Love is not something to fear

I was on duty last night around 4 AM when the police called. "We have a frantic mother trying to reach her son at the residence. Can you look up his room number for us?"

"At the residence? No. But I can transfer you to the receptionist there." And I did so.

Soon after, I got the call from the residence receptionist. "The police are here. They're looking for a student."

"Why?"

After a short pause: "Self-harm."

We sent a guard over to the residence and while she and the police were looking for the student, the boy was elsewhere. He had made one phone call to say only, "I love you, mom." and now he was speeding his car through a low brick wall to plunge over the lip of the escarpment.

Today his injuries were downgraded from life-threatening to non-life-threatening.

What I loved about the patrol guard position was my ability to interact with people who were in bad circumstances and to make a positive difference in their lives; from the little things like helping them get to their exam on time to the bigger things, like first-aid situations; or like the time I helped two former lovers gain perspective and settle peaceably after a strained break-up led to stalking charges. I accepted the promotion to sergeant in order to get more free time to write on the job - because writing is my best way to potentially help people. Right?

So I was enjoying my free time in the control room while other guards were present at the pub earlier that night, as a tiff broke out between friends. These other guards intervened, learned the nature of the quarrel, and sent them on their way to resolve it on their own.

A friend had admitted the feelings in his heart, you see, and the other friend, to which the feelings were directed, did not respond in kind, but with hostility instead. It might surprise you: which of these two friends got the notion to end his life. All while I was not present; no longer available to seek to make a difference through personal connection.

Now one boy is a mess from the waist down and the state of his mind remains to be seen.

The other, mentally, is a wreck. He blames himself. And he's terrified that his dear friend will not wish to see him upon emergence from the Intensive Care Unit; perhaps ever again.

Love is not something to fear. However did we start thinking it can be? That is just one simple piece of advice out of a great many that I would offer were I not handcuffed by policy from interfering. My heart aches for them both and for the mother. I'm deeply compelled to act. So many perspectives I could share. I know how instincts cage the mind in these circumstances, enslaving it to one's fears, stripping one's field of vision.

He lived. He lived!

And now there is opportunity - for many kinds of healing and many kinds of learning and for new appreciation of the miracle of life and the miracle of love. Because critical life events breed new perspectives, new intelligence, new capacities. Sometimes people just need a gentle nudge or two from someone who cares and who understands some things.

And I don't think I give a damn about policy.

Novel: Siddhartha

(1922, Hermann Hesse)

Two different people who were relative strangers to me at the time, immediately recommended this book to me upon hearing from me a summary of my current "poetic life journey." The telling of my journey in each of these cases, was told rather effectively by the way; something much more difficult to achieve when speaking to my old friends and family; a phenomena which happens to be addressed around the climax of the novel, by the way.

Almost immediately I began to connect thoroughly to the Siddhartha character. Every encounter, every perception, every reaction to his experiences almost precisely mirrors my own. Add to that comforting symmetry the simple, gentle, almost lyrical prose and this reading experience is by far the deepest, most endearing of any I've had.

But the character and I did not go through our mirrored experiences in the same order and as we finally crossed paths - that is - the moment in the book when Siddhartha had gathered the same set of perceptions that I currently hold - we were moving in different directions. Not that this matters much. I read the remainder with rapt attention of course, wondering whether Hesse was about to reveal my future to me.

What I read then, through to the end, contained more perceptions that Siddhartha gathered in his lifelong pursuit of enlightenment, harmony and unity. I could not have predicted the conclusion. He finds subtle error in some of his previous positions; positions that I still currently hold, and a key component of his final core enveloping understanding; that which makes him at par with Buddha, according to Hesse, is one that I would have much trouble consolidating with my own understandings because the beauty of my own understandings as they currently sit, at least so far as all my critical auditing so far reveals, is that they all support each other and are all in symmetry with the basic poetic origins of the main religions (as I perceive them), in symmetry with the sciences as far as I understand them, in symmetry with the purest application of logic, and in symmetry with all honest observation through our five senses.

