Inside Job

“Years of knocking on heaven’s door

Have taught me this, if nothing more,

That it’s all right, what may come.”

(All Right, Amy Grant 1988)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqbSeNs1JsI

            On May 15^th, 2019, I turned 54 years of age. I don’t feel more than half a century old and not looking the part is a big time bonus. I am not always the man I used to be. Sometimes, in the privacy of my little world, I ache or hurt or slightly suffer due to the ravages of time. Honestly, growing older has had little effect on me. It has been a relatively quiet ride despite all the chaos and outward complications. Getting older has been less of a challenge and more of a process. It is not that I had any choice in the matter. Regardless of any admonishments I’ve encountered along the way, my life has been filled with the most lovely of things. It has also held the harsh and the mundane and the ridiculous. Along the way, I have been instructed by great minds to look within myself if I am going to find happiness. This is not always applicable. There are plenty of things that this life has to offer, which more than compensate for any inside job that experience may have as an option. Unfortunately, as we age there are things we once embraced which fall away. We either lose interest, discover ramifications or simply get too bored to really give a shit. Some things remain while others pass away. I have given up feeling guilty about happening upon any pleasures that lie in my trying existence. They keep telling me that one cannot find reward without an internal dialogue but this does not always present itself as valid. There are plenty of rewards that have nothing to do with intimate moments or ego-based demands. Sometimes life hands us joy. Sometimes it rips it away in but a moment. The rest of the time things just fade, they pass with the passing of time. The factors which once brought some semblance of delight warp and morph into new ways of living. As I age, it has become clear there is no fine line between what mattered then and what works for me now. My happiness does not simply lie within myself. The world around can be influence enough. Life gives and it takes but what matters always happens in the middle.  

“Oh how the years go by

Oh how the love brings tears to my eyes

All through the changes the soul never dies

We fight, we laugh, we cry

As the years go by”

(Oh How the Years Go By, Amy Grant 1993)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgDxlo1Gntk

            Throughout my teen years and beyond, one of my favourite places to spend a summer day was at Canada’s Wonderland. It is just like our own version of Disneyland but far less expensive. Over the years, I returned almost annually, each visit a replay of the time before and the time before that. I loved the roller coasters and the atmosphere and the junk food that cost too much but was a heavenly delight. The 134-hectare theme park is located in Vaughan, Ontario, which lies 40 kilometres due north of downtown Toronto. The park opened in 1981 and remains the largest in the country. Time and time again, I could be spotted riding the Wilde Beast or screaming while dropped from The Bat. I loved to wander about the place with my friends, with my family and with my partner. In 2008, Ben and I spent a July day taking in the amusement. We covered all the big rides, a few of the tamer rides and, much to my delight, none of the kiddie rides. On many the previous occasion, I played good uncle and rode shotgun with this nephew or that niece.  Whether on the slow-moving, giant plastic Swans or the mini-roller coaster, I always seemed to end up being the babysitter, specializing in the field of chauffeur. When we arrived at admissions that day, we decided rather than simply purchasing a pass for one visit, we would purchase season passes for just a few dollars more. It seemed worth it at the time. Our day away was perfect and granted exactly what we came for. Just over a month later, we went back to the park. We wanted to make sure our money was well spent. It was not the same and the extra cash we put out could have been spent on better things. I don’t know if it was amusement burnout or plain mature thinking but the day was pretty much a waste of our time. Yes, we rode a few rides, including the newest roller coaster, but something was missing. When we left, I left the place behind me. We have not returned and most certainly have no plans to. It’s not that the experience changed me in some dramatic manner. I was not destroyed by the absence of fun time. It just no longer appealed to my sensibilities and paying that much money to spend the day bored seems repugnant to my mind. They say you can’t go home again but I say who would want to? I suppose, in a sense, that I outgrew this summer getaway. It took long enough. Like with all things, things change, especially once the thrill is gone.

“Like sand on a mountain

Rain on a fountain

Shade on a shadow

A breeze in this tornado

Just do what you can

Clap with one hand

And shine all your light in the sun”

(Shine All Your Light, Amy Grant 1998)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnxNIS2HcFM

            For the last four years, since our move to Paris, Ontario, I have played with the neighbourhood creatures. I have fed the birds, and the squirrels and chipmunks, and many a night visitor. There is this skunk who likes to scare the crap out of me as I stare at the moon and he wanders my way. More recently, a rat or two would show up each morning, right after I dropped the entree around the bird feeder. Having raised rats for many years, it was hard at first to justify destroying the creatures. I tried, regardless of my feelings, I bought rat poison, rat traps, glue traps and even a very expensive batted trap that merely collected rainwater. The fuckers escaped my clutches each and every time. This year, one of my imagined enemies brought a mate along just to piss me off. There is just no place at my place for a family of vermin. I was left with two choices. I could either call the township, an exterminator, or close shop and take away any food source that may have instigated the issue. I hoped they would no longer have a reason to stay and I would not have to fucking kill them. It all had to go. I have removed the feeders. I have stopped the feeding. I wrapped poison into tiny balls of peanut butter, which I assume were a favoured meal after the real goods had been cut off. I just wanted them to go away. This was their only chance at survival. If they did not leave in search of other pastures, I would have to have them removed by force. I used to look out my kitchen windows with great wonder. I could stand watching the birds and such all day if I wanted. It brought me joy and made me feel like I was part of this nature, part of this world, even if only in the smallest sense. I found a dead one soon after and I believe I also poisoned the rest. The saddest part, for me, was the two baby rats I had to exterminate. It’s ironic, all those years spent caring for rats and I ended up not giving a shit about them. Odd. I hope that come autumn, the beasts will remain long gone and I will be able to restore things to the way they were. There is nothing now but a lonely fence and a view of other neighbourhood creatures. Vermin come in all shapes and sizes.

“Got myself in this situation

I’m not sure about

Climbing in where there’s temptation

Can I get back out?

I never can quite find the answer

The one I want to hear

The one that justifies my action

Says the coast is clear

Something on the outside

Says to jump on in

But something on the inside

Is telling me again”

(Wise up, Amy Grant 1985)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j721qPuovdc

            When I last saw them, there were approximately 4000 of them tucked away, safe, in your standard comic cardboard boxes. They were my favourite thing in the whole wide world. He stole away each one of them and any chance I had to recover what I had lost. There was absolutely no way, considering current market value, I could re-collect even a few of them. Thousands of dollars just floated away from me, never to be read or worshipped or revered ever again. I gave up the idea of trying and eventually comic book collecting faded like any urge I had to wear tight jeans. Collecting no longer fit my lifestyle or approved funding. Time carried on and I passed rack after rack of my old friends. I never touched one. Years passed and the habit became cold and empty and was tossed far away. By chance, I discovered a comic book warehouse and went inside to purchase a few comic books to give to the kids next door for Christmas. The single comic I bought for myself that day reactivated my craving. Ironically, tight jeans are all the rage these days. I started collecting again. Most of the comic books I once owned were purchased at cover price. This is no longer the case. To replace them would be almost impossible without a very large sum of disposable income. I would have to be a millionaire. I had settled for lesser revivals when I discovered a digital copy of what my old collection held. I may not have been able to collect exactly what I used to but I could get whatever presented itself. I started collecting the characters and teams that I once had. With the list as my guide, my new old collection started to form. Almost half a decade later and I have almost as many boxes and over 3000 lovely treasures hidden deep inside those standard cardboard comic book boxes. The value is impressive but nothing compared to what I would have if not for circumstance. If I had now what I had then. I actually think that collecting comic books is more fun for me than when I collected as a child. Yes, back then, I was in glory just to hold one, let alone read one. It was pure innocence. I have been tainted. Price, condition, value and content, all determine whether I add a title to the collection. I am focused and succinct in my effort. I absolutely love it. The hunt is what I favour, more than anything else. Updating lists, reading copies and adding them to my hoard is nothing without the looking and the searching. Getting a deal always makes my best day. I can spend hour after hour in some Zen-like trance, flipping through cover after cover after cover. I am taken away to that otherland. There is no struggle, no lessons to learn. There is no sad, no alone, no nothing but my fingers and the edges of my heaven. Most times in life, you can’t go home again. You can, however, redecorate with the same theme at your new place.

