Everyday Heroes

I was 17 when I met two particular cousins for the first time. Their mom had rescued them from a not-great dad and my uncle took them in as his own, gave them solid love and shelter, this during a 12-year period when I was separated from the whole family at large. All four made me feel extremely welcome (as did the whole excellent family) at a time when unfavorable high school dynamics had turned me socially inward. The cousins, being my age, took that opportunity during our somewhat-brief association, to respond to my demeanor effectively; with a slightly puzzled respect. They marveled at my "mellow" manner and interpreted it, whether mistakenly or strategically, as something rare to be applauded. When introducing me to their friends it was often revealed that the reputation they conceived of me had preceded the introduction, and not that of a "loner", as some kids mistook me as, but as more of a confident outsider, like a tame Clint Eastwood perhaps, minus all the guns and bravado! And though this interpretation was also off the mark, it no-doubt drove my social turnaround, at least initially. They were the first to coax me out of my shell, whether by fluke or by design. I never did ask; never got to speak my loving gratitude.

Meanwhile Aunt K, who I was only just meeting, accepted me at once like family. I remember her saying "You are welcome in our house ANY time!" I've never been specifically told that before or since.

The boy, who struck me as an extremely pleasant and friendly dude, had a tragic knack for trouble of the wrong-friends variety, and gradually dissolved into some underworld apart from my understanding. In hindsight I would gladly go back in time, and decline that gift he gave me, if only I could trade it for the privilege of supporting him instead, and boosting whatever strength he needed so that he did not need the support of his unworthier allies. If only I could have helped tip that equation. Maybe we'd still be friends. I don't even know if he's alive.

"I hope he stays out of trouble now," said his sister to me one summer day in our youth.

'He will!" I said, like it was obvious.

She laughed. "You're so confident!" But I was a fool. I also later assumed she would defeat her breast cancer. She did not.

I was told there was no funeral and not told of a memorial celebration that happened later. I was very disappointed. If it was too late to praise her for her kindness, I wished at least to tell her loved ones.

Years went by, never getting to see Aunt K. I wanted to. I wondered if she was upset with me (and other family) for not supporting her daughter enough. K's absences from small family gatherings were always attributed to the great physical suffering she'd been enduring.

The other day, as I pushed my walker up the ramp to the little handicap bus, I sensed another guest on board. Sometimes we share.

"Hi Rich," she said. I looked up, but already knowing that lovely gritty voice. I was completely disarmed, as if caught in a long long exhale.

"It's so good to see you," I managed to say. Such an understatement. It was so good to see her I could barely form the words.

She did not seem upset with me at all. We caught up in a hurry. I was teary. There was a hug of sorts, as much as possible given the logistics. I got the chance to praise her daughter. It didn't surprise her. She knows her daughter. The pain of losing her... I can't imagine.

But she continues to put one foot in front of the other, as hard as that must be at times, or maybe all the time.

 

How I survived the war

Miraculously I did not procrastinate in my preparations for leAvIng tHe hOUsE and did not suffer a bout of anxiety and regret and did not cancel at the last minute. Hurray!

The Gimp Bus ride was mildly problematic as was navigating this alternate new-to-me train station but I made it aboard and rode for free because I couldn't figure out how to pay! Believe me, I tried and tried until I thought they would leave without me if I didn't give up.

At Destinationville Station the walk to the city bus area was a real chore but nothing compared to the walk to the church from the "nearest" stop. Thank god I had over an hour to kill and a seat-on-wheels to repeatedly stop and rest on. 

Father/Pastor/Minister Jim saw my arrival at the rear loading door/gimp access area and ushered me in, gave me water, elevatored me up to the sanctuary and installed me on the wrong side of the gallery which was fine! Groom #2 is also a friend, just of less seniority.

The ceremony was magical with a couple goofy moments and I teared up of course.

Another rickety elevator ride, another slogging journey 'round...

to...

the front...

of...

the church...

where my first post-covid mob of humanity awaits and I'm late-oh-well for the photo shoot. 

Sweet Michael is Roddie's best man and we fall in together, laughing. It's been too long. He's giddy and inaudacious as always and introduces me to his charming and gentle partner (now co-homeowner). He seems to have grown up and not changed! They are a gorgeous couple.

