Otherland

Monday, November 26, 2018

I Am Falling You

There is just something about autumn. It’s ironic, how vibrant death can be. There is the richness of color, the change to cooler temperatures, and the whisper of winter calling your name. Fall used to be my favourite season but against Christmas, there is nothing that could compete. Autumn, however, is my favourite colour. I particularly love the natural process that occurs here in Southwestern Ontario. I have always relished falling leaves and crisp clean air. Some of the best moments of my life involve this time of season. I think everyone can appreciate when a forest becomes a rainbow. There is something charming about corn stalks drying in the fields. There are pumpkins everywhere. Pumpkin latte, pumpkin baked goods and pumpkin candy all make me want to puke. I do not like the flavour, or the texture or anything about them as a food choice. They serve their purpose decoratively but other than that, I would be just fine without them. Pumpkin pie is disgusting, it’s like a giant phlegm tart. The build is anticlimactic. We spend most of the first part of autumn fixated on Halloween. Everything is scary and spectacle and we forget about the rest of the world. Maybe that’s a good thing. Once Halloween is over, the leaves, for the most part, have fallen. The sun is less and the nights are colder. First frost is a harbinger of that which is to come. Sometimes we miss out because we are focused on candy, or costumes and fear, and all that beauty is lost. I try to notice and more and more I am blown away at the raw beauty that all that death can bring. The world can be rather comforting as you drive along a country lane on a sunny fall day. Leaves dance about as you move through them. The skyline is red and yellow and orange and green. Each piece of foliage floats down and then joins the rest. They are tossed and turned as the wind still tells of the winter to come. Harsh November offers much more than the lingering hint of pumpkin in the air. The stars at night are brighter, clearer and shine throughout the midnight sky. Autumn is a wondrous time, if you care to pay attention. It’s a no brainer, if you ask me. I fall for it every time.

I think everyone associates certain parts of fall with certain memories they have.

Any scene one might imagine may inspire us to go there again. Like ringing a dog bell, we become conditioned to this response based on specific criteria. The same things tend to activate it, year after year our past returns. How we think of autumn really relies on how we remember autumn. At times, it doesn’t matter what you think, it is how you felt that resonates the loudest. The fall of 1975 holds much favour in my memory. I liked my school and I liked my friends, I liked the life I had. I did not realize it would be my last autumn in Toronto. I tell myself that if I had only known of my last chance, I would have done more, said more, felt more. We always tell ourselves we could have been better, even though it is usually hindsight that leads us to this place. Normally, we never even try. When I think of the autumn of my youth, I think back on many things. My last November as a Torontonian found me doing what I always did come autumn. It was a little game some of us played on the way to and from school. The bigger the pile, the greater the temptation. We used to ransack everyone’s hard work. You would spot a pile, make your claim, then run through it or jump into it. The point was to make each household have to rake all those leaves back up again. We all thought it was funny but the neighbourhood did not. I thought I was the king of it all. There was no one else who could create chaos like me. I loved the role I played as a child. I stood my ground and made my claim. With only a small uneventful pile left untouched, this would be easy pickings. I walked over to it, turned around and waved at my friends then jumped right down into it. The minute I landed in the refuge, I knew I had a problem. It felt like I had crapped in my pants. I could feel the wet all over me as I sat with some weird look upon my face. My stupidity was the beginning of my own fall. There, like a punishment, my ass was covered with it. I would have liked to kick the dog who left his fresh mess. When I travel back into this time, I laugh and I laugh. Yes, I wish I had known that my life was about to change but I would not want to wreck the memories I do have. Perhaps, the greatest fall memory I have is this. All the Halloweens, all the bonfires and all the pumpkins and I always go back to my buttocks and the special gift I received. I had no idea life could be so shitty.