“The same sun that melts the wax can harden clay

And the same rain that drowns the rat will grow the hay

And the mighty wind that knocks us down

If we lean into it

Will drive our fears away”

(How Can We See that Far?, Amy Grant 1991)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3_prpBm5LY

            When I began posting my blog on Facebook, I posted a new blog every weekday for a year. Eventually, I settled for the easier once a week routine. For almost 10 years, I have faithfully exposed myself to the masses. With 5000 friends, it was not difficult to attract readers. For almost a decade, I managed to build a large audience and had the numbers to back it up. My average weekly blog usually got somewhere between 800 and 1000 views. When Facebook changed my algorithm, my blog’s viewership plunged by almost 90 percent.  Coincidentally, this blockage occurred just as Facebook started charging people to promote their work. I tried it but the cost was not worth the 10 more viewers I got that week. I would be lying if I said this reconfiguration did not piss me right off. I always assumed that applications such as Twitter and Facebook were for the sharing of ideas. Who knew that eventually those ideas would cost you? It was never about the amount of views I got with each exercise. Whether I got 20 views or 500 views, it really didn’t matter to me. When my readers sharply dropped, so did my momentum. The change in direction affected my commitment. It just seemed stupid to do all that work, spend all that time, with little but 74 engagements. There are other sites I frequent and many other platforms that I post my blog on. They are not as plentiful as Facebook has been. As I try to rebuild my audience, I am painfully aware of the daunting task that lies before me. Despite this lingering feeling that I am wasting my time, I continue to write and I continue to post. My numbers have stabilized but in no way reflect the sum that they used to be. You can find me, most early mornings, sitting in the dark writing. I don’t write for any fame or any fortune. It is a part of me I cannot deny, no matter how I try. I still hope that I can reach people. My unique story has many lessons to offer. It is hard to get that message out these days. It takes much time, and apparently, much money to be able to dance with the masses. The options have been made very clear. I am resolved at this point. I will carry on and try to care less. Every time Facebook drops a notification that I can increase my traffic for a mere $20.00, I fume a little. I refuse to pay for something that should be free, as originally offered. The sharing of ideas should hold no bottom line. Regardless, I continue to build my archive and have hundreds and hundreds of postings to prove it. Sure, any intermission I take now is a little longer and a little more reserved but I remain viable. I continue to believe that I have something to offer. I still try to deliver my stories, even if no one is reading them.  

“Faithless heart

Be far away from me

Playing games inside my head

That no one else can see

Faithless heart

You tempt me to the core

But you can’t have a hold on me

So don’t come around anymore”

(Faithless Heart, Amy Grant 1988)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NafBYwi05lM

            Some things begin, some things end and most times things change and not always for the better. Life gives and it takes with little regard for any feelings about it that one might have. Life is not only about dealing with change but also how we react and respond to it. You can either adjust or loom in chaos. Quite often, change can bring great reward. We get what we came for. Quite often, change can be detrimental and very disruptive. We end up getting exactly what we paid for. The challenge lies not so much in just knowing. It is the doing that really counts. Our reality is constantly in flux. As we age, it should become clearer that paying attention is better than ignorance. Quite often, it is the very substance of the world around us that filters into our disposition. While your world may not be blessed with sunshine and lollipops, your internal dialogue does not rule as the only option to happiness. The outer world is wondrous and this beauty is revealed in the things we know. All I know is that I don’t know. I try to aim for a state of felicity.  Happiness can be a two-way street, not always one way or another. Occasionally, the things which surround us bring us joy. Occasionally, the thing within us causes the pain. So, I guess, for the most part, it’s all still an inside job.

“All of my friends are happy to stay

Here in this yard day after day

But something inside me has called me away

I don’t understand but I know I can’t stay

I’m gonna fly, no one knows where

But I’m gonna fly, I’m lighter than air

Cause I have felt for the first time

I can be myself

No more faces to hide behind

Just a smile and a dream that’s mine

Even if I am the only one who wants to fly”

(I’m Gonna Fly, Amy Grant 1981)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9igpzxn8cA

Photo

Cheltenham Badlands

Ontario Canada

circa 2012

(Enough)

“I’m not handsome enough to be James Bond. Maybe a villain, though.”

(Matt Smith,  English actor)

            You can be courteous, friendly and helpful and some people still think they have the right to shit all over you. No matter how nice you are, there is always someone who stirs the pot. The most dangerous liars are the ones who believe they are telling the truth. They actually fall for their version. It doesn’t matter if proof stands against them, they still remain convinced that they have the right to do whatever they want. I am sorry but saying you are sorry as you continue to cause problems is not an apology, it is complete bullshit. I think it is laughable how some validate their position. They get to say it is so and damn anyone who would dare disagree. It’s no coincidence they always end up hating and blaming those who are just standing up for their own rights. Just because you exist does not designate you Commander in Chief, even if you are acting like Trump. Your rights do not negate anyone else’s. Neither do mine. It’s even stranger when there was no issue, no words spoken, until they cross the line and someone has the audacity to say enough is enough. It’s funny how before something was said there was no problem but it doesn’t matter. You have to resolve yourself that you can’t get along with everyone. You can’t please everyone. Of course, this automatically makes one the villain. “How dare you interfere with my narcissism. How dare you think I have to consider you at all.” In most cases, we are faced with the revelation that, in fact, it was like this all along. This personality type is the reason that  people get divorced and sit all alone, in spite of it being everyone else’s fault.   

“A man must be big enough to admit his mistakes, smart enough to profit from them, and strong enough to correct them.” (John C. Maxwell, American author)

            Old man Hickson was a nasty piece of work. As a matter of fact, he was a curmudgeon, generally speaking. He had a reputation for being difficult and everyone in the neighbourhood knew it. If you passed him on the street, the only thing you would  encounter was the overwhelming scent of vodka. He reeked of it and most often could be seen drinking a mix of this or that. Most days, he was riddled with the stuff, just like every other active alcoholic on the planet. William and his late wife lived in their home for over 30 years before she passed away. Her death changed the man. He withdrew into a sense of isolation. While he had not been the warmest of neighbours previously, he became combative, unwelcoming and unapproachable. People knew to stay away. This deliberate state of self was the only thing that kept him going. He began to believe his own press. He placed a “no trespassing” sign on his front lawn and would scream, “Get off my grass!” if he caught someone lingering on his property. The children in the area were afraid of him. It wasn’t his disposition that kept them away from the grump who lived at the end of the street.  The only real play area for the children was located right beside him on the west side of his place. He hated when the neighbourhood kids would play there. The abandoned lot was a thorn in his side and anyone daring to make noise would be cursed at. Anyone who even touched his fence would be verbally attacked. Perhaps the most daunting behaviour he exhibited was when a Frisbee or toy entered his proclaimed territory. If you violated his airspace, you lost that toy forever. He would literally smash and destroy them right before the eyes of the offender. He was very much like the character Nebbercracker, from the CGI film Monster House. Occasionally, some dog would explore the old man’s bushes or the base of the very large and mature oak tree that sits at the corner of the property. If he managed to catch an offending pooch, he would call animal control and ship the beast off to parts unknown. He didn’t care if you begged and pleaded, he would not hear of charity. Only what he wanted, what he believed, mattered. It was his property, his domain and his place to hand out whatever consequence he felt appropriate. Eventually, all his hatred came to a head. Olivia was 7 years old when her brother Trevor tossed her favourite dolly over old man Hickson’s fence. This deliberate form of torture was funny at first. When Olivia decided to fetch her stuffed friend, Hickson went from madman to monster. He spotted the child and ran out to remove her from his property. He grabbed her and rushed her to the street, bruising her arm and her trust in mankind. He thought he had the right to do whatever he wanted, regardless of the law or even common courtesy. When the police arrived, he stated over and over that he had the right to protect his property and claimed that was exactly what he was doing when he assaulted the girl.