I've anticipated asking Roddie's daughter if she remembers me (with little hope) but so surprisingly she sneaks up from behind me and says, "Hey, you probably don't remember me...!" Oh but of course I do, sweet one. Of course I do!

Her little brother must be... 19 by now? He's at home with brand-new Covid and the separation is hurting he and Dad.

Roddie remains unclear about the plan to get me and my walker to the distant reception hall until the parking lot empties along with my will to protest. The driver demands the walker which he easily deposits in the yawning trunk and I am ushered into the limo. I'm in nice casual (but not quite dressy) trousers, aging black dress shoes, spiffy shirt (not well pressed) and blossoming tie. The five-guy wedding party are decked out in snappy greys, bowties and actual flowers. I really don't want to infect the onboard wedding photos but I relent, enjoy the company and the champagne and try to cling to the shadows when the photographer, riding shotgun, spins and fires.

At the hall I make friends and play at the illusion of conversation while choking on the DJ's pounding din.

The meal is too good to be true , highlighted by decadent fresh raviolis, ample filet mignon and the best crème brûlée ever. The red wine is premium and the cute considerate waiter delivers bottle after bottle seeing that I have mobility issues. I drink copiously of that and of the Stella Artois (because it's not Coors or Keith's thank god) and of the Johnny Walker for some goddam reason. Because it slightly reminds me of real scotch? I knock back four doubles in total. Maybe I thought I'd grow accustomed to it. I didn't. I sure hope I didn't think it would make me look cool. I do realize that nothing makes me look cool. Look I hate to sound like a snob but I don't know how you people drink that swill!

Ah I'm sorry! Personal taste is so arbitrary I know. But it's fun to complain.

Fucking swill drinkers...

Spending this night with Roddie and Michael and their marvelous mates was... just brilliant. The best time I've had in years. How did I manage to stay away from such lovely friends for so long? I must be nuts.

The next day I feel the pain. My body is broken. Ah well. I feel like a hero home from a journey to the kingdom to romp with royalty. And this is despite the gentlest return possible. Those sneaky devil friends would not hear of me bussing and training home. "Your carriage awaits!" said Michael, when the party was undeniably over.

"What are you talking about!"

 An Uber of course. They're too sweet.

Not a typical hide-at-home Saturday morning

I managed to snooze for a couple or three hours with Seinfeld providing a soothing white noise. I have to go pick out a goofy tie, perhaps a tie clip, maybe even a ring. Have to give my hair and beard a trim, spiff up some goodish shoes, shower and brush. Lay on some Old Spice (or is that Olde?)

Pack a small briefcase with my relevant notebooks, crossword mag, wallet, keys, mask, pens.

Get dressed, and lumber outside and sit on my rollator walker seat for about 11:15AM to soak up some fresh air before the DARTS bus comes to pick me up.

Catch the train out of the harbour station. Transfer to local bus, exit a couple blocks from the church at about 2:25PM which gives me an hour to migrate the two blocks on foot to get to the 3:30PM wedding.

Remember Rockin' Roddie anyone? He's finally marrying his sweetheart after fifteen or twenty years of dating. Crazy kids.

Knowing Roddie there will be very decent red wine and scotch on hand so I plan to drink like an absolute boss monster and catch a morning train home again. I'll figure it out as I go. It'll be an adventure. I got $20 in the bank and another $25 in my Presto (transportation) account. I can't imagine anything going wrong.

Cheers

OH my GOrD he's Writing a blog pOsT

Yes he is, ladies and gentlemen. He's hunting and pecking away at his little keyboard and pecking the wrong key twice in every five pecks and drumming on the backspace key more than anything else.

And now, ladies and gentlemen he's marched it all the way back to "hitting" and changed it to "drumming on" because, Holy Noodles Batman, he's a writer don't you know!

And he's living the dream. He stayed up ALL NIGHT because he knew there was no use trying to sleep. He did some championship level laundry in the early dawn gloom. OH YES boys and girls, the early dawn gloom! What a wordsmith. Unrivalled I tell you.

He crashed mightily come morning, awoke after an hour and a half, PROMPTLY FORGOT he slept an hour and a half and would later tell a filthy scheming evil lie about not even sleeping a second.