Once we moved from Toronto to Strathroy, Ontario, my life went pretty much back to normal. I had new friends, a new school and a comic book store about 6 blocks from my home. I half expected my world would be so different but it pretty much went back to the way it was before. I liked the house we lived in until that radiator came crashing down that flight of stairs and crushed my entire left leg and foot. I liked the town itself but I particularly liked our neighbourhood. I have to admit that moving was not the most favourite thing I have ever done. I was rather hostile at first and refused to give the village a chance. When the leaves started falling and the wind changed direction, I started to see how quaint and peaceful the town could be. When we left Toronto, the summer was still in full force. We were welcomed to our new reality with earlier evenings, crisp, cool mornings and rustling, so much rustling. Down the street from us lived a high school teacher, Mr. Howe and his family. My favourite member of that crew was Willie, an aging dachshund who was friendly and fun. We lived in this area as we awaited the construction of a new home in the north end of the town. We moved to Strathroy on August 31^st, 1976 (there’s that date again) and were welcomed by autumn in a different and quaint, quiet setting. At first, it was difficult to get to sleep at night because of a lack of noise. In Toronto, the Don Valley Parkway was mere metres away from our front door. It was not a turbulent time for me, not once autumn started at any rate. The summer faded and the cold brought with it piles of leaves at the side of most streets and roads. Our eventual neighbour, Mr. Howe, was nothing if not consistent. Every other day, he would rake the leaves from his front yard down the green and into three piles at the side of the thoroughfare. Back in the day, people actually had bonfires smouldering day and night at the end of their driveways. Burning leaves were everywhere and the air was rich with the smell. The familiar scent still lingers in my mind. The fires were everywhere. From one end of town to the other, they burned and they burned. It’s illegal to do that now. On occasion, I still catch a flash of the odour. It may be while driving down a country route or passing through some tiny town where nobody actually gives a shit. One hint of my old friend and I am basking in falling leaves and the first snow of the year. It is not just a change of season, it is a memory.

My first partner and I were in the same Radio Broadcasting program at Fanshawe College in London, Ontario. I was a second year student and he was in the first year class.

This is how we met. We made many good and close friends I have not seen or heard from in decades. Still, we both spent much of our time with these now strangers. We smoked a lot of weed, drank a lot of beer and we told no one of our real relationship. We were particularly fond of two potheads from Kapuskasing, Ontario, which lies 1000 kilometres straight north towards 60. We liked Shawn and Eric, so we agreed to go on a road trip with them. We drove from London to Kapuskasing in around 10 hours, stayed the night and headed back the next morning. We were not really there to visit so once they got the “stuff”, we drove back the 10 hours, with plenty of time to go to bed so we could make classes in the morning. To go on this excursion was one of the best decisions I have ever made. The tour was spectacular on a cold October day. The entire trip was pure magic. It was like we had discovered 1000 kilometres of rainbows. The sides of the road looked like used colouring books. It was an unending splendour from start to finish. We both felt free and we felt unburdened, not an easy feat when dealing with a struggling student. Memory of that one simple trip up the ON-11 N Highway to the Trans Canada Highway is now more of an otherland than some representation in my head. I go there often, it’s a lovely place to visit but it hurts to stay too long. I just can’t handle the 1000 kilometres my mind would have me go. Doug has been gone much longer than those old friends I was talking about earlier. We travelled to many more places before he faded away. We later saw Maine in the next September and most of Michigan just before Halloween. While each experience may leave you breathless, for me they do not compare. Doug and I talked about our Kapuskasing road trip often. We would both go on and on about the unending sea of gold and red and green. Miles and miles stretched out before us in an abundant field. It was one of the best weekends we spent together. We were happy, if only for a brief moment.

It can be awkward when something so beautiful becomes a pain in the ass. Life can be easy, especially for a child, but something always gets in the way. When I was growing up, I loved almost everything about autumn. I still do. The one part of the season I never much cared for was raking then bagging all those stupid leaves. They sure are pretty but they require way too much work. All that dead foliage was a constant thorn in my side. I think early on, I was just unimpressed with the duty. I didn’t have to clean them up very often. Later, throughout my teen years, I came to hate it was much as mowing the lawn or cleaning my room. If I hate something, there usually is a good reason. I feel about raking leaves the way I do about Ray Romano or Sheldon. The problem for me did not lie with the property around our home. Spruce and Cedar trees dominate the landscape. There is really only one tree large enough to shed anything inconvenient. The United Church of Strathroy was another matter altogether. My parents both worked for the Church and were responsible for the maintenance of the building and the property. It was a large, well tended space with giant maple and oak trees planted over 150 years ago when the Church was first built. There was an enormous amount of leaves to bring together. Some piles could grow as large as a small automobile. At first, I only had to rake the piles to the side of the street. A match or two meant a small amount of ashes to tend to. It was convenient and honestly, setting them on fire was always a rush. Watching a fire roar is like watching a ballerina dance. The scent was a sweet reward. Things changed when they restricted any burning within the town limits. They snuffed it all out. Not only did I have to rake them but now I would have to bag them all myself. I was not a happy camper. Usually, there would be at least 25 bags to fill. The only part of the entire process I found satisfying was that wafting, lingering scent of a fiery fate, then they took it away. Every year until I moved out saw me standing with a rake in my hands. I sometimes would hear the “Green Acres” theme song playing in my head. From Labour Day to the American Thanksgiving, my weekends were more chain gang than cheery, more drudge than gratitude. Year after year, I just kept doing the duty. It was the least I could do. Even then I realized how much my parents did for me, and continued to do for me. It was my obligation to be there, to lend a helping hand. Even if I didn’t want to.