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” (Friedrich Nietzsche , German philosopher)

            Alicia loved her boyfriend Oliver but the same could not be said of her mother. Caroline Reed actually hated his guts although she never really said just why. One must assume there was something about him to despise him so. Perhaps he reminded her of her ex-husband. Perhaps he reminded her of her father. Regardless, she constantly interfered in their relationship. Over and over, she tried to make it impossible for them to be together. Caroline instigated missed phone calls, erased messages and a sour demeanour anytime he showed up at the house. She ridiculed and belittled him as he stood waiting for Alicia. Eventually, he just waited in the car. Oliver knew what was going on but Alicia was rather dense when it came to her mother. The woman could do no wrong. It didn’t matter what was said or what had been done, Caroline was innocent before the charges were even laid, at least to her daughter. It went on and on for months, this secret assault on what might well have been true love. It started to erode the sense of loyalty Oliver felt. Alicia just didn’t get it. She was blind to her mother and refused to listen to anyone accusing her of anything. It was eventual. The old bitch was not supposed to be home on this visit. The plan was to pick up Alicia, have a nice dinner and try to work things out before they corroded away. Caroline answered the door, much to his surprise. Completely out of character, she welcomed him in and called for her daughter. He was to make himself comfortable as she went off to check on Alicia. The evening was initially pensive but it seemed to smooth out on the way. Both parties agreed, they needed more communication and less mother. They spotted the cop car from down the street. Alicia worried that something had happened and prayed Mom was okay. The pair walked into pure chaos. They arrested Oliver, lowered him into the cruiser and drove away. Alicia was heartbroken that he had stolen all that money from her mother’s purse. The next day, she got quite angry that he had done this deed despite well knowing what his actions would do to their relationship. If he didn’t care, she was not about to. Her mother had been right all along. She wished she had listened, she regretted not doing so. Mom got her way and never had to deal with Oliver again. Caroline got what she wanted and she only had to lie to get it. Of course, to Alicia, Mom could do no wrong.

“The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on.”

(Ulysses S. Grant, 18th president of the United States)

            From the second he met her, he just knew that he didn’t like her. Whether she realized it or not, she was exactly the kind of person that he had spent years trying to avoid. He didn’t really intend to judge her but she gave little reason not to. The first half hour of their first time together found him wanting, wanting to leave, to flee from this seemingly unending cacophony. It was no surprise to him. He could just tell from her energy that something was worth avoiding. He liked his job until she came along. Having to work with her every day was brutal, at least all the pretending to be nice was. She was just one of those people who would constantly get on your last nerve. She talked too much and all that talking was always so critical, critical and judgy. She had nothing good to say. The longer he worked with her, the more he wished she would just shut the fuck up. It was a challenge, a daily challenge. Nothing good came with her so he tried to not let it bother him. He struggled to remember to not shit were you eat. As time passed, she settled into her delivery. The worst part was just how two-faced she appeared to be. With one hand, she would stand with a colleague and be nice as pie. Once they left, all bets were off. He just knew she did exactly the same thing behind his back. It went on and on, in a seemingly unending chorus of pettiness and desperation. He tried to empathize, to feel some sense of compassion for an obviously lost soul but he could not find it. Over and over again, she gave plenty of reasons to not like her. She was a copycat. Anytime someone added a picture or memento to their work station, she would follow suit. Anything anyone added, she duplicated. This routine made her look even more pathetic. Near the end, it was difficult to spend any amount of time with her. Any time one did share was mired in that same old two-faced tone and critical dissection. It got to the point where she began to interfere with workplace morale. No one wanted her input for fear of compromise. No one wanted to listen for fear of fuelling her fire. She made a neutral place an awkward place. People avoided her, just because. The productivity of her team began to suffer. No one wanted to work with her so work didn’t get done. They fired her ass when she started blaming everyone else for her lack of commitment. The longer she stood at the water cooler sharing gossip, the more management found her expendable. They asked for input from her teammates. Not one person had anything good to say. She made the workplace uncomfortable. People could not get their work done with her hanging all over them. Once the cat was out of the bag, she was not soon with the place. They told her in no uncertain terms that her lack of professionalism had sealed her doom. They showed her to the door with the same disregard she expressed towards her onetime colleagues. It’s a sad state of affairs when the world is better without you in it.

“I think we consider too much the good luck of the early bird and not enough the bad luck of the early worm.” (Franklin D. Roosevelt, 32nd president of the United States)

            People are often more stupid than anything else. They cannot see past their own illusions and recognize that there is more then just their point of view. Things are not always clear cut. Observation only goes so far and it is always shaped by our biases and tendencies. If you were to convince me and I convince you, there would still remain two points of view. Empathy aside, assuming that your truth is the only truth does not necessarily make it so. Some people demand they are right even when they know they are not. It matters little what really happened or what was really said. There comes a time when most relationships are tested. When one part of that relationship believes they have exclusive rights just because, it can cause a great schism, and may eventually lead to a war of more than words. Some people attack, believing their rights outweigh everyone else’s. Some people convince themselves their behaviour is justified by what they consider to be the truth. Some people give others a reason to not like them, to no longer associate with the kind of person your actions make clear. Regardless of any reason or justification, the way we treat others is usually defined by the way they have treated us. Sometimes, you get exactly what you give. Of course, once the die is cast, people blame everyone else for the reason it happened. They take no responsibility because if they did, they would have to admit they have done something wrong. The self-absorbed player whines and complains about the way things are as they continue to prove they were not worth the struggle, not even worth a moment of kindness. Villains are everywhere, they come in all shapes and they come in all sizes. Sometimes they hide as the grumpy old man down the street. Sometimes they hide as a family member. Sometimes they even appear as themselves. You might even find a guilty conscience or two, claiming things are broken but not because of anything anyone they know might have done. More often than not, guilty people would rather lie and deflect than take responsibility for their actions and the things they have said. People tend to be transparent, it is crystal clear their intent. They also try to camouflage their crap but it’s still just another pile of shit. People can also be obtuse so it’s no wonder this denseness goes ignored in their own mind. How they treat others tends to determine how those others treat them. In the end, it all comes down to their lack of acuity. Most offenders, in general, have trouble learning or understanding. You need to take it slow because they do not know how to go fast. It can seem an endless chore to have to deal with them. All of a sudden, enough is enough.

“You can’t please everyone. When you’re too focused on living up to other people’s standards, you aren’t spending enough time raising your own. Some people may whisper, complain and judge. But for the most part, it’s all in your head. People care less about your actions than you think. Why? They have their own problems!”

(Kris Carr, American author)  

Photo

https://audiobookstore.com/audiobooks/the-art-of-war-11.aspx

Birds of a Feather

“Birds of the same feathers flock together,

and when they flock together they fly so high.”