Oh and what's this? He's speaking in the third-person perspective now! Wait. Check the records. Check the.... the.... thing. Whaddaya call it? What the court reporter... transcript?? Let's say transcript. Okay, never mind. Turns out he's been speaking in the third person since the very beginning.

Now where was I? I mean, He.

So after a good bout of confusion where I almost cancelled the Big Outing I actually got together with The Ponderer. She picked me up; me freshly showered, Santa-nian beard trimmed way back, newish clothes, teeth brushed etcetera, in shoes even... And we hit the Dollarama for bread, some chili, some noodles... what Caramilk bars? Who said anything about Caramilk bars? Some crackers what will make my lonely cheese happy...

We went to Tim's for coffee, tea, hot chocolate and bagel-muffin food and talked about dead and dying people but in a good way and was reminded how much I love life and love my friends to pieces. The Ponderer of course and even the ones once close who I don't see anymore. Even the ones who I loved so dearly with all my heart, such that every day was either blissful or aching. I wonder sometimes if they read this blog even though they've had enough of me in person. Well, if you're reading... I still love you with all my heart, as I have every single day, even the days when you were sadly mistaken, and thought that I didn't.

Peace y'all.

Exosculation

Exosculate: This is a dictionary-sanctioned word. But rather than explain it I shall point you toward the following obnoxious video. There are no rewards for watching the whole thing to the end (other than, it improves as it goes along), but if you're watching this during the Time Of The Great Plague... you possibly have nothing better to do. 

Question E: What is your most EXCELLENT memory? 

This is really tough. All my best memories are too intimate for - well, not for the internet, but for such spaces as this which serve ordinary decent people who respect ordinary decent superstitions around love and physical affection.

As for printable great memories: there are a few heroic sports moments; some vacation adventures; many family celebrations on the farm; a hundred good times with my best friend; cuddling on a park bench with I. S. watching the moon, snuggling with my dobie, Blue on my bed on weekend mornings, my first Rush concert, finishing my first novel... I can't pick one.

The vid was a hatchet job. It'll be messy:

Life’s purpose

Well, here we go… falling behind again! It’s past midnight. In my defense I am a night-shifter who has not reigned in a proper sleep schedule of late. Every day is a new scheduling dilemma.

Our "L" Business is lent from the lovely, lippy, lyrical, literate and ever-so-lightly-lunistic… Doctor Lock! And he has provided the word along with some direction as to how I should feel about it. Let’s see what we can do:

Love (is inconvenient)

Having lost all interest in our typical societal model all-encompassing relationships (quite a while ago actually) and as well, due to age and/or poor health, pretty much lost my libido, leaves me in a pretty convenient state!

I waste no time or energy tinkering with dating web sites, chatting up someone I would otherwise have little interest in, fussing over my appearance, or standing around in dull, loud clubs looking for someone to engagingly scream at.

I waste no time or energy arguing with a life partner, negotiating household decisions, explaining my actions, or briefly considering murder strategies.

And I waste no time or energy surfing for porn.

This is a pretty good deal. With all the added spare time you’d think I’d be more productive.

For those who are still in the game - of directional love and/or of lust, love can certainly be inconvenient. Our attachments pop up where they will; not where we want them to, and in a society utterly entangled in superstitious rules and expectations, where the very same loving intentions can be seen as either exaltingly beautiful or abhorrently creepy depending on arbitrary bureaucracies of society and mind, such urges can be a terribly maddening distraction.

The classic broken heart for instance.

There is though, a very convenient form of non-directional love, which satisfies a deeply resonant core purpose of living, and avails the recognition of one’s own qualifications to design one’s own outer purpose, and the clarity which which to do it.

I once seemed to be in that very position, but I have no choice but to question that now, because though it has seemed for years now just an arm’s length away, it did not last.

Roller coasters and merry-go-rounds

Ooh, I wouldn’t do that, I thought. No, I wouldn’t do that either... Mmm… I wouldn’t say that... This is too linear and yet unclear….

She had sent me the draft, looking for an honest opinion. Would an honest opinion be possible? The 6-minute oral memoir performance was scheduled for this evening! If there are too many problems with the draft there wouldn’t be time to fix them all. In that case, better to down-play concerns? No sense worrying someone about that which cannot be fixed.