I am a bit of a pussy when it comes to heights. It is not so much a scenic thing, rather the drop, the steep is what makes me want to heave. I can look out on a clear day, from high on top of a mountain peak, and I don’t dread a thing. Put me to the edge, at the precipice and I feel like I’m falling. My vertigo is not to be played with. I have always continued to face my fear. Rollercoasters and rock climbing have always thrilled me. Just keep me away from any downward view. I have never allowed my fear to restrict me. I may not stand at the edge but I am not far behind. One of the most enjoyable dances with death I have made was at the Mount Nemo conservation area located on Guelph Line between Burlington, Ontario and the 401 highway. Along with its neighbour Rattlesnake Point, it’s like someone dropped two giant rocks straight into the space. It’s funny how glacial retreat will do that. The escarpment is impressive and long. It runs predominantly east to west through the heart of New York State then right across Ontario. Mount Nemo “is one of the most popular climbing destinations in Southwestern Ontario.” On a clear day, you can see the CN Tower over 65 kilometres away in Toronto. The conservation area has “one of the best cliff ecosystems on Ontario’s Niagara Escarpment”. In October of 2013, my partner and I ventured to Mount Nemo. We had been driving past it for years and it was a curiosity for the both of us. We finally gave in. I had great trepidation, he was calm and cool and it sort of bugged me. He mocked me a little when I fled to the safety of lesser ground. I tried a few times to face my fear but I had only brought one pair of pants so I eventually travelled only in the middle. Sometimes you have to know when not to cross a line. Autumn in Ontario is striking. It’s not just the colours, it’s the mosaic. Hiking then sitting with my partner, watching the day, was enchanting. Gazing out over the land before me made me feel like God must feel when enjoying the view. Fall is beautiful. This day was beautiful. We sat for the longest time and just absorbed the atmosphere. Jagged rocks acted as a makeshift couch and fields of gold became our TV. It was loud and it was quiet. It was happy but made me sad. Beauty always reminds me of the cost. We may not have hiked the entire 5 kilometre trail that day but we almost did. The same cannot be said of the man who fell 12 metres off the edge of Mount Nemo on August 31^st, 2018 (notice that date again). He only broke a few bones, lucky fuck. Therein is a clear lesson that I have embraced as I grow older. This is why you never, ever climb anything bigger than the height at which you stand. Never.

Having a garden to care for is a time consuming challenge. I love it. I find myself sitting for hours working the soil, working the land. It has become a form of meditation for me. It is a lot of work, particularly in the fall. With spring, everything comes up on its own. There is very little work to be done. With autumn, everything has to be pruned or completely cut back. The ferns, the hosta, the lily of the valley, all get amputated to the root. I have to admit that at this stage, I get a little weary. It’s not the work, it’s all those damn spiders hiding in the refuge. They are always the worst part. The beautiful trumpet vine that runs along one side of our house dumps its stash like nobody’s business. There is a constant turnover in brown leaf bags. Plants need attention even when they are going to sleep. The first frost finds me harvesting morning glory seeds from the arbour. The maple in the backyard takes its own sweet time changing colors and dumping its load, but when it does, the entire space is covered with the loveliest of decay. What was plush and vibrant is now faded and stark and very much dead. My garden is a microcosm, not only of nature but life in general. The good news is I never have to rake another leaf ever again. I help with the bagging a little but Ben does all the dirty work. Since I pretty much do everything else, it’s a trade off. He cuts the grass, he rakes the leaves and I take care of the rest. I look after the garden and I decorate the house, both inside and out. Halloween comes and goes and so will all the decorations. Winter turns from whisper into roar. Every autumn, I am beguiled, both by the world around me and the scenic view in my mind. It’s an otherland of sorts and very pretty.