(Cecil Thounaojam, social media)

            Birds are feathered, winged, two-footed (bipedal), warm-blooded (endothermic), egg-laying, vertebrates. Fossil records indicate that they emerged within a class of theropod (hind-legged) dinosaurs around 160 million years ago, during the Jurassic period. Most Palaeontologists agree that birds are one of the few species of dinosaurs to have “survived the Cretaceous–Palaeogene extinction event 65.5 Ma (million years) ago.” Despite a large predator base, severe climate changes, and a specific extinction factor at the hands of other species, they have not only survived but have flourished. Birds can be found on all seven continents and far outnumber human beings.  

          Some birds, such as the parrot, are among “the most intelligent of all animal species.” They have been observed creating and using tools, and many more “social species exhibit cultural transmission of knowledge across generations.” Birds are social creatures. They communicate with each other using “visual signals and through calls and songs, and participate in social behaviours, including cooperative breeding and hunting, flocking, and mobbing of predators.” A bird’s main method of locomotion is flight. Whether to feed, breed, escape, or to avoid their predator base, flying is the primary method used by birds to survive.  

            There are between “120–130 species of birds that have become extinct as a result of human activity since the 17th century.” 1,200 species of birds are currently threatened with extinction at the hands of humans. Although efforts to protect them are progressing, for many it may already be too late. Despite human disregard for their existence, people throughout history have deified birds. Birds have played both salient and diverse roles in folklore, legend and myth. They have been prominent figures in most aspects of human culture including religion, literature, art and music. 

“Man is a biped without feathers.”

(Plato, Classical Greek Philosopher)

            There are about “10,000 living species of bird” thriving across the planet. Each breed has adapted to the environment where it lives. They thrive off the coast of Iceland and migrate from Canada to Mexico. They dwell in the icy waters off Antarctica and in the deserts of North Africa. There are birds everywhere there is earth. From the smallest hummingbird to the grand ostrich, they come in all shapes, sizes and colours. Some birds do not migrate each year while others travel back and forth, from destination to destination, relentless in their journey. It is estimated there are between “200 billion and 400 billion birds living on the planet at any given time.” The bird population, in spite of the extinction of some species, is vastly greater than most other species. Their abundance matches that of insects, fish and plants. It is ironic that such abundance still occurs, given it is believed that birds did evolve from the dinosaur, a victim of extinction.

            The richness of each species is matched only by the diversity of each flock. Some birds are white and some birds are black. Some birds are streaked with colour while others are plain and layered with earth tones. Each breed is unlike the other and each individual bird is unique, different from all others. Some birds are savage and some birds are silly. There are birds who have never encountered man and birds who feed from his hand. Some birds are eaten and some birds are worshipped. Some birds spend their lives in a cage, entertainment for the masses. There are birds which we believe bring tidings from a new season and birds which we believe harbinger darkness and death. There are mythological birds that rise from fire. There are so many birds, in so many places, that their number resembles the stars in the heavens.

            Each bird is different, even within its own flock. These differentials in colour and size, combined with gender, development and temperament make the individual bird as awe-inspiring as the flock with which it flies. Some birds have families and even practice monogamy. Some birds spend their life alone, waiting to mate. Some are known to murder. Some engage in homosexual activity. Some birds can talk. Some birds make music so sweet that their song inspires poets and lovers alike. Most birds fly. Some birds swim. Most birds have song. All birds have wings. 

“Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her,

still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.”

(Victor Hugo, French Poet)

            I wonder if birds consider God, and when they picture it, do they see Big Bird? Do they even believe in God? Do they even believe? Do they question and can they think? Do birds subscribe to loyalty and charity or are they self-absorbed and selfish in their nature? When a bird is flying, soaring high upon the winds, does it look down and become lost in the sight of the planet passing beneath it?  Do they know secret things that only they can see from far above the ground? Do they love and do they hate? Does the sparrow despise the swallow because of its greater speed? Does the starling envy the blue jay for its colour and beauty? Is it possible that birds will abandon their children because they don’t like the way they sing? How do birds know not to sing in the rain?

“A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”

(Maya Angelou, American Poet)

            The human being is a strange animal. I wonder if we would be different if we had feathers? Would we still kill in the name of revenge and justice or would we simply fly away? Would we exorcise each other based on our differences or would we nest together in our common goals? Would we have mercy on the wounded or would we be merciless in trying to save them? Would we feed on the weakness of other breeds or would we find solidarity on the wind and in the clouds? Would our freedom to fly make us more enlightened? Would we flock together or travel alone?

            Would the shape, colour and genetic predisposition of the individual stand as the determination for exclusion or would we simply feed from the same pile of seed? When we take to flight, would we soar merely for the joy of it or would we use our speed, agility and grace to rise above each other, in hopes of ruling the roost? Would we still dream of heaven or would heaven be but a moment away? Would we sit and argue the origin of our species or would we embrace the feather, claw and hallow bones that allow us to glide through space with precision? Would we sing for the sake of singing?

            Would we reject each other, condemn each other and fear each other for our flight patterns or would the earth and sky and air command a better way, a simpler way? Would God consider us all or love only those for whom the way back home is revealed? Would we follow or dare to be free? Would we hate and envy and covet each other or recognize we all come from the same evolutionary egg? Would we finally see that we all are essentially the same species or laugh at the face of diversity, beasts to our ego and our overwhelming sense of self? Would we cage our own kind for entertainment, and in judgment, or would we all be free to follow the sky and the stars and the sun? Would we sing all together? Would we use our wings to move about that sky or would we forget to flap and plunge, then die?

I wonder if we would be different if we all had feathers?

“Shoving feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.”
(Brad Pitt, American actor)

Photo

https://www.vectorstock.com/royalty-free-vector/birds-flying-human-head-vector-22445002

Sources

Feathers

(Original Post November 22^nd 2010)

http://simplekel.blogspot.ca/2010/11/feathers.html

For the Birds

(Original post August 20^th 2013)

https://survivinggod.blogspot.com/2013/08/for-birds.html

'How many birds are there?’

Kevin J. Gaston and Tim M. Blackburn

http://www.springerlink.com/content/g462245897502720/

http://books.google.ca/books?id=2V1tHqi4hLEC&pg=PA246&lpg=PA246&dq=birds+outnumber+humans&source=bl&ots=aBLMeuenvQ&sig=sACO8JZmLEjxcpmsZCrpMyoI1ZA&hl=en&sa=X&ei=1urAUKm_BOHC2gXF0YCIDw&ved=0CEsQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q=birds%20outnumber%20humans&f=false

http://www.whereincity.com/india-kids/animals/birds.htm

http://www.makeuseof.com/dir/allaboutbirds-online-encyclopedia-of-birds/

http://www.your-bird.com/

Glimpse

“Addiction isn’t about substance - you aren’t addicted to the substance, you are addicted to the alteration of mood that the substance brings.” (Susan Cheever, American author)

