother did. These days, $19.99 at Wal-Mart will automatically relieve lazy parents of this responsibility. Halloween now seems to be for smaller children while devil’s night appears to fit the lifestyle of young people. Halloween still is but it’s not the same.

            October 31^st, 2017 will be my third Halloween living in Paris, Ontario. The first occasion occurred on a learning curve. While the 7 pumpkins we carved looked fitting enough, leaving the front gate closed and turning off all the outside lights seemed to only dissuade trick or treaters from approaching the house. From what I can remember, we had only 11 children knock on our door. Our mistakes were duly noted. Our second Halloween saw a different turnout. With 6 carved pumpkins, a giant hanging ghost and a ghoul head lighted from within, the place was festive for sure. We left the gate open and the front lights on and presto, one kid after another was granted 3 chocolate bars. When I was growing up the selection of candy we got varied depending on the neighbourhood. These days all kids want are the chocolate bars that come with the celebration. The days of homemade Rice Krispie squares, Unicef collection in that rectangular cardboard box, and cans of pop are long gone into history. Going through your stash meant pouring it out on the living room floor so a parent could have a look. With 5 children, it took my Mom some time but eventually the hoard became fully my own and I paced off to my room to gleefully worship it. I remember her fear, that somehow a razorblade or needle would find its way from snack to body part, usually the mouth and throat. You would think these modern times would convince people that it’s not okay to avoid inspection but every year, tales of damaged children fill the news on the very next day. Our second Halloween in Paris was much more successful than the previous holiday but there was still something missing. The energy, the joy I knew trick or treating as a boy seemed lacking in the faces of the children who came to our home. It’s almost like the process has become somewhat of an expectation rather than a pleasure. The children I’ve encountered since our move here seem dull and lifeless, even when standing at the door begging for some more. Joking with them as you reward their costume seems foreign to most of them. They appear startled and a little scared, as if warned not to enjoy things too much. The entire tradition has become rather lacklustre.

            This year, our third Halloween will see the very same things that last year saw. The pumpkins will be carved and the ghost hung out to dry. That ghoul with illumination will sit in the window facing the road and shine just like it did last year. The black cauldron I use for distribution will be filled just like it was last year. I will open the gate and leave the lights on, just like I did in 2016. Last Christmas, I was given a Captain America hoodie, including a face mask where the hood should be. The kids next door left me the Captain’s shield when they moved to England. I will wear this outfit when I open the door this year. I try to make an effort, I try to take as much part in the festivities as I can. I enjoy seeing each child as they stand waiting for gratification. I can occasionally see the anticipation in their zombie-like eyes. I can only imagine what the experience is like for someone growing up in this age. I often wonder if children still view the world though innocence rather than technology. Is the experience of Halloween an actual experience for them or is it something different, a ritual void of excitement and void of much needed laughter? It all strikes me as rather hollow. This is the way that I see things,  at least from the view of my front door.

            It doesn’t matter how many kids show up at our door. Their absence would only leave more chocolate for my partner and me to enjoy. We will still carve all those pumpkins and we will relish the feeling of home one gets when sharing such memories. Amidst all the carving, and all the display, a part of Halloween has survived for me. My partner stands right with me on this. We make Halloween special for us, any children who become involved are incidental. It’s not that they don’t matter, but they are not required when it comes to reliving your youth, if only for mere moments. When the darkness has fully set in and all the kiddies have returned to their lobotomies, my partner and I sit ourselves down and we watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, then Garfield’s Halloween Adventure. When the cartoons have passed away, we turn our attention to horror. Each year we pick from our extensive DVD library, each year we vary the choice. Whether John Carpenter’s Halloween or even Frank Capra’s Arsenic and Old Lace, it’s not necessarily the film that is important, rather the investment made. We will never have children and are both more than okay with that (trust me). They are irrelevant, to be fully honest. I do not require such relationships to be happy. I am responsible for how I react to the world around me. I still celebrate Halloween because it brings a part of me to life, even if things just aren’t the same.

Photos

Halloween 2016

Paris, Ontario

The River and the Highway

“There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they’ll take you.” (Beatrix Potter, English writer)

            Writing comes naturally to me. Since I was a very young boy, I found the written word made it easy to express myself. As I grew, any training I received in school only helped to strengthen my relationship with print media. My entire post-secondary experience was to further my command of the written word. I was educated as a journalist. I studied television and radio broadcasting to expand my reach. I worked in many forms of media but I always returned to my first love, writing. As the internet formed, I could access venues unavailable to me before. I began blogging almost immediately after my Mother’s death in 2010. I had maintained profiles on Facebook and other social media, but I failed to use them efficiently. Little by little, my blog grew from the ashes. What started out as weak, and intentionally simple, soon began to find a sense of form and structure as I played and developed. For more than 7 years, I have diligently posted. I do not write my blog because I am looking for money. You will never see my work monetized. I have created my own biography, in a sense. Anyone can go back through my history, at least what I have documented over the last 7 years. There is little I have not discussed in one manner or another. Writing is, for me, a daily exercise, a cathartic workout anytime my fingers pound the keys. You can almost feel the cleansing as each letter finds its place. As far back as I can remember, print (in one form or another) was my passion, even if I didn’t know it at the time. Like God and comic books, the connection has never failed. I am, after all, a writer.