Photos

http://rebloggy.com/post/fall-autumn-leaves-september-october-changing-leaves-falling-leaves-autumn-blog/62620800879

https://myleastfavoritechildtoday.wordpress.com/tag/leaf-piles/

http://saigonjoe.com/nostalgia/burning-leaves/

https://www.naturetrek.ca/envira/oost-canada-met-camper-fotos/?lang=nl

https://www.istockphoto.com/ca/photos/garbage-bag-of-fall-leaves?sort=mostpopular&mediatype=photography&phrase=garbage%20bag%20of%20fall%20leaves

Mount Nemo, Ontario, Canada

October 2013

Paris, Ontario, Canada

October 2016

https://www.naturetrek.ca/envira/oost-canada-met-camper-fotos/?lang=nl

Sources

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

https://www.cp24.com/news/man-51-falls-12m-while-climbing-burlington-s-mount-nemo-1.4076509

http://www.ontarioconservationareas.ca/component/mtree/conservation-authorities-of-

ontario/halton/mount-nemo-conservation-area?Itemid=63

Monday, November 19, 2018

Little Shop of Whores

They say that prostitution is the world’s oldest profession. People have been getting paid to fuck for centuries. As we all well know, they still do. In every town, in every city, in every country in the world, people still sell their bodies for cold hard cash. In the Old Testament, they usually killed any lady of the night, even if she worked all day. Stoning was the preferred method for any divine retribution. In the New Testament, Jesus is much more forgiving but it is Paul, particularly in the letter to the Romans (Romans 1-3), who condemns any form of adultery and idolatry. Prostitutes who give themselves sexually usually did so under the guise of one God or another. Many worked right from the applicable temple. In turn, anyone who has sexual relations with a temple prostitute has, as a matter of scripture, given oneself to the deity in question. Guilt by association. Paul asks, “Do you not know that he who unites himself with a prostitute is one with her in body?” (1 Corinthians 6:12-20, NIV). Theologians and other academics have coined the phrase “shrine prostitution” or “scared prostitution” to represent this view. Although the circumstances may have changed, little else has. We capitalize, even stigmatize, always judging, always ready to condemn. We demonize them like we would a pedophile or a rapist. We vilify them. In antiquity, it was believed that “going to a prostitute was essentially the same as being a prostitute.” These days there is a different view, a new definition. Morality is always in flux. The idea of legal prostitution has been met from Nevada to Amsterdam. In these cases, the taboo has become a full blown profession. I am not here to judge anyone or even make a case for one side or the other. It is not my place to tell anyone what to do with their lives, even if I had been instructed by God to do so. I am simply here to observe, cash upfront.

“You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things. Now we know that God’s judgment against those who do such things is based on truth. So when you, a mere human being, pass judgment on them and yet do the same things, do you think you will escape God’s judgment? Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, forbearance and patience, not realizing that God’s kindness is intended to lead you to repentance? But because of your stubbornness and your unrepentant heart, you are storing up wrath against yourself for the day of God’s wrath, when his righteous judgment will be revealed.” (Romans 2:1-5, NIV)

My first exposure to the oldest profession was not with some trashy, heroin-popping whore. There was no diacetylmorphine involved, at least not that I knew of. This exposure was due to three young men I met in a park. I had no idea exactly what kind of a park it was but I was glad to find out. Victoria Park, I later learned, was known as “the cruising park.” Located in downtown London, Ontario, I am unsure what goes on there now but in the 1980s, it was the place gay men would go looking for casual sex. People actually screwed right in the centre of the park. Again, I had no idea regarding any of that. I didn’t even know there were sex parks, let alone in a neighbouring city. I was not innocent, but I was certainly naive. I was heading from Scot’s Corner on Dundas Street to my friend Brenda’s place on Westmount Drive. Cutting through the park was a no-brainer. I was slightly inebriated but fully functional. As I headed straight through the middle of it, suddenly a football bounced around in front of me, dancing in the dark. I picked it up and I tossed it right back at its supposed owner. He soon joined me with his two buddies and we stood talking for the longest time. Andrew, Jimmy and Todd were all teenagers when I knew them. Ranging in age from fifteen to eighteen, playing with a football was simply a pastime, while they waited. I stayed with them a little, joking around, playing catch and deliberately not asking any questions. They held very little back. At first, I wasn’t sure if I believed them but with each trip to another car and then another car, I was convinced they were legit. All three made it known to me that they were working lads. All three seemed to be just fine with that reality. I had never been friends with a prostitute before. I tried to remain friends with those boys but time and indifference overruled my intentions. After a year or so, I never saw them again. I have no idea if they are still whores.