            I did not drink much coffee growing up. I was more a tea fan, dark and strong with a little sweetness. I never really got into java until relatively late in my consumption history. I blame my parents. They were a bad influence. There was always a pot on the burner, always a warm friend to greet you when you walked in the back door. In the mid-90s, I stayed with my folks after the death of a loved one. The basement did me well as I grieved then went on with my life. Every day, I walked past a pot of Joe. I suppose that’s how it all started for me. One day and I decided to have a cuppa. It wasn’t my first cup and it most certainly would not be my last. Next day came another, then another and soon a month or two had passed. My initiation, at first, was a morning ritual. Slowly, almost evolutionary, my morning cup became two morning cups. At times, I even had three morning cups. As I set out on my life again, I found myself drinking coffee at less traditional times. I would have a mug of my morning jolt but I also started applying a jolt to my afternoon exposure. It was high octane on a long, hard day. Over many years, I developed a love for coffee. I must admit I drink an awful lot. I drink it in the AM, and the PM, I’ve even been known to drink it before I go to bed at night. It is my blood type, this dark, bitter friend I so hold. I try to hold it as often throughout the day as I can. I take my infusion very dark, with a few artificial to sweeten the way. It’s just like rocket fuel. I have been told that I have an addiction to caffeine. No shit. I suppose I could try to justify my overuse. I could make excuses, or promises, but I doubt very much they would do me any good. If drinking too much coffee is my greatest flaw, then I will take it. C8H10N4O2 (the caffeine molecule) flows through me like nobody’s business. This is exactly how I feel about helpful reminders that I am under the power of a bean. I already know this so keep it to yourself. Pay attention to your own pot, thank you very much. Perhaps this is all just some long phase and eventually I will leave coffee behind me. One day, I may look back and see the damage I have been doing to myself and wish things had been different. I doubt it. I drink coffee because I enjoy coffee. I can go without it if I have to, but I prefer not to. There are not many substances that demand my attention. Cannabis aside, drinking coffee is one of the few tactile experiences that still gives me comfort. Old friends sometimes do.

“We must move in our recovery from one addiction to another for two major reasons: first, we have not recognized and treated the underlying addictive process, and second, we have not accurately isolated and focused upon the specific addictions.”

(Anne Wilson Schaef, American author)

            I did not drink alcohol like most of my peers. High school was a dry experience for me. I remember my first taste in the summer of 1983, after my graduation. I had turned 18 just a few weeks before in May of that year. One beer made little difference, at least to my drive to consume. I have to admit it was not a refreshing experience. I was not a fan. I used to tell myself I could drink pee at home for free. Ironically, liquor and beer always tasted, and still do, like urine to me. It’s not that I know what actual piss tastes like but I can just imagine. It even smells better. Despite the taste and despite the odour, I could stomach large amounts, even mixing the potions in some forbidden ritual. I never had an issue handling large quantities. When I began my post-secondary experience, booze became like an unwanted friend. It hung around and most often failed to go away. Each morning it would linger. Everyone around me, it seemed, drank heavily through my university and college years. I am sure, at least for Canadians, that this is usually the standard fare. I met my first partner with a Molson Canadian in my hand. For years, I drank Jose Cuervo as if it was Kool-Aid.. My chaser was lime and lager and my main course was the tequila, although I used to switch things up and drink Jack Daniels just for fun. I got extremely good at consuming all of it. I could drink almost everyone under the table and my iron gut adapted, depending on the day. It took more and more to get me shitfaced, so I just kept on drinking and dulling my life, it would seem. Near the end, it became ridiculous. All we did was drink booze, in one form or another. I suppose it is obvious there was a problem. Occasionally, inebriation found me upchucking all over a bar, a couch or some stranger’s backyard. At one point, my then-partner and I went through a 24 (two-four) almost every day. I wasn’t fond of Labatt 50 Ale but Doug drank it like it was his best friend. I would always go for the heavy stuff. Why waste time when you can be drunk right now? “Nurse something else and leave me alone,” became my then-mantra. I thought my drinking days were over as I grieved my drinking partner. I just carried on, over-consuming almost anything that would dull the pain. Working at a night club as a bouncer, for a year, did not help my recovery. Years later and I still was able to entertain my Mexican friend. As time with a  new partner began, drinking became an invader rather than some comforting friend. Whether up in Wingham with my cousin, Toronto with my buddies, or at home with a few bottles, it inconveniently took far too much energy and time to entertain then recover from each night before. In November of 2001, I sat with a few friends and polished off a 26-ouncer. Truth be told, they had a shot here and there but I downed most of it. When that beverage ran dry, I started drinking anything I could find. I ended up completely wasted, and naked, sitting on the floor of our kitchen. Occasionally, I would stand up and just start pissing all over the linoleum. This would soon be followed by puke and puke and more puke. I just gave in to it all and laughed, then laughed some more. The river of tequila crested over and flooded my night. I don’t remember much but what I have been told. The next day was torture. It is here that I decided to end my career as an alcoholic. I am not sure that I was one but my first partner carried all the signs on him. I just stopped. It was not a pleasure anymore. Almost 20 years later and I carry on without it. Sometimes I will have a sip of red wine or the taste of a beer, but I usually leave most of it on a table or in the sink. I have no interest in the flavour or the tactile result of consumption. I am not addicted to the stuff. There is no challenge in not partaking. I couldn’t care less. I suppose I was not some alcoholic rummaging through life looking for a little. I was a booze hound not hounded by booze. I have no urge, no need, lying in wait for the right temptation. I suppose I was more stupid than anything else, more dazed than confused.

“Years of research in psychology has shown that rewards and punishments can be very effective in changing behaviour. But, at the same time, they can create an addiction to rewards and punishments.” (Barry Schwartz, American psychologist)

            As with alcohol, I did not become acquainted with cannabis until long after my high school rotation. At first, my exposure to marijuana was a casual encounter. A joint here and a bong hit there simply teased my sensibilities. Throughout my post-secondary education, pot use was mostly a social activity. I only took some if offered. I never bought it or stored it or even shared it with my friends and neighbours. Considering what was to come, weed seemed irrelevant to me then. It wasn’t that I did not partake, it just wasn’t important to my buzz and it did little to add to it. My first partner and I spent much of our free time entertaining this buddy or that group from school. While drinking was our favoured pastime, somehow pot always got tossed into the mix. Eventually, it became a standard go-to, a touchstone one looked for at each party or event. Sometimes, my then-partner and I got some to ourselves and we took a private journey. Even on the night he disappeared, I opened a window and smoked a stiff one, then headed out into the storm to find him. Months later and other, more pharmaceutical means gave way to my escape. Pot seemed more like a companion piece than the main catalyst of my addiction. It always seemed to be there, regardless. When my current partner came along, so did the quest to secure a dealer. Smoking up became regular routine. When I gave up drinking for good, weed became a reliant for both recreational and medical relief. I discovered the pot at the end of the rainbow. I became convinced that cannabis had helped me whether I knew it or not. In fact, pot use seems to assist me in ways I never would have imagined. It calms me, turning anxiety into mere annoyance. It helps me sleep, it helps me fight the blues. It can be pain medication but it also helps with digestion, nausea and stress management. It promotes appetite and contributes to a less negative outlook on life. It has helped to manage my chemical imbalance and I use it to moderate panic and any form of mania I might be experiencing. I never would have imagined that the day would come when I became a licensed medical marijuana user. I have been one since long before cannabis became legal here in Canada on October 17^th, 2018. Since I no longer drink any alcohol, pot has become both a medical but also a social favour, something used in place of the buzz I once knew so long ago. It’s a different buzz. I don’t puke when I inhale. A hangover no longer rules the following day. The next morning and I am fine should I wish to start all over again. All these years and the only negative side effects from its use are weight gain due to the munchies and a yellowing on the hand used to ingest. I don’t really like edibles as I’ve had a very unappealing encounter with them. I don’t use a bong, or volcano, I am a papers/joint kind of guy. I am often asked how I deal with this addiction on top of all the others. I don’t see it that way at all. If there is an actual physical addiction to marijuana, I am willing to acknowledge it, along with all the benefits. Here in Canada, it is a new day. I can carry weed wherever I go without the fear of consequence. A week or so ago, I was witness to several young men puffing just outside a restaurant in downtown Kitchener. You can smoke the stuff anywhere you can smoke tobacco. In March of this year, my partner and I headed north to Toronto. Our annual excursion to Comic Con found us right in the heart of the city. As we approached the Convention Centre, we went aside and smoked a big one. It was awkward, to say the least. People stared as they passed us by from a distance. For the first time, we were set free even though we did not know it. I might have felt safer from a onetime vantage point. I am not sure I will ever get used to the changes in both a legal and social capacity. It’s strange, I feel like a bird who refuses to fly from a cage that has been left open. .