But this one core component upon which Siddhartha's final answers depend upon - does not conform with honest observation of the five senses. Not mine, anyway, and doubtfully anyone else I know. Though it does conform with some theoretical scientific testimony concerning the nature of space and time - as far as I grasp it.

But no matter. The core idea which initially sent both Siddhartha and I on our respective unbeaten paths was our perception that knowledge and wisdom can not be taught but must be experienced. And so I put this dear book aside and despite the deep deep trust I have for it, I leave its climactic testimony as testimony and I go on with experiencing and learning, but now with a little more strength and motivation; a little more validation; a little more confidence that I am not alone in my place in life.

Though the book has left me breathing a little shallow, my eyes a little watery, I can't say if I recommend it to anyone I know. Those who have been through the things I have been through - you would want to read this, undoubtedly. And I know you're out there somewhere. But sadly, we have not met.

Book: Ella Minnow Pea

This book clearly demonstrates that Mark Dunn has an incredible knack for words and probably marks his first and last thin excuse to utilize that knack so indulgently.

This book was very powerful in that it had the power to make me forever $18 poorer - to my lasting regret.

The characters are dimensionless and speak with much the same voice. Good laugh at the end. A quick read but still too long for the mediocre punchline.

A Thousand Loves

I posted this poem here a long time ago, then a year ago I turned it into a song. The quality is poor. You'll have to crank the volume.

Julie, Julia, Me and You

The writing life is a constant bout of amnesia. Each time I return to it after too long an absence I am shocked to discover how joyful it is; how rewarding.

How is it that I keep forgetting how integral writing is to my vitality? Each time the habit derails upon collision with a busy schedule or laziness or a pursuit of some addiction (but really, always some combination of those things), how quickly I forget that writing is my truest companion. Then we're reunited finally and yet again the blank page surprises me, revealing that only here upon this endless white field am I - at home.

And just as this certain knowledge is repeatedly stolen from my wretched consciousness, so is this piece: That the thoughts which spur me to write at any given time are never the meat of the story but only the doorway. Always as I struggle to convert those thoughts to meaningful words, so the real questions emerge and the real ideas follow.

These twin crimes constantly dull the urge to write and I dare not suggest their origin - because I am not a poet of enough merit to slander those ancients before me by denouncing the beast or the pit, nor am I scientist enough to test the tale of genetic sub-code; of a dedication to species, not self, lying at the heart of the master non-consciousness. As I strive to acquire discipline, my only weapon against that ruling force (as mirrored in the messages of poets and Buddhists), I go against the interests of speciesism; I pervert our ruthless core programming.

Yet I sense with almost certainty that both claims, poetic and scientific, are versions of the same truth but written in different languages.

I look at my neighbors and they show me no indication of awareness of this harsh reality. They seem only to circle this great monopoly board that we dare label life and seem only to see through the eyes of their token. They seem to skitter in a constant panic on the surface of life, like those squat little waterbugs. Do they ever stop and peer below?

You have to slow down to see beneath things. But that is what art is all about, isn't it? Literature, music, theatre, film and the visual arts. They are reflection. They are components of real life but rearranged and concentrated. In them we seek to understand the nature of humanity by looking at our communal selves through other perspectives.

Of course there is an endless swarm of "false art." The bulk of action movie material for instance, which is fast and shallow and appeases the dedicated surface-skimmers by speeding them faster and faster along the surface. "What happens next!" is the constant question, never "What is really happening?." And the answer is bullets and fast cars. Things that appease the base instincts but at least let you explore them in the safety of the cinema; not on the streets.

But for those occasions when we bear a little courage; a little bit of respect for our innate complexity of mind, there is the literary fiction and its counterparts in film and other mediums, there is that patient contemplation; that exploration of fragile human diverseness. Here our empathy is awakened and we become someone else for a while and we laugh with them and we hurt for them and we feel connected and we get just a little closer to understanding ourselves and our kind; an infinitely greater adventure, I suggest, than any bank heist.