“No Israelite man or woman is to become a shrine prostitute. You must not bring the earnings of a female prostitute or of a male prostitute into the house of the Lord your God to pay any vow, because the Lord your God detests them both.” (Deuteronomy 23:17-18, NIV)

A few months ago, I was shopping at the Walmart, located near St. Jacob’s, Ontario. I appreciate the choice, the diversity in the products they carry. You can get almost anything you want within its walls. As I approached the children’s section, I sadly noticed a couple making out right in front of (I presumed) their child. The kid was no more than two years old and sat perfectly still in his stroller. He stared at them like they were a mural dangling from the roof. They acted like he wasn’t even there. Both parties seemed adolescent, neither could have been more than twenty-one years of age. As they, clearly, stuck their tongues down each other’s throat, daddy started to grind against her. I had to stop and pretend to look at toys. I rubbernecked the both of them. Breeders can be so amusing. Although I do not appreciate public displays of affection, there was something even more disturbing about them pseudo-fucking in the middle of a department store. As the baby watched on, she reached to her mate, slid her hand down the front of him and she appeared to grab his erect penis through his track pants. It was obviously not a big deal. It was strange to witness such incredulous behaviour. Some people have no shame. I should have called a cop. At this point, I wasn’t sure if she was a whore or a slut. There is a difference between the two. A slut is defined as a promiscuous or disreputable person who engages in casual and unrestrained sexual behaviour. A whore charges for any encounter. You can be a whore without being a slut and you can be a slut without being a whore. You can even be a slut and a whore at the same time. Standing there made it easy to see that he was just as bad as her. Blame her all you want but he was just as responsible, standing there while she cuddled his member. He was just as guilty and should have known better. The spectacle of it all faded quickly. It was actually rather gross. As I began to move past them, she let go of him and reached into his back pocket and took out a his wallet. He took it from her, opened it fully and handed her a Visa card. I had no idea that Walmart had started to sell hookers.

“Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ himself? Shall I then take the members of Christ and unite them with a prostitute? Never! Do you not know that he who unites himself with a prostitute is one with her in body? For it is said, ‘The two will become one flesh.’” (1 Corinthians 6:15-16, NIV)

In 1994, I lived near downtown Toronto with my late partner. We would often travel to and from the city’s core with ease. Our apartment was directly across from the Kensington Market, an area dedicated to independent shops, artisan wares and casual browsing. It’s like Chinatown but way more hospitable. Quaint shops adorn the place. Open air shopping and open street walking make the experience seem more like entertainment value than actual value. Delicatessens, restaurants and bars, and niche vendors offer a great selection but with a better view than if one was in a store. It is charming in a materialistic sort of way. Come night, and it is an entirely different story. The area that was so vibrant and safe during the day holds much debauchery and seedier behaviour once the sun has gone down. Drug users fill Bellevue Square Park, the small green space immediately across from where we lived at the time. The air always seemed filled with sin to me. I had no problem with contributing to that. We left the movie theatre located in the Eaton Centre and we walked towards home. We walked and we talked and we completely ignored all the homeless, the hopeless and even a whore or two. We followed Dundas Street to just before Bathurst Street and the Toronto Western Hospital. There was only one quick jaunt using Dennison Avenue and then we would be home. When we rounded the corner, she was standing right in the middle of the street, you couldn’t miss her. She saw us coming and rushed over to check us out. The late hour made her stand out against a background of crackheads and junkies who littered the park mere feet from where she was. We tried the ‘drop your head and keep going’ manoeuvre but she stopped right in front of both of us, relatively blocking our way. It was not me she wanted to talk to. She offered him everything in exchange for just a few dollars. The longer she tried, the more annoyed he got. He later told me that the experience would not have been that bad if she had more than one tooth in her mouth. To be honest, I have no real idea why the two of us stood there talking to her for as long as we did. The conversation was interesting, to say the least. I felt sorry for her. At that point, it was the longest conversation I had ever had with a black person. It had to end at some point and

so it did. As we scooted around her, she made one last appeal, offering whatever he wanted for only a dollar. She actually was willing to give herself away for mere pennies. I had no idea there were bargain basement whores.