“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.” (Émile Zola, French playwright)

            Strathroy District Collegiate Institute (SDCI) sucked the life out of me for almost 5 years. I suppose high school will do that. Of all the people I knew and all the activities I took part in, there are few fond memories held by either. I realize now that I was pretty much like any other teenager. I struggled with my identity, I struggled with the social game. I had no idea my world functioned through the eyes of bipolar disorder. This is completely beside the point. Although I played sports like any good breeder would, and participated in heterosexual rites of passage, for the most part I really just wanted to be left alone. My disability often ravaged me, even though it would be more than a decade before I received proper treatment. I tried my best to function and that usually meant projects I could do by myself. It’s not that I’m not a team player, I just find people very noisy and distracting. I function so much better in the silence. It has always been this way for me. I did all the normal things someone my age did in high school. I joined the band, standing at the back of each rehearsal with a string bass in one hand and solitude in the other. I did the theatre arts scene, performing in several productions before graduation. I loved English class. The study of writing and style were my favourite lessons. Shakespeare was my friend. I impressed my English teacher with my enthusiasm. Although this instructor was a bitch, I excelled in this area, so much so that she introduced me to the librarian and my journey began. Writing always just seemed to fit me, even when I was a kid. I won poetry contests and flourished as an amateur journalist. Working on the school newspaper just made sense to me.

            I joined the staff of the SDCEye approaching mid-term in my freshman year.  The monthly newsletter/newspaper was amateur and somewhat redundant, but the idea of being involved in its publication activated something within me. I had been constantly exploring this medium and this venue seemed like a good place to start evolving my craft. At first, I was assigned the sports page, responsible for interviews and such but eventually I was offered something even more exciting for me. My tenure as publisher and editor started with my sophomore year. I was put in charge of almost everything involving the formation of the publication. I not only shaped the essence of the paper but was also responsible for the printing and distribution. I was assignment editor, reporter and publisher all in one very committed young man. I was trained in layout, design and consistency, always under the watchful eye of the editor-in-chief, Mr. Bahnmiller. I instantly fell in love with the process and like a sponge, I absorbed as much information and its application as I possibly could. The few years in which I practiced my art may have been simplistic and rather amateurish, yet I still discovered something wonderful in the midst of it all. Like stepping out on the yellow brick road, I had to follow where that road would lead me. I carried my new sense of purpose in the words that were written and the form they had taken. Like a harbinger, it pointed to my future and I finally realized who and what I wanted to be.

            As I progressed in my studies, opportunity tried to lead me away. I expanded my base, formally studying journalism for print, in radio and on television. I even branched out in later years and worked exclusively in radio for a time. I had the voice and the looks for it. No matter what the field was, my writing ability always seemed to point me in that direction. I excelled at writing copy and advertising seemed a natural fit, but only to others it would seem. I always kept writing even when my view shifted. Over the decades, I published in religious magazines, in local newspapers and a few major publications. It’s strange, when my first partner died in 1995, I stopped writing altogether but when my Mother died in 2010, it inspired me to start again. For the length of those 15 years, I rarely created anything outside of my head. I think holding it all in affected my ability to express myself in terms beyond grief and futility. My ability to write did not pass away but it certainly went into hibernation. I always managed to find a way to not create, to not be inspired. All the pain was all that remained. Rather than using my command of the English language, I fell silent. For years, it really seemed like there was nothing left for a teller of tales. I still floated in the otherland but I just couldn’t find a way to write about it.

            I posted my first blog, “Lemon Cupcakes with Icing Sugar Sprinkles” (http://simplekel.blogspot.ca/2010/05/may-28th-2010.html), on May 28^th, 2010.