I just watched Julie and Julia, a true-ish film about a couple of writers with a passion for food (How could I possibly relate?). I quite liked it. Meryl Streep's performance was of Oscar quality in my humble opinion and Amy Adams was perfectly cast. I shed a couple tears in places where no man should be expected to and not because anyone got cancer or anything, but because the human spirit is miraculous and fragile and because it is at once inspiring and pitiable to watch - nay feel - someone clinging to their dreams.

Empathy. I feel it is at the core of our imagination, our creativity, our love. our connectedness. It is the hinge upon which the human being's unique evolution swings. I am in stunned awe of it.

Terry Anne (You'll need to crank the volume!)

This is one of the earliest songs I wrote - just a couple months after I started learning the guitar. Today I'm learning how to make videos.

If it sounds like I'm playing a three-stringed banjo that's because my equipment sucks as much as my skills! But all things take time - and money - to improve.

Can't wait for the next bash?

Interesting the dominant recreation of our society; a sport really. This endless tournament where the prize is reputation. Points are scored by claiming opinions; by seeming knowledgeable. The more opinions the better and the less thought-out they are, the better - for they are established quicker thus we collect more. More and more nuggets of fool's gold which we treat as real gold, for fool's gold is just as valuable when the buyer doesn't know the difference.

But oh, how much quicker; how easier it is to dismiss those people and things which we yet have no fondness for, then to have to explain why you are fond of those which you are - so dominant are the instinctual criteria of which our consciousness is not fully informed.

So why give anything a second chance? With such a massive wealth of humans and their endeavors available to explore in this troublesomely uninhibited global marketplace, why waste more than a minute on any one thing? So much swifter to write stuff off when the first possible connection fails. Throw it on the scoreboard. Score another point. Appear to climb the ladder by throwing down those around you.

On the balance: A sea of negativity. Everyone's a jerk for one reason; everyone a bastard for another. Every book, film and song and every creator sucks for one lonely little reason or another.

"I hate Blues...", I heard today.

Ah, but you've never witnessed the raw, honest, solid rhythyms of the Madd Scientists singing themselves hoarse for love; not money, have you? And what else haven't you heard?

"Oh, I can't stand R&B," says he who's never heard the creative explorations and fuzions of the open-hearted "The Show" while they still believed in their dreams. And what else has he not heard?

"...that Newfie kitchen fiddle music..."

But what about Quagmyre? That delicate frenzy of fiddle precision, jumping and popping with more electricity than a lightning storm. Fit that into your kitchen with a hundred more East coast bands you've never heard.

Conversations not mired in pointless negativity are the exception and so rare. Well, I've long been painfully bored with the game. It's far too easy. As interesting and challenging as Tic-Tac-Toe. Whoever you are: It's long past time I confess: I do not give a damn what things you don't like. Why won't you tell me what you like instead?

Why won't you tell me about the song that makes you have to get up and dance despite your usual self-consciousness? How about the songs you can't help but sing in the shower? What music was on the radio when you lost your cherry in the back-seat of a car and how do you feel when you hear it now? What song was playing at your wedding? What band's music do you get lost in when you listen by headphones in the dark with a joint or a six-pack? What songs remind you of you; remind you of who you used to be; remind you of who you once wanted to be?

What songs make you cry?

How about we try to cut back on the bullshit, and I mean bullshit in its most primary meanings; claims both counterfeit and trivial. Why don't we lose the bullshit and share a little more life instead? And be a little more alive?



"The only way to win is not to play."
- Joshua (Film: Wargames)
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To all who wished me a great weekend:

Wasn't going to touch the blog during November Nanowrimo but this is my only form of diary and I must record the following!


Saturday I spent the entire day with another fine cousin: Renaissance Kid, his girlfriend and their buddies. Renaissance Kid shares a house with five other university students, two budgies, six chickens and three quail.