When it comes to storytelling, whether I am on the telling or receiving end, I am firmly in the subtlety camp. Not necessarily on the blog, mind you. When people send me tell-not-show writing, wanting my feedback, I am at a loss. I barely remember my tell-reading days. I can no longer really identify what works and what doesn’t. I eventually tell tellers, "Look: You have to find someone else to beta read for you; someone who gets your style. I’m not in that camp!" So my feedback did not seem to me very useful at all.

I also have no experience at six-minute memoirs (though I was approached by the event organizer last night about my possible future involvement, which indeed interests me as I have always been a natural with public speaking, even when I was a shy, awkward, teenage introvert. Which is rather mysterious I know. I was always instinctively more comfortable talking to an audience than to an individual. Weird is all I can say.

So my friend gets up and reads her piece. And I am completely hooked. The words have not been changed dramatically that I detect. And yes, I would have done it differently, but what she has done, now that it comes from her own mouth, with her own precise tones and inflections, well damn… it’s perfect!

She speaks of her roller coaster love life past, and the merry-go-round that is her stable new relationship. Like a pro, she carries the metaphor through to the inspiring end. I was hugely moved. I was in tears for six minutes. So much panic she had seemed to endure and why? She had it nailed! But what deep courage she needed in order to go through with it, both for obvious reasons and also for “political” ones. Meanwhile I continue to put off the stand-up comedy workshop even though I have several routines prepared because… well, what if I’m not funny?

I write this at the Espresso bar in Little Italy, a block from the Eloquent Potter’s home and looking forward to a major dinner-and-drink binge before he departs for Vietnam for another three month tour. This will be the last before he relocates permanently. I am armed with beer, wine, bread, cheese and a bouquet of flowers. The florists all hugged me; yes hugged me! - when I told them my friend would be leaving permanently! “Oh you must be broken-hearted!” they said. This is riotously funny. I guess when a man buys another man flowers they assume they can only be a gay couple!. It is such a warm moment for them that I just smile and tell them I will be fine! I do nothing to correct them nor to mislead them further.

The potter has made great strides learning a ridiculously difficult language and planning a new business and new life abroad, in a beautiful ancient culture.

I was once extraordinarily courageous. Then I became largely a chicken-shit again; just a wiser one. Today I am in awe of the courage of my sweet friends.

Friends and neighbours

I took Aqualad out for lunch at the Great Old German restaurant; his favourite Scooterville eatery where it is decidedly uncorporate. Large portions. Barely marked-up wine. We tackled the Plate for Two which I will describe only as a mound of exciting food over a thick giant schnitzel on a platter on a hot plate set between us. We are accomplished Pro Devourers though both on self-improvement courses and less indulgent than usual. I insisted he take the leftovers home.

It’s funny. The task of writing is much more than a report of what has been on your mind. The very act produces new thoughts. It is an invaluable act of reflection; of internal conversation. And here at this moment I am realizing that he reported (let it slip?) that he’d been present there two weeks ago. That makes sense as it was his birthday at the time. By coincidence that would have also fallen just after my first proposal that I take him there as a reward for surviving his dental surgery and flu combination. Which means that… not only was I not invited to his birthday dinner for the first time in years, but I was very deliberately not invited.

Strange perhaps that I don’t feel especially hurt. I am accustomed to thinking of them as my second family and that, clearly has become an indulgence worthy of embarrassment so I will stop.

I have seen Earth Writer and Dog Whisperer only twice in the last half year; Aqualad three times now, and his delightful girlfriend zero.

There were awkward moments at the cottage last summer and I’m confident that there were complete misunderstandings about matters of no real consequence to me. If their cooling stems from only that, then that is a tragic mistake. And if it stems from more than that, which I assume it must, then I am at a complete loss. I am blissfully unaware of whatever failings I have perpetrated, at least in terms of friendship. But failings have been a theme for me for some time now. No reason to assume they should all have fallen onto my own radar.

The greater tragedy is that Aqualad (if I understand correctly) is in essence turning down the greatest gift a human being could receive for reasons that do not sound sincere but might be. I think it more likely that he is humouring me; managing me; not wanting to say that he has no reason to believe in me.

And it’s true there is no reason to believe in me; no reason for anyone to. I look for opportunities to help those I love and those who demonstrate the rare mental fortitude in the rare and vital realms that I have advance experience in. But I did not graduate from that rare academy. I got close and then backed away. Or did I flunk out perhaps?