I touched on music and memories and the way things used to be. I didn’t know it at the time but the grief I felt over my Mother’s death reactivated something within me. As I reached out to my world for sanity, I dove head first into what would turn out to be my pure pleasure. Rather than simply posting once in awhile, I had to post 4 or 5 or 6 times each week. I managed to do this for exactly one year. Borrowed Knowledge did not find an agonizing death, rather it ended with the transformation into a blog much more reasonable to handle. Posting every day interfered too much with work and my home life but I didn’t burn out. I excelled and picked up speed.  The first year of my blogging really changed the way I viewed media delivery. I suppose that while many would not consider me old school journalism, I most certainly was brought up in that line of thinking. Blogging became a vehicle, a mechanism with its own reward. After 5 more years of blogging, Surviving God, ran out of steam for me. The confines of the thesis restricted my ability to fully express myself. On January 1^st, 2017, I began a new blog, unrestricted by anything but my imagination. This far in and it remains a delight to write on a weekly basis. Writing can often be an escape, so Otherland seemed like the perfect tag to write under. Day after day, I never grow tired of putting my thoughts onto paper (so to speak). It is still all that it ever has been, cathartic, structured and relevant. I rely on the purge to make it through my day, every day.

“Everywhere I go I’m asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There’s many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.” (Flannery O'Connor, American essayist)

            Sometimes the path we are to follow in life is hidden, we are unable to find the direction we are supposed to take. Sometimes the path is clear and focused, leaving little room to wonder or question if you are going the right way. For most of us, setting out on the correct course is a mundane experience, usually determined by circumstance rather than some unique event or school of thought. In no way am I trying to convey that God comes down and makes the decision for us, pushing us through supernatural means to follow His path versus our own. I guess I still believe that the way we travel is irrelevant, it is the lessons we are to learn as we move forward that should resonate the most. Everyone’s path looks different but all the things we are supposed to absorb are usually the same. It’s not the highway that keeps you going, it’s the scenery.

            I never questioned what I was supposed to be. I just didn’t know it when I came across it. It was there all along, I suppose. For both my educational and professional life, I have followed a few paths at the same time. I specialized in media rather than focusing on my writing. I think in high school I understood my calling. As I was inundated with higher learning, I drifted away from my natural proclivity. I spent years, decades, paying attention to what would make me more money and I forgot about what really makes me happy. There is nothing more satisfying (including sex) than when I open myself to the flow. All the words just come to me these days. I don’t have to think about anything but starting, the rest exudes, sometimes as a dribble and sometimes like a heavy stream. It always takes me away. In a sense, putting “pen to paper” is always a trip to my otherland. Sometimes the visit is quick and sometimes it lasts, but either way it most certainly is a destination I never should have left to begin with. No matter the topic and no matter the style, it all makes sense to me now. I should have stayed the course, and followed the path well knowing, every river, every highway teaches something new.

“Your profession is not what brings home your weekly pay check, your profession is what you’re put here on earth to do, with such passion and such intensity that it becomes spiritual in calling.” (Vincent van Gogh, Dutch painter)

Photos

http://www.emlakeki.com/dunyanin-en-tehlikeli-yollari-haberi-37253

https://plannedspontaneityhiking.com/2017/06/20/big-south-fork-national-recreation-area-kentuckytennessee/

What’s Your Point?

            I just assume that most people would prefer to know the events that are about to happen in their lives. We want to be forewarned, made aware of what will be. I think that people in general wish things had been different, that somehow knowing what is going to happen would prepare them, ground them so they can better deal with whatever will be anyway. Like with prophecy, if we acknowledge what is to come we can change it somehow, that knowing the future would allow us to shape it into something much more palpable to our sense of well-being. I think it is better not to know, especially when dealing with the death of someone in our lives. I fear that the loss and grief would only be greatly compounded. I’m not sure insight into when someone is going to die would do anything but complicate the matter. I realize we all wish for much more than mere warning signs but having an outline of tomorrow would simply aggravate the same feelings, but today. Anticipating such things has rarely done anything but make us more stressed, much more out of focus. Rather than paying attention to now, we would scurry about trying to change the course of our history. The knowledge of an event would only exacerbate the inevitable. At least, in the moment, we have the moment. Tomorrow may not be a better day but it is still, if only in itself, another day. There is hope in the unknowable, that things might be okay, no matter what might happen next.

“We sowed our seeds watered with tears

Waiting for signs of growth took months of days

And then took years

We took our steps, we took our falls

Somewhere along the way we just got lost

And we lost it all

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

The risk of living is the pain

And what will be will be anyway”

            I cannot imagine what I would do if I was somehow able to tap into my history or predict my future. I realize that a million times a day we all wish that things had somehow turned out differently for us. Having the power to amend these “incidents” would only cause havoc and chaos. I can picture all of mankind chasing the past in order to affect the future. I can imagine who I would be, constantly paying penance even though my course had shifted. Any changes would not reverse reality. We think we could go back and fix things, or stop them from happening, but time is constant and what will be will be, regardless of how we try to manipulate it. Albeit the future is not set in stone like the past is. I don’t think we can change what was but we can make what is better, richer and much more kind to us. Once someone has passed away, we all tend to run off to some otherland to appropriately deal with all the noise. Almost instantly, the deceased becomes an amalgam of all the times we shared with them. Their life becomes a scrapbook, which we get to open and close depending on our mood. Altering or changing the events of our lives would simply remove one page for another, leaving us still wishing we could change the way things are. It’s a double edged sword and we need to be careful what we wish for. I’m not even so sure I would change anything about my life if I was granted the opportunity. Sure, I would love to go back and fix my mistakes. I would like to at least be given the chance to somehow alter the deaths of my Mother and my first partner, but it would be nothing but daydreaming. The past is set. There is nothing you can do about it now. I’m not sure I would want to. 