We built a new quail coop. Seems a hungry skunk got in to the last one and cut the home's quail contingent in half. Now the survivors have a pretty significant upgrade. I was on the door committee and sawed the wood for the door and door frame. Also helped out a little with the trench refillage, a little chicken wire stapling and the munching of apple walnut muffins and very leafy mustardy gai choy.


I was served two outragously delicious vegan meals, engaged in several useful discussions with very kind humanitarian and environmentally conscious kids and played a wildy funny game they call telephone pictionary. Can't remember the last time I laughed so hard.


Sunday I met with my excellent Nano friends, pumped out a few thousand words for the Eye of Atchooah piece and had a nice visit from the Illicit Sweetheart. It had been a while. We talked about the future, acknowledged that our paths lie in different directions, and it was all comfortable; all good.


So to all those who on Friday wished me a great weekend... Done!
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A new friend. New strength.

I spent this past Sunday with my cousin, World Citizen, on the eve of his 30th birthday. I had not seen him in many years; ten perhaps. He was probably between missions to Nepal and Ecuador at the time. This spring he moved to Toronto after a long stint in India, home of an experiential environmental education centre of which he remains "the impetus" and a central stakeholder.

He spoke of challenges, of opposition, of earthquakes and masked gunmen and the difficult internal reconciliation when the offering of love evokes a response of hate.

He spoke of activism and a plan under which every motorist in the world might trade in their cars for investment into the environment and the future.

He mentioned that he too, writes, and like an ass, I never got around to asking him about the nature of his writing, and now I'm dying to know.

He spoke of meditation and how it ceased to be a prison and became the greatest ever experience of self-discovery. Traditional meditation, that is; not simply the solitary ardent contemplation which I have made an indulgent habit of labelling meditation.

He spoke of his humble introduction to international charity when the cutest girl in his high school raised her hand to volunteer and his own hand couldn't help but follow.

He spoke of time management and in an off-hand way, as if saying shave or pick up mail he listed among his daily agenda items: "beneficence."

He spoke of that yearning for pilgrimage common to many of us.

He spoke of seeing that which he was not, so to glimpse of that which he is.

He spoke in a voice quiet and firm; one softened, I perceive, by confidence, integrity and - I dare say - love. Love as a state of being, that is.

As we watched the departing sun turn the trees on the too-close horizon into black lacy silhouettes, he spoke of the city and the omnipresent trade of absurdities between its' peoples and he mourned his separation from those natural landscapes he'd made home, and the logistical barriers that isolate his dreams and goals from one another; a dilemma that I, and many, know well.

And concerning his previous home; a place to which I must decide if I will journey, he gave me solid advice; concise, direct and very insightful - not just in terms of his knowledge but in terms of understanding the root of my inquiries.

I do not state this lightly: I perceived our long conversation as being one of perfect honesty and openness and trust; an experience shatteringly rare.

Without a doubt the specifics of his priorities and mine currently differ, but so far seem entirely compatible. I sense we may each have found a valuable associate. From my perspective, he is easy to trust and put faith in, because in terms of promoting harmony, he has accomplished more than I might ever - and all prior to an age at which I was still a dull idiot, consumed within my own greed, lust and reputation, and a host of petty dramas.

I look forward to making my self of use to his endeavors. I look forward to talking to him again soon. There is still so much to discuss.
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My Interview

This is an interview meme. Suki has asked me these questions:

1. What is the greatest change you see taking place in your life right now?

Change is abundant right now. On the surface it may seem that change of residense and workplace are the most significant, but not so. My perception of residense and my perception of workplace are the greater changes. Where I sleep on a given night and where I contribute rent are meaningless details to me. This planet is my home and all my instincts are nomadic. Where and how I earn some money for bread is another trivial detail. My work is my purpose in life. It is my meditation, writing, research and my vigiliance; in short, the poetic process.


2. Which is your favourite among the comics you've made?

I guess the one about the blackberry because I suspect I'm the only one who finds it funny. I don't know if anyone else even gets it.