Aqualad cannot possibly have much understanding of what he is turning down. We’ve discussed it far too little. But a close bond remains between us it seems. And there is no deadline. Whatever I do manage to accomplish when I break out of this fucking cocoon, may change his regard for me, and in the mean time I will look for opportunities to nudge him in useful directions as opportunities arise.

Not that our dynamics are a motivator for me now. What motivates me is honestly just between the universe and I. And the universe, I must remember, is not ours to command. We can only offer our best advice and then let causality do what it must.

It really is surprising though, that I don’t feel especially hurt. I would have expected to be.

At the core of my “2019 resolution” whether it shows between the lines or not, is the intention to be mindful. Perhaps already I am.

I returned home from our German smorgasbord, parked afar, and walked; exercised. I heard my next-door neighbour’s door opening, a usual precursor to awkward endearments; a fantasy that this perversion called suburbia is some sort of community. But I found myself looking eagerly, and it was the man who emerged and he wore a great smile. My own was immediate. We traded happy comments on the lovely mild weather. Mine were sincere and I’ll assume his were too. Then as I turned up the drive way the lady appeared. “I can’t believe it’s 2019 already!” she said.

“I know,” I said, then sincerely: “Time is cruel.” She laughed. I smiled.

Maybe it is some sort of community.

 

No one that we'll ever meet...

Neo’s likebook account was deactivated which froze our messenger conversation (which he has not been contributing to). This was done once before for a month or few, preceded by his instructing me to use email for communication. This occasion came without any instructions and my email inquiry has not been answered so far. I’m okay with all of this, though I certainly wonder what he’s going through.

Perhaps I am among those he wants space from. Perhaps it is mainly me. Or perhaps he’ll turn up again soon. I understand he’s going through a particularly tough time while he’s attempting to break an addiction and company is largely undesired.

I don’t need to know unless he chooses to tell me.

Academically I’m forced to interpret his behaviour as troubling but it’s not my job to interfere uninvited. Regardless what many conflicting perspectives he cycles through with regards to our friendship and all the problems he perceives (imagines in my opinion), my perspective has reached some stability. From my point of view I remain his friend and remain available regardless what he’s thinking at any given time and whether he’s currently reachable or not.

I accept his limitations. I know not to count on him when I feel the need to talk to a friend who understands me. Sometimes he might be available. Other times I will either find someone else who will have to do - or else go without. So be it.

Academically I recognize that there is a somewhat tragic waste of opportunity happening but oh well. Who knows what the future may bring.

I’m not really sure how much of my relaxed attitude is a result of wisdom and presence as opposed to simply reaching a point of emotional exhaustion and simply losing the stamina to keep on caring so ardently. Either way the peace feels very real. I will continue to care about him and to trust that he will keep himself alive long enough that I will hear from him again.

Coming home from a family nephew babysitting gig Friday night, I took a route home which happens to run - not on the same street - but within sight of - the most recent known home of my former best friend of sixteen years, once known here as Porn King (rather inappropriately). Several times a year I happen to pass this way and always tend to look and spot familiar vehicles in the driveway.

On this occasion there were no such vehicles - or any at all. There was a dumpster in the driveway and a sign on the lawn. Overcome by curiosity I took a brief detour and read the sign and can pretty confidently deduce that they have moved.

I think about the various reasons that people move.

Some of those explanations would make me wonder about certain change of life events and make me wonder if he might be in need of a friend these days. He has always kept friendships to a minimum. He was once extremely special to me. For my part, that fondness will never go away, though for him - he lost interest in me. I can imagine many reasons why, and the truth probably lies somewhere in between them all. I was a much different person then, and not with robust integrity at times.

I just pray he always knows he’s always welcome to look me up. There are no problems. No worries. It’s all cool. And it would always be wonderful to see him again. It’s been years.

Yesterday I went to the hospital with Sick Boy and The Healer to visit with The Liaison who has been battling cancer and who is fairly clearly not winning.

I was struck by the haunted look in his eyes as he frequently stared right into mine. Now and then he summoned the energy to receive what we were saying and to hoarsely, briefly, respond.

I wonder is he contemplating the end. Is he wondering about our own agenda. Is he wondering, do we know something he doesn’t?