“Jesus said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you. For John came to you to show you the way of righteousness, and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes did. And even after you saw this, you did not repent and believe him.” (Matthew 21:31b-32, NIV)

Madonna is to my partner as Amy Grant is to me. The two are icons in our household. Personally, I’ve never been a big fan of Madonna, although there are several songs which I rather like. “Rain”, “Love Profusion” and “Joan of Arc” I consider my favourites. The rest I can live without. I have seen her live and in concert four times over the last twenty years. Thanks to my spouse’s love, and the media’s obsession, I have listened to the same songs being played, on different radio stations, in video form and ad nauseam when a new CD comes out. They play over and over again, just like a prayer. It’s hard to escape her at my home. With all the music, and photos, and posters that fill the basement hall, she is more art form than welcome mat. You can usually find me at the end of critiquing her. I am not particularly fond of her public persona either. I don’t actually like her as the person she presents herself to be. Despite any irrelevance I feel towards her, I have always respected her and the career she has maintained. You can say a lot about her but the fact remains she is still with us, still recording and still performing, and successfully to boot.

With all that success has come great ridicule and disregard. For years, her critics have called her the “whore of Babylon,” referring to “Babylon the Great, the Mother of Prostitutes and Abominations of the Earth,” found near the end of the Bible. She is a “symbolic female figure and also a place of evil mentioned in the Book of Revelation,” (Chapters 17 and 18). Ironically, in 2004, Madonna went out on the circuit with The Whore of Babylon concerts, part of her Re-Invention world tour. I never once have thought of her in such terms. I don’t believe she is a scarlet whore nor do I believe she received cash for putting out. It is a better world with her in it. I believe she earned what she got and not by using lubrication. For me, she is representative of a wider cultural phenomenon. I’m not sure if she is actually, or ever has been, a whore but she most certainly plays the part well.

“Folly is an unruly woman;

she is simple and knows nothing.

She sits at the door of her house,

on a seat at the highest point of the city,

calling out to those who pass by.”

(Proverbs 9:13-15a, NIV)

With the ‘Me, Too’ movement upon us, women have earned a voice. It is loud and it is clear. The days of treating women like sex objects, assuming they are at men’s disposal, are over, for the most part. I am sure that some grub somewhere will still think it’s just fine to grab a waitress’ ass or make suggestions that cross the line of decency. Men will try to rape them but women no longer have to dwell as a victim. Finally, there is actual justice from taking back the night. To what end and to whom does this serve? Day and night, on corners, in alleyways, women are still left with little choice but to sell themselves to survive. Our mothers, our sisters, even our children, fall prey to what many would call an easy way out. I assure you, not one of them would agree. From the witness I have made, prostitution is not an easy way out. I would argue that even those women in Nevada or Amsterdam lose a little piece of themselves when they are offered at a price. The act itself must deaden your soul, regardless if it is legal or not. I cannot imagine ever being in such a predicament that I would need to sell myself. Of course, it just goes without saying that this is easier said than done. I am not sure that I could do it but if I did try, I most certainly would go hungry.

“For the lips of the adulterous woman drip honey,

and her speech is smoother than oil;

but in the end she is bitter as gall,

sharp as a double-edged sword.

Her feet go down to death;

her steps lead straight to the grave.

She gives no thought to the way of life;

her paths wander aimlessly, but she does not know it.”

(Proverbs 5:3-6 New International Version (NIV)

Photo

https://www.thesun.co.uk/uncategorized/5551825/amsterdam-red-light-district-is-a-front-for-human-trafficking-rape-drug-addiction-and-brutal-beatings/

https://atrl.net/forums/topic/23-madonna/?page=191

Sources

https://peacetheology.net/romans/pauls-deconstruction-of-idolatry/

http://www.thirdmill.org/files/english/html/nt/NT.h.Pratt.1Cor6.12-20.edited.html

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+Corinthians+6%3A12-20&version=NIV

https://www.gaychristian101.com/Romans-1-And-Homosexuality.html

http://www.jeremiads.net/madonna-the-scarlet-whore-of-our-modern-day-babylon/

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Some 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 an 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 a 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 usually is 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 everyday 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 to 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 any one 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 was also Calvin. Once, my first partner and I were confronted by a 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), no where did he elaborate that this consumption would be magical and down right 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 to young. I remember watching my parents figuratively breaking bread and pouring wine. I observed them sipping from a chalice then munching on a piece of broken bread. 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 practise 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 closet 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 not 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

Monday, November 12, 2018

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

Sunday, November 4, 2018

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