3. If you could sum up the philosophy of your life in fifty words, what would they be?
I'm a unique entity in the universe; miraculously fortunate to be alive on an earthly paradise, shielded from a universe of hydrogen and radiation; a creature blessed with "the illusion of consciousness"; to have survived the horror of self realization and found access to unlimited sources of peace, freedom and harmony and with a consolidated joyful purpose to my existence.


4. On a scale of -10(he'll be worse than Bush) to 10(he'll raise America to its zenith), how high are your hopes for Obama as President?

Zero.

That perhaps millions of people who think of themselves as black or as some racial minority and think likewise of Obama and think of American presidency as the ultimate position of power and who may now feel empowered; a sense of legitimacy; a new belief that their skin need not limit their social potential despite the white man's insanity - for them, I am tearfully joyful. My highest expectations were already met.

Other than that, I am entirely uninterested. People seem to assume that one's nationality is a primary factor of their living experience. My observations dictate otherwise. When is the last time I read something in the newspaper; heard something on the radio or from a friend that concerns nations or politics that isn't absurd or illogical or that has any connection to an unvarnished truth?

Never. Not one legitimate word that I can recall. Nations and political systems are built entirely of fictions. I realize that no one will accept what I've just said. But rare perspectives born of rare experiences dictate it so.

I took in Obama's induction speech (if that's the correct term). He seemed to me, genuinely likeable, yet he spoke some things that are dreadfully flawed, indicating he is either duped by particular illusions or else is wilfully propogating them for his own purposes or else is slave to the system or to his political associates. Whichever way, I have no interest in participating in the charade. But given the charade is firmly entrenched in our society - I'm content that he's in and not another Bush.


5. If you had to sing a single line from a song to woo a woman you've never spoken to before, what would it be?

I have no interest in wooing any woman or anyone else for that matter. I'm firmly content in being entirely honest in my feelings and motives but here's a line from a song that I would gladly sing for anyone:

Imagine all the people sharing all the world.

You know which song.
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Okay, reader! Who would like to be interviewed? Drop your name in the comment section and I will forward you five questions!

What's happening?

I mentioned in my September 14th post, Re-Launch, that "things are happening." In no particular order, here are the reasons I sense I am at a critical crossroads:


1. Biodad announced that he is ready to quit smoking, and proposed that we make a pact. He'll give up the smokes. I'll give up eating like Jabba the Hut (and presumably, start looking less like him). We would rely on each other for inspiration - and in essence - police each other. I agreed in principal. The pact has yet to take effect but I believe it will and soon. Because the cold weather is coming - and there's no smoking allowed in the house, and the only thing biodad hates more than not smoking, is the cold. He's a skinny little runt. Cold is Kryptonite to this Supersmoker.



2. I have met an Imam - a Muslim spiritual leader. And he is keen to get together to speak with me. This is huge. Nothing ever boosted my writing capacity like my participation in a writing group did. The support; the affirmation; the grasping that you are not alone in your circumstance and your dreams. Very powerful.

But there are other ways now in which I am very alone. My perspectives on human life have grown so different from anyone around me that they are almost incommunicable and frankly, not to be believed. My resulting evolution now seems simple, obvious and unremarkable but yet it must seem remarkable because I look around and all the side-effects of my former circumstance - seemingly universal ills - are still being suffered by everyone around me. I see it in nearly every action; hear it in nearly every word. Who among them wants to believe that all their ills are merely the symptoms of mental, societal and instinctual disarray and can be shed as I have done (to perhaps a 99% degree). Who wants to believe I might hold the key? Certainly they don't. In some matters, only strangers might be trusted.

But I have long suspected that there are those who would understand me; priests and the like. Because, like me, they have a powerful source of wisdom/knowledge/testimony - call it what you will - in which they find all their answers, all their solutions; all their comfort - leaving them at peace; joyful; with no other aim but to help the less fortunate; to help them manifest the same freedom they themselves experience. And by a source, I mean, of course, their Bible, Koran, Gita or what not. Regardless the specifics or merits of any religious or philosophical program, we share the same paradigm; a consolidated body of knowledge which guides us unfailingly through any course.