I am now finally learning that he may not really have any local friends beyond us writers. And if our casual relationship is thus elevated in his experience?

Am I fucking up yet again with regards to the terminally ill - if that is what he is - and my capacity to be useful? I am such a drastic underachiever in this arena.

This was one of the first songs I ever wrote. It is partly an ode to dear Mr. Harrison. It is on youtube in a rudimentary form.

A Thousand Loves

So fragile, so weak

The heart's a miracle in every beat

In every house on every street

In every corner the cancers creep

If you go to George and ask

He'll tell you everything must pass

Our days are few and each one fleet

A thousand loves are ours to seek

Yet no one that we'll ever meet

May we claim our own somehow to keep

If you go to George and ask

He'll tell you everything must pass

If you go to George and ask

He'll say there's no damn way to last

Regret, regret and regret

About six weeks ago I lost my best friend; my closest confidante; my primary life consultant; my greatest source of inspiration and of hope for this society. He played some central role in every purpose and life endeavor that is important to me. He meant all of this to me and much more. I lost him under baffling circumstances. It's still hard to imagine ever fully recovering.

I seem trapped in an endless cycle of grief, anger and love. Grief… anger… love… grief… anger…

When the anger; the outrage takes over, it is the briefest cycle. I imagine fighting back; throwing damning judgement in his face, and there I immediately despair. Despite the immense hurt he so easily; so chillingly heartlessly delivered me, there is still nothing so horrible to me than the thought of him being hurt; and to be hurt by my own words or actions? The thought of that is immediately agonizing. I would still rather die than allow that.

I am worn down. I am threadbare. I wonder does he regret words he said in some moment of drug-induced other-mindedness? And might he wish to re-connect but the thought of such a perilous conversation it is too frightening for one with such crippling anxieties?

It’s inconceivable to me that he wants nothing to do with me. The idea is completely crazy; completely insane no matter how I look at it. How incredibly different our perspectives must be, though I cannot imagine how they could have become so. Does he imagine I have been dishonest about something? I have been utterly profoundly honest with him at every single moment.

I have also failed to demonstrate the depths of my wisdom and intelligence (where soever they may rank. I’m not bragging). I have been so patient; never eager to reveal the products of my work and insights; letting him guide the realms; the limitations in which we explore, which is often a place trapped within certain illusions which I have defeated and which he has not.

We seem to never have opportunities to build upon these evolutions because of the long frequencies he dictated between our visits and the changes in his perspective which would always occur between visits. He seemed always to change his mind about everything between visits and so the progresses I envisioned would be abandoned over and over again. And I was too patient to urge us along any path which he’d lost interest in.

I regret not being firmer than that and not leading us toward available progress. I certainly regret being so lazy during these last years and not producing published books or more-functional music; not giving him a better look at my potential as a creator. I have always been more concerned about his own progress than mine. Part of that, I’m sure, is my laziness manifesting as seeing myself as a coach and not a producer, as a Morpheus and not a Neo, and he as the one who would learn from me and bring my own potentials to life, enclosed within his own.

And I certainly regret being so amenable to his secretiveness. It’s so strange in hindsight that I did not fully acknowledge how important it apparently was to him to keep our relationship quiet, nor the degree of it. I treated all the signs like they were something a little different than what they were.

Was he always planning to not remain lifelong friends? Was he using me all along? Heartlessly trying to manipulate possible insights out of me; solutions to his problems, without any loyalty whatsoever? And now he tragically thinks that that’s all there is? When in fact he has gleaned a tiny insignificant fraction of what I have to offer?

After all the neglect; the “radio silence” which some of his alienated friends refer to, I must wonder if these were periods where he was trying to lose me. Hoping I would go away? Without him having to summon the courage to tell me to go away?

To assume such would be to call him a liar. To say this out loud now makes it feel absurd. He told me I was one of his two best friends (without offering a specific ranking). He told me on occasions that he wanted to move in with me; and not that I asked. He told me I meant a lot to him. He told me of a book he much enjoyed and when I asked what he liked about it, he said that the author “sounded like me.” He told me once that he was sorry he hurt my feelings; not that I revealed that to him much. I ate 99% of my hurt feelings, not wanting to burden him.