“It’s better not to know

The way it’s gonna go

What will die and what will grow

Goodbye more than hello

It’s better not to know”

            I think it’s better not to know just how your story will go. There are just some things that should be left the way they are. We can try to go back and amend. We can look forward with hope. When you really stop to think about it, all that trying has never done anyone any good. Sometimes things just are the way they are. Running about effectively changing your history would only compromise your now. There are no guarantees, not even in an otherland. Allowing time to pass, going with the flow, may not avoid disaster but it will carry you through it. Every person is riddled with the amount of time that has passed them by. Speaking from experience, it is the worn and beaten souls that hold the most promise. We have no choice but to grin and bear it. What is going to be will be, whether we like it or not.

            Quite often, people pretend that three wishes would solve all their problems. We would literally wish them away. Imagine, three different and very tempting alternatives to the life you currently live. What alterations one could make with so many indulging options. Our life would change in the blink of an eye but I am not sure that anything really would. After all, we all encounter the possibility every time we talk to a genie, play our numbers in the lotto draw or even when we wish upon a star. The problem is that wishes rarely come true and even when they do manifest, they are usually nothing more than a catalyst for more chaos and the complications it brings. I have never even won a door prize. I don’t really gamble. I rarely play the lottery. I dare not wish upon anything but the day itself. I have had to accept my life as it is. We all do. Hoping things can be different is nothing but another reason to worry about tomorrow instead of focusing on today. Regardless, you cannot halt tragedy, or misery, or woe. Your life might be different but you have only exchanged one lot for another.

            The good news is that we already have the ability to change our lives. Every day you carry the option to get on with living or just lay down and die. Every morsel can be used to feed the future. After all, “tomorrow is another day.” The way things are now is a direct consequence of your life experiences up to that point. The same cannot be said about tomorrow. Even the slightest tinge can make it a better day. What may have rested in destruction, should the path not be taken, may very well lead you to someplace better. The past is set in stone and the future is nothing but guesswork. We have the power of choice and in that choice we can affect what will be. Our past is fixed but our future lies in our very own hands. We might not be able to alter or shift events but we can make the right decisions and in so doing, influence the outcome. We may not be able to change the past with magic, or technology, or senseless wishing but we can adjust the future with forethought and the knowledge that by changing now, we can change then.

“Those tiny stems became these trees

With dirt and storms and sun and air to breathe

Like you and me

And some fell down and some grew tall

And those surviving twenty winter thaws

Have the sweetest fruit of all

But innocence and planting day are both long gone

So much has changed

And if we had to do it all again”

            We may not able to predict what may come. What has been will always stay just the way it is. The only option we are left with is to effectively change ourselves in order to amend the past or affect the future. We spend so much energy on wishing things were different that we miss the opportunity to actually do something in the now to make things better. We may even use hindsight and foresight in a negative sense, bringing much more damage to our lives then we ever considered possible. We know that nothing remains the way it is, not ever. Change is inevitable, like the sun and the moon and the stars. We have the power to make a greater day. We have the option to thrive or just survive. The past may restrict us and the future may hinder us but acting within the parameter of the now allows us, at least, an alternative to what we think has happened or what we fear will occur. Either way, you cannot alter anything unless you apply yourself. People will come and people will go. Death is the ultimate determination. If I could go back, if I wanted to, I would raise the dead, bringing back those people whose absence makes my life a sadder place. I fear I would only be forcing repeat performances. Everyone is going to die. Knowing  how and when would be a nightmare in itself. Imagining the clock ticking down each day, each hour, each second. It would be maddening in the most literal sense. I’m unsure what it all really means or might mean. I only know that when it all comes down, it’s still better not to know.

“Nothing stays the same

Life flickers like a flame

As the seasons come and go

Goodbye more than hello

It’s better not to know

Is it better, better not to know?”

(Better Not to Know, Amy Grant 2013)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vCk60ijYQE

Photo

http://writingwhilethericeboils.blogspot.ca/2011/06/ins-and-outs-of-internal-dialogue.html