“All the suffering, stress, and addiction comes from not realizing you already are what you are looking for.” (Jon Kabat-Zinn, American professor of medicine)

            You could say I have an addictive personality but I would argue there is a huge difference between abuse and habituation. Misuse does not always qualify as dependence. I collect comic books. I spend a large amount of time, and money, for the pleasure of hoarding them. Some have claimed I have an unhealthy attachment to them. I am not sure this counts as addiction but many have claimed, at least in my case, that this is the exact problem. I guess I don’t see it as a problem. If you wanna talk about addiction, I smoked at least a pack a day for over 30 years. I bought my first pack of cigarettes on my 18^th birthday. Some friends and I had just seen Tom Cruise in Risky Business and I was inspired to join my brothers and cousins in their folly. If I had put all that money into comic books versus my lungs, I would have much more to show for it than just the chance of cancer. Although I have quit, for the most part, it is very clear to me just how addicted I still am to nicotine. The call can be very distracting and come out of nowhere. One puff as I pass a smoker and I am drawn back into the web of tobacco. I have even had a few over the years. There is a very distinct difference between dependency and maltreatment. Each one is not exclusive to the other but they often work together in some warped form of harmony. I have been overcome a time or two. In the summer of 1995, I spent my days (and nights) shooting up morphine in my parents’ basement. I was so addicted that four months of my life are mostly missing, at least from my memory. It was like every other encounter; I used it to escape. I suppose it might seem that anything which distracts me, or gives me fleeting pleasure, becomes like a hold on me. I am not a smoker, or an alcoholic, or a coffee freak, or a drug abuser, or even a comic book hoarder. I just play one in my blog.

 

“Addiction is a condition in which a person engages in the use of a substance or in a behaviour for which the rewarding effects provide a compelling incentive to repeatedly pursue the behaviour despite detrimental consequences. Addiction may involve the use of substances such as alcohol, inhalants, opioids, cocaine, nicotine, and others, or behaviours such as gambling. There is scientific evidence that the addictive substances and behaviours share a key neurobiological feature, they intensely activate brain pathways of reward and reinforcement, many of which involve the neurotransmitter dopamine.”  (Psychology Today, Sussex Publishers 2019)

Photo

https://lifehopeandtruth.com/change/sin/freedom-from-addiction/confronting-addiction/ 

https://www.marieclaire.com/politics/a20651072/sex-abuse-to-prison-pipeline/

Sources

https://pubchem.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/compound/caffeine

https://www.psychologytoday.com/ca/basics/addiction

Quagmire

            I would love to be an Atheist, to rid my life of the complication that comes with Faith. At times, I feel like I am only a step away from this reality. It would then be easier to take responsibility for my past, and my present, rather than using something divine as an easy go-to in deflection. I would have to actually face life rather than using God as an excuse for my non-participation. I would be forced to hold myself fully accountable for my actions. There would be no room for “What ifs?” or “Is it all true?” No fate, no predestination, and no angels or demons would exist to sway me. There would merely be the path I have chosen and my feet to lead the way. It is attractive, the idea of being this way. Unfortunately, my experiences, my spirit, and most importantly my mind, cannot abandon all I have come to understand. I recognize there is more to this world than I know but it seems that I cannot find a trace of it. Somehow I manage to still believe, even if I have nothing to really believe in. I continue to engage, to try. No matter what has come to be, I just can’t shake Jesus.

“They are darkened in their understanding and separated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them due to the hardening of their hearts.”

(Ephesians 4:18, NIV)

            I am not a Christian. I used to be but I gave it up for Lent. I do not believe Jesus was God incarnate. I do not believe in the tenets of the Faith, nor do I believe Christianity is an exclusive club of people elected to heaven because of their religious association with the Christ. I do not believe the Bible is an infallible transcript of the Word of God.  I do believe that scripture contains something more than mere words. It is more a guide than an instruction manual. While not necessarily a map to our salvation, it can assist us if we use it correctly. I suppose it is how one applies scripture that will determine whether the essence of its teachings are being followed. It is rather important that one does not practice what one preaches, but rather preaches what one practices. Regardless of the truths I have acknowledged in the Judeo-Christian tradition, the security, the guarantees promised to the fold of the Christian Messiah never really took root in my adult sensibilities. Frankly, I've never really been sure what to believe. I know I believe in God. I have sensed Him in Spirit and I have tried to see Him in the Light. Even in the tunnel, He turned me away. Despite everything I have learned, and all I realize I am unable to know, I cannot ignore my own witness. No matter how I have struggled to put such things as this behind me, they seem inescapable. The further I try to walk away, the louder they call out to me. I see no vision, no ghostly expression, it is all within my mind and soul. I know it is real, for me. It is an emotional state, a feeling I get, not just some  observation or rational conclusion. There is a connection that, so far, has no end.

            I tend to view Jesus as an archetype, the original foundation which Christian history, and dogma, views as authoritative. He is a Divine reference point for those who were born in a certain place and a certain time. As with Buddha, or Mohammed, mankind seems to need a figurehead to look towards for guidance. It is usually a projection of the way we already think, or at least have been told to. Most of the time we are so lacking, unable to do anything but follow blindly. We need someone to think for us and to act for us. We then have no responsibility for what we have done ourselves. A god is created in an “image” in order to clarify, to validate and to moderate us. Mankind, of course, has never been afraid to follow something that holds promise, despite any realization of the damage it can and will do. There is something off-putting about it. I’m not much for religion. One of the few things God hates is religion. While I will concede it does good for many, I will also argue it does many no good. Often the very centre of religious thought can drive a person to insanity. Sometimes great men of God, born-again and bubbly, will take to arms, striking down their supposed enemy in some personal, or esoteric, pseudo-Jihad. So many people have fallen in the name of god that it can be hard to believe He is there at all, let alone listening, responding and interacting with the human race. I can’t help but wonder if He ever cared at all, considering His “from a distance” approach to mankind. Historical proof of Jesus aside, is He with us at all?

            There have been many times I have failed to understand any need I have to keep Jesus in my life. I often wish He would just go away. I have never comprehended why I just can’t move on completely. I want to and He hates me so I don’t get why I allow myself to linger in this misery. He is etched in my make-up, at least it would seem so. He is carved in stone. I have fallen away from any proposed dogma and contrived exegesis regarding my Lord but I have not given up completely. I carry Him around like a key, dangling with all the others on a ring made of absurdities. My faith is warped but I still own it. I do not believe I have a choice. I am His servant, having been born to a Christian experience rather than a Jewish one, or a Sikh one. It is almost as if I am supposed to trust that God placed me in my reality, versus another, and it is against this setting that my life is measured. How does one measure? How can one be sure there is something more? How can one confirm that God is working in the life they lead? Is there a way to affirm all this praying, and doing, means anything at all? Is this all just hyperbole? Are we out of our minds? Why do we, as a people, continue to question and continue to ponder despite silence from heaven above? How can we be sure? For this labelled sinner, the answer is simple. The proof is in the pudding.