He was like a son to me and I never doubted I would die for him the same as any father would say of their child. Would I really though? Who could ever know? I really think I would. Yes, I really do. Even now. 

The boy who could not feel

The following is a true story.

Once upon a time a man found himself consumed with the idea of finding real truth. The more he sought it the more he found all the many barriers to truth which together weaved an almost impenetrable blanket of illegitimacy over everything and everyone in his society including the man himself; at least the man he had been. The experience changed him magnificently. He shed years of untruth from his mind, became a person of much more humility and honesty and integrity and much less a man of ego. The horror which at first was born of the endeavor slowly changed to joy and peace and freedom as the man found new appreciations for the vital realities of logic, causality and context. He became very gentle and forgiving and full of love and pity.

When he eagerly went forth to share all this good news he discovered at once that people wanted nothing to do with it and did not trust him and so he learned to tread gently and do a lot of playing dumb for other people’s comfort.

He realized that he had tread into the realm of enlightenment but without a map to know just how far.

Then he met a boy who amazed him for the boy seemed to have incredible capacities for honesty, humility and intelligence and an instinctive mistrust for the ruling structures of society which the man knew very well to all be entirely corrupt.

The boy took a close interest in the man and began to ask questions about the deeper realities of life. The man respected the boy’s mind so much that he answered honestly, with no playing dumb in order to protect his new audience from the discomfort of challenged illusions the way he had to do with most society-imprisoned adults most of the time.

The man and boy quickly bonded as dual outsiders in a world they both felt alien to, or so the man perceived. The man was open about his journeys. The boy was eager to hear about the learning which had come out of them. They came together to talk on a regular basis; weekly for a long time and then at longer frequencies as the boy went to high school and then to college..

Their friendship seemed cosmic to the man; based on things beyond the mechanisms of society. Their friendship, the man perceived, was on a philosophic and spiritual plane. But the man came to love the boy like a son, while the boy felt more and more burdened by social anxiety and felt that somehow their friendship and their bond would never be understood by the peers which he struggled to relate to. Thus he tried to keep their friendship somewhat a secret which the man did not fully realize at the time, nor did he think that a good idea at all. He knew what dark hearts hid in the chests of normal people and the secret delight they would take imagining that something scandalous must be going on in any unusual relationship between an adult and youth.

He counseled the youth against secrecy but also did not worry about it much, for the youth would soon be an adult and surely their relationship would change and be more based on tangible collaboration in the realms of art and spirituality. They would inspire each other’s creative work and pursue enlightenment together, the man felt sure. And the man would finally teach him more of the wise understandings which he had been patient about; always letting the boy’s interests and circumstances and limitations dictate the approach of this learning.

He came to view the boy as his best friend, for it was only with the boy that he could be fully himself, not because he wanted to keep any secrets from anyone, but because the boy was the only human he respected quite enough to speak any hard truth whatsoever to; for the boy had such a powerful and open mind. One evening he asked the boy who his own best friends were and the boy named the man and one other friend from college.

The man knew that the boy had an extremely rare privilege with regards to their friendship. The boy had a friend that he could trust to no end, who would always respect what he had to say, never judge him, never think him weird or odd or anything like that (because the man had learned everything that the human creature is capable of and embraced the logic and causality that revealed that everything the human creature is capable of is normal). The boy had a friend who would always be honest with him,  always be supportive, and would always love him and never betray his confidence. This was a friend he had total freedom to say anything to.

A friend you can safely say ANYTHING to.

Who else could make such an honest claim about a friend? Think about it. Almost no one. Ever.

The man always wondered if the boy fully understood the rarity of his privilege. But as with most things the man was very patient. They talked earnestly together with no limits. They shared their fears and tears and “secrets” and deepest insights and deepest self-accusations and the man was always amazed at the boy’s growing intelligence.

The boy had a problem with empathy. That became apparent for many reasons but as always the man was patient and in no hurry to fully confront him about this (though the subject had been tentatively approached on occasion).

One manifestation was that the boy had a terrible habit of not returning people’s messages and though he admitted that he knew that it hurt people’s feelings, the man was pretty sure that the boy did not fully comprehend. The boy had once tried to explain what empathy was to the man and the boy got it all wrong. The man had felt sad for him at that moment and chose not to challenge him on it at that moment.