This is what I yearn to talk about - with one who might understand. I've ducked into churches and into Hindu and Buddhist temples but nowhere was a man of the cloth available to me. Funny, it is a Muslim fellow who turns up; the last faith I would have expected to make company with, so widespread is the sad mistrust of their faith among so many voices in my community.


3. For many days I have meditated on the subject of lust, intimate love and specifically, the Illicit Sweetheart. By intimate love, I mean the singular directional kind - in which I've long mistrusted my capabilities and maturity. There are other forms of love in which I would seem vastly evolved but later for that!

In this intimate regard, I am pleased to now perceive that I have defeated the addictive components. I am at ease. Regardless what happens now between us - and how often - is no worry to me. It's rather clear to me now that physical intimacy is almost solely my motive for getting together. I do not mourn this. There is no shame. But I have done as honest an accounting as I can and am now free in this regard. Should further intimacy occur I will continue to enjoy it and if not, I will always cherish these last six years, and remain, as always, open to all forms of relationships, and all forms of loving, with all people, and without the conditions and restrictions of the society-standard marriage relationship. It was never meant for I, nor I for it.


With the lust addiction apparently behind me - and I say apparently because this state is new to me and not thoroughly tested as yet - there leaves one major battlefield at hand; food addiction. I pray I can gather all forces now to that front and defeat it too. To do so would pave the path to health and to the opportunity for vegetarianism or veganism and the harmonic rewards available to those who do not kill to live.




4. My cousin, World Citizen, has moved from India to Toronto and we'll be getting together very soon. I have high hopes for this meeting. India, Hinduism and the philosopher, Aurobindo are all of keen interest to me and my goals. I predict he will have many useful perspectives on these subjects as well as the experience in designing a life around charitable causes.



5. I'm back in the volunteer community. For now I'm working at a primary school to catalogue several hundred new books and get them into the hands of the kids. I've long been passionate about the benefits for kids who love to read. The effects can be profoundly life-altering. Upon that project's completion, I hope to be working on behalf of kids (or adults, for that matter) with, as they say, special needs. This is all very rewarding; a way to manifest harmony in an immediate way, whereas the writing endeavors are speculative; only seeds, in terms of their usefulness in serving harmony and evolution.


6. I seem to have summoned the will to part with my new 'job' with security at the college despite how much I love it. The people are great, the work rewarding, the opportunities to help people in need; to promote harmony. The exercise, the down-time with which to read and conduct my research, the company of students radiant with youthful vitality and possibility. It is a marvelous environment but I have reminded myself the purpose in going into security. I need that night watchman job where I can literally sit and write all night. It is necessary. I must make this happen. As excellent pal Doc Lock says: Onward!

Song: One Lane Bridge

Idling on a one lane bridge
Unmindful of the race
I tripped upon your whisper
Dissolved in your embrace
And then you served me seconds
Though I only begged a taste
Now I wonder where I'd wandered
Had I never seen your face


Idling on a one lane bridge
Too weary for the chase
I contemplate the river
A path to some far place
And the shackles of my own design
That bind me to this base
While I wonder where I'd wandered
Had I never shared your space


And I won't say those words
And you will let me know


Is this structure solid
And does the river flow
Or is it me who's drifting
How can I really know


Idling on a one lane bridge
Just gazing into space
And the shadows on your features
The firelight displaced
This dire infatuation
Is anything but chaste
Still I wonder where I'd wandered
Had I never known your grace


And I won't say those words
And you will let me know


Is this structure solid
And does the river flow
Or is it me who's drifting
How can I really know


(instr.)


Is this structure solid
And does the river flow
Or is it we who're drifting
Who could really know


Idling on a one lane bridge
A crippling lack of haste
Won't serve to span the chasm
Revelation won't erase
Oh to find that golden land
And leave without a trace
To weave the light and darkness
And blanket this disgrace


And I won't fall in love with you
Unless you wish it so
And I won't say those words to you
Until you let me know


(Instr.)


And I won't say those words
And you will let me know