“A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.  Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop, a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown.”
(Matthew 13: 3b-8, NIV)

            In June of 1995, approximately 5 months after my suicide attempt in the frozen Stratford cemetery, I was contacted by the Catholic Diocese of London, Ontario regarding the event. From what I understood, one of the health care workers from my time of recuperation had contacted the Church in order to share my story of survival. A Priest contacted me and asked for an interview regarding what had happened. He was primarily interested in the phenomena I experienced and the lack of affect to my physical shell. I have to admit I was more than interested in this turn of events. I myself wished greater understanding, and clarity, and agreed to meet in the hopes I would finally have a few answers and some spiritual resolution. He was miracle hunting. There was never any question that something strange had happened to me. No matter how anyone tried to rationalize, or minimize, the event, I just could not find their conclusions acceptable. So much from that night is unexplained. Not one person, in all these years, has been able to explicate the events, or lack thereof. While I have learned there are some things we are not meant to understand, still, when science can tell us the age of a maggot on a corpse and therefore conclude time of death, one would assume it should be more than able to define my experience or, minimally, confirm what did or did not happen to me that night and into the next day.

            The Priest started with the physical evidence. I told him about the Valium and how I made sure to take them on an empty stomach. I explained how I dropped all 100 x 10 mg little blue buttons as if they were Tic Tacs. We discussed the 15 hours I spent in the cold. From 9 p.m. on Sunday, the 19th of February, until around noon the next day, I laid in the snow, exposed to the winter and -7 degrees Celsius. I noted the lack of covering I took with me into the dark. He questioned me with great interest, focusing on the absence of consequence to me physically. No frostbite, not even a little frost burn was found upon my body at its discovery, or later at the hospital. Although it took me two days to wake up, no evidence of any other side effect, from the Valium or the act, could be found. It was almost as if I had done nothing at all. We talked about the tunnel and we talked about the light. I explained the two figures cloaked in the bright. I explained how my late partner, or something resembling him, had left his place, and the other frame, and took me to safety. He seemed unsurprised when I revealed Doug’s words to me. He told me how common they were in these phenomena. I watched him write it down word for word: “You cannot come, it is not your time.” At the time, I had no idea about the Near Death Experience, but I learned quickly that these types of occurrences happen with great frequency. He informed me that my experience, including what he called “interference healing”, were not uncommon throughout history and our modern world.

            Although I later decided not to continue with this exploration, the initial investigation did act as a catalyst for my decisive study of Christianity. While that Priest passed away in 2007, and despite never seeing him again, that initial meeting helped to change my way of critical thinking. He revealed to me a great opportunity. He told me that my example could stand for others to gain strength from, and like with the second figure in my NDE, most often it is not about the who, or how, but rather the why. Anything else would be up to me. He offered me not one single answer. He never led me to one place or another in my searching. The only thing he laid claim to was that if God was not a part of what had happened, then why did it seem He was? He made it clear to me that although I may never be sure, perhaps I was supposed to believe it was Jesus. Maybe all my questions had already been answered. Maybe it was Him.

“Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, if anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things.” (Philippians 4:8, NIV)

            Most days I feel like I’m swimming in a quagmire. For me, the only proof I need of something more is my continuing existence. I should have been dead years ago, but I continue to thrive. I am a testament that there are actual zombies, in one form or another. I am the walking dead. I am painfully aware of my human imperfection. I am still all I have ever been, but I am not buried in who I am not. I still get angry, I still screw up. I still doubt and question and, many days, even curse God in heaven. Jesus, most often, pisses me off. I get incensed when He seems to ignore what His followers are saying and doing to those not included in His kingdom. In all my years, I have never witnessed any form of Divine Justice. I look around and see how Christianity, and almost all forms of religion, cause more conflicts than they solve. I do not understand why something so powerful as a god, doesn’t just simply fix the problem instead of letting it linger, century after century. Scripture claims that God is with us but His actions seem rather lacking, if you ask me. Should not a personal God actually interact with people rather than resorting to ambiguous condescension? This raises a very revealing question, where is God when you need Him the most?

            For years, I went looking for answers in many other directions. I believed that in trying to get away from Jesus, and all that Christianity entails, would lead me to a better place, a more Holy space. In the end, I did not need to abandon everything I had been taught. Jesus’ example, the essence of His message, was underlying in almost every other faith or belief system that I encountered. They all say the same things, just from a very  different point of view. The universal truths contained therein are wrapped in cultural perspective, but they contain the same substance. It really comes down to the Golden Rule. The Priest was correct. I did not need to go looking elsewhere when the answers were right in front of me. Why would anyone beg on a street corner if they have money in the bank? Why would anyone buy a dozen roses if they have 12 bushes blooming in their very own front yard? I was stuck in needless suffering. All the time, what I was looking for, I had already found. It is this example and His true message I cannot escape. These simple ideas represent the epitome of grace and mercy. It is because of when and where I was born that He is my concierge, even though so many other faiths, at base, teach the same things. It is so simple, just like God’s love for us. It is not conditioned. It does not hold favour. There is no in-crowd and it has nothing to do with religion.

            Jesus came to abolish religion. He came to set us free, not restrict us, regardless of His statements to the contrary (Matthew 5:17). Just because someone goes to Church, or claims they are born again, or even that they read the Bible, doesn’t make them a Christian or a child of the one true god. Just because someone believes they see does not mean they have seen the whole picture. Believing you have vision does not always make it so. People should know you are a child of God by your actions, your “fruit of the spirit”, not by your claims or labels or formulas (Galatians 5:22-23). Just because you bought a leather jacket on the weekend does not automatically make you a member of the Hell’s Angels. Religion can be destructive. Religion is often dubious. It tends to feed those it merits as saved, while the sinner goes hungry. It is exclusive. It does not preach what it practices. Religion is like trying to put makeup on someone who has been cremated; there is not a lot to work with. You have to go with what makes sense rather than trying to make sense as you go. Find your otherland.

“So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets” (Matthew 7:12, NIV).

            Every day that I wake up, I recognize how fortunate I am to have this life, thorns and all. Who knew a zombie could have such soul within? I still sin. I still hurt. I am still just some lost soul trying desperately to make his way. The manner, in my mind, through which I achieved a relationship with God was by letting go of religion, in all its forms, and embracing the only message that qualifies as legitimately from a loving, benevolent God. He is not a reward for the worthy, but rather He is hope for the unworthy. We all, most certainly, are that. I have come around full circle. I have quality and substance throughout my life. My relationship with Jesus may have greatly changed but it seems more intact now than it has ever been. I don’t give heed to all the commentary about Him any more than I do to the weight of a feather. I have a relationship, even if it is one-sided. I recognize my experience is set in my reality and within my ability to understand. I was put here, in this place and time. All I need to worry about, regardless of all the words men of God toss about, is to love God and others (John 13:34). The rest is all commentary. While I am certain most things will pass, I am often still stuck in quicksand. The fact that I continue to trudge on is proof worth consumption. I do not worry that I may have lost my way. I am not a Christian, but then again, neither was Jesus.

Photo

https://www.deviantart.com/a-020/art/Nepgear-in-Quicksand-07-679159073

Sources

https://survivinggod.blogspot.com/2012/04/pudding.html

The Back of the Room

         

            I have found that the most successful way to deal with the struggles of life is to forget them. While I don’t necessarily mean no longer recognizing their impact, I do mean moving past them. The only way I have found to be free from the emotional baggage of life is to detach from it. Freeze up. Do not let it bother you. Yes, this can be easier said than done but I have found that with practice and enough pain, detachment is a viable solution for the broken soul.

            I was on my way home from a weekend working in Toronto when he climbed the side of the flour mill and jumped from 9 stories up. The snow did not catch him. He landed on his back and died instantly. I can still see the icy remains and his brain pooling out like a frozen pizza. There are times, still, when this fragment of my life plays over like a bad 80s song. After 24 years, I still miss him. I wish things had been different but all these years later and I am still here. I made it through. At first, this was not the case. I was much more than just damaged goods. I was empty and fractured and lost. My grief became a physical thing. I would cry out and scream, calling for my partner. I was being eaten alive by the very thought of him. After a forced consultation with a psychiatrist and several months under the care of a minister, you would have thought I had a reason to be better but I did not. For almost a year, I was crippled. I couldn’t work, I barely ate and my lachrymose acted more like acid than wet to wash things away. The longer the separation, the worse I got. I spent my first summer without him, all the while shooting up morphine in my parents’ basement.

            When I came out of that fiasco, I realized I had a serious problem. It was obvious to me I could not continue to hold on to him. I had to let him go. I forced myself to go out with my friends on the weekend. I started to spend time with my family. I started to be social. I also stopped fixating on the consequences of his fatal decision. I stopped talking to people who were part of my life when this happened. I completely detached from the life that I knew. I stopped going to the cemetery once a week. I stopped driving past his childhood home. I put away all the things that might have reminded me of the way things used to be. I had to push every part of him to the back of the room. The first Christmas I knew without him found me giving away any belongings that might have acted as a catalyst to my grief. I gave away all our yuletide decorations. I spread all his baseball cards around. Clothing, pictures, even comic books were placed into the care of those who I felt, at the time, could be trusted to hold to them and cherish them because of who they once belonged to. To be frank, I was mostly disappointed. Only my nephew Matt seems to have kept safe what I gave him. Not one other person held anything that might have been considered borrowed goods. I made a conscious choice to move on with my life. I could not go on with things the way they were, I had to become uninvolved with that part of my past in order to have some semblance of a future. As I look back, I recognize how important it was for me to detach from the situation. It was a healthy thing. These days, I am not haunted by the ghosts of that time and that place. I am a safe distance from the pain, the hurt and the empty. I can picture it all now, without it destroying me. To look back on these events does nothing but remind me how strong of will I am. I no longer need the separation.  

            Just before my 18^th birthday, John McDonald dumped me for a girl. At least, that is the version of the story that he himself told to me. I couldn’t believe that the 3 months we had been copulating meant nothing to him. I was sure it was deflection. We met during our high school’s production of Teahouse of the August Moon (Daniel Mann, 1956). At the closing night party, one thing led to another and we ended up screwing for weeks and weeks. I used to sneak him into my parents’ home and he would spend the night. I thought things were good. I never imagined something would steal him away. I remember near the end when we were fighting and his father injected a fair quantity of homophobia. While I sat at the kitchen table with them, dear old Dad angrily asked, “What are you, a fag?” Things never returned to the closeness I had imagined. Just days and nights before my doom, we had spent camping. Everything seemed to be fine. What happened made no sense to me. After the weekend together, Monday brought bad news. He told me over the phone he was in love with Jenny and that our affair was over. I was full-blown untreated and new in my crazy skin. I fucking lost it. By the end of the first night, I found myself in hospital with chunks out of my wrist and hypomanic beyond manic. I sat up for most of the night praying and rehashing everything that had happened. It was maddening not being able to control how I felt. I was at the mercy of an unknown (then) monster, who stole me away then left me to clean up my own mess. These times are some of my darkest. The things my mania enabled me to do can still affect my state of well-being if I focus on them long enough.

            My only salvation was to turn off. I detached myself from my feelings. It all got stuffed to the back of the room. The ice cube that I tend to be today was poured and frozen on that hospital ward where I was convalescent. When I got home, I rid my life of any remnant from my time with John. All the pieces of those moments got tossed in the trash or simply set out on the curb. I moved on without him because I did not have a choice but I choose to keep going in spite of it all. Even as a small boy, I could make myself feel nothing. Granted, I had limited control later on, all thanks to my Bipolar disorder. When I was intact, you could not touch me with a feeling. I was a child in the desert not looking for a drink. In a sense, as an adult, I became more like the actual desert than a man on the prowl hunting down a cup of some water. John McDonald was a springboard for me. My experience with him taught me that I could control my feelings by not having any. I have always been able to detach. It is part of my make-up and it continues to be a productive tool for my well-being. There is no betrayal in shutting off to survive. Sometimes you just have to let things go.

            My partner and I met a woman named France shortly after we moved to Kitchener from Brantford, Ontario. She worked at Crystal Cleaners, a laundromat we used for the first few months of our indoctrination. The longer we used the service, the closer I got to her. We became fast friends. Our relationship spilled over into real life. We started spending a good quantity together and a fair quality began to take form. We got along despite her ill-gained ideas about religion and her very Catholic God. She was French through and through but was a product of Quebec, not the country she bore the name of. Her accent was heavy and I still can duplicate it. In her early 60s at the time, she was a tall woman, at least compared to the other girls from my life. She was lanky and always looked like she needed a Quarter Pounder or three. She tried to be funny but never quite rose to the occasion. She tried to be deep but it always came across as if she was making it all up. In spite of it all, I included her in my life for almost half a decade. My involvement with her got more and more complicated as things moved along. The two of us had a very good run. For 5 years almost, we befriended each other. The relationship might have lasted longer if not for the decline. It all began to end with her talking about how she did not sin. When I pointed it out to her that the scriptures she follows make it clear that she does (Romans 3:23), a wedge started to form between us.

            For weeks, I sat back and watched her behaviour more closely. My disdain raised slowly, in crescendo, until it reached the boiling point. I had come from my doctor with some bad news. My sore throat, my body aches, my exhaustion could all be a part of strep throat. When I told France on the Friday, she immediately said that she had strep throat as well. I must have given it to her. Come Monday morning and the straw finally broke the camel’s back. There was no strep throat. The doctor’s warnings were presumptive but false. If France did have the strep then it was not me who gave it to her. I would hear no more, involve myself no more. I decided that our friendship was over and I detached myself from her completely. No contact, no communication of any sort occurred between us ever again. She got dismissed to the back of the room. I just walked away, never to return. I never spoke to her again. Whether in person, on social media or through other people, I had enough and no longer wanted to know her. I don’t believe I ever pointed out to her just why. A few weeks ago, France died. I was at a loss for how to feel. There was sadness at her passing but any loyalty I had was left in the past were it belonged. Still, I hope her death was peaceful and I hope she found the happiness we all deserve. I just wish the obituary had noted cause of death but it did not. I have no idea what happened. Maybe it was the strep throat.

            Imagine spending your entire life engaging with someone only to come to realize later on that they were never really there. All those years I was talking to a ghost, Holy or not. This is how I feel about the Christian Jesus. I believe He existed and I believe He manifested a version of what men consider sacred. He was the son of man, not the son of god. He was mortal regardless of His standing in the afterlife. I am not really sure that God would want to come down here. At least, that’s how I see it. I don’t have a problem with His essential teachings. I don’t even have issue with a miracle or two. There is more to this world than we know. I do not believe we are to ignore Jesus’ humanity because He was incarnate nor do I believe for one second that He was.

            I don’t imagine anything is at all what it seems. We are not to know, not really. There came a time when I had to censure the Christian Jesus and send Him to the back of the room. His theology and scriptural foundation do not leave a good taste in my mouth. In order to ensure I did not become an Atheist, I had to escape my religious conditioning and restructure my faith into something more appropriate and much less monstrous. I did not write the Bible so I was given little choice but to detach. It has been many years since I let go of my Christian upbringing and moved into the world of agnosticism. Although I occasionally “feel” a flicker of Jesus, he remains, very much, at the back of the room. I still believe in God. I even respect and heed what Jesus had to say but I am no longer bound to follow any preset dogma. I do not believe in all the things that they told me. I did not wish to follow so I stopped.

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https://mirrorcracked.com/2009/03/05/i-ignominy/