The boy’s habit of ignoring people grew worse with time and many friends gave up on messaging him at all. The man meanwhile was feeling hurt more and more often by this.

Over the years the boy’s explanation for this bad habit changed each time they talked about it. The man did not care to imagine whether the boy was trying to be honest or not. He loved the boy like family and chose to always trust him no matter what; for one of the beautiful aspects of love is the surrendering to the loved one the power to hurt you and choosing to trust that they won’t.

Finally the boy graduated from college and began to work regularly on his music and part time at a job and he was pursuing frequent experimentation with hallucinogenic drugs and was very excited about the realms of mental perception this seemed to be opening up for him. The man noticed that the boy’s mannerisms and personality seemed to be rapidly changing and he commented on this and the boy seemed to perhaps take this as an insult rather than simply concern.  

So with this new logistical freedom the boy and man planned a significant outing together. A significant exploration of the human mind. It was the boy's idea. The man was looking forward to it very much and very content that after about eight years their friendship seemed to be reaching that fully adult stage of collaboration, and then the man received a message from the boy which read:

I don’t want to continue this relationship not feeling the dynamic anymore, sorry

And now the man is confused and hurt and sad every day.

YOU ARE HERE ---->

Hey readers!

How are you both doing!

I’ve been allergic to blogging for quite a while now, even though I’ve had much to say; much of which is coming. Part of the reason is that I succumbed to sustained emotional duress which had been percolating in cycles for years. This pertains to the one person most dear to me and it has been weighing on me so constantly that it coloured everything going on in my life, and for practical reasons cannot be fully explored  in this space; at least not currently. Though it would very unlikely impede on a certain other’s privacy, there is that slim chance. And I don’t know how he would feel about it. I’ve never asked.

In short, I believe that barrier has been defeated, partly because, for the first time in my adult life, The depth of infatuation for my current interest has settled down to a simmer. Whether this is permanent or temporary I do not know. It’s very strange to have that urgency absent from my life, literally for the first time since I was fifteen. Like a part of me has been amputated.

The other reasons for defeating this barrier, too boring to detail here, are more solid and permanent.

It’s April A-to-Z time! I missed the reveal but you can glean it from my last post. The theme was supposed to be “Twenty Six Reasons the Automobile is the Devil!” but The Healer heard this and said, “That sounds judgy” (in a way which sounded altogether judgy). So to keep her happy I have changed it to “Twenty Six Reasons to Celebrate the Automobile! (If You’re the Devil)” which is obviously much more positive.

Today is Sunday and thus a day off from A-Z. Tune in tomorrow for reason B!

April Camp NaNoWriMo is upon us as well, and for the first time in any NaNo event I am dedicating it primarily to the blog. I will be engaged in pursuits designed, not just to provide material for the blog, but to set structures in motion which will keep the blog productive and foremost among my pursuits on a hopefully-permanent basis. I’m hoping this is where I finally turn the corner and bring this thing to the next level.

Hope you stick around.

Much love,

FWG/New Day Rising

Is this rock bottom?

Look at me typing words.

My fingers are so slow that my mind is already paragraphs ahead of the sentence I just wrote and I've forgotten most of it already, so now the phrase Look at me typing words looks completely idiotic and irrelevant.

That's the real challenge of writing, isn't it? Not observation, contemplation, mastery of language, the translation of ideas into useful words, into mood and imagery, into effective storytelling. No it's this bloody impossible task of getting the sentences out of your wretched head and onto the wretched page before they fucking dissolve.


I'm pretty sure I'm fatter than ever before.

It's too warm in here for this sea lion biology of mine but I'm too lazy to navigate the hurdles: vacuum cleaner, bag of empty wine bottles, non-disposable grocery bags containing whatever stuff I haven't got around to putting away; cans of tuna and black beans perhaps. Maybe the guitar strap and hardware which I have still not installed and which must be somewhere... Too lazy to navigate these hazards and kneel down painfully and reach way under the desk to turn off the electric baseboard heater which I rarely use. I like it cool, or even downright cold and I have a duvet although I'm still just using the cover; which is of course just two bed sheets sewn together and with a zipper. The actual pocketed goosey thing is still in the closet with too many other things. It was two or three winters ago when I last used it despite the habit of leaving off the heat. I do just fine under a couple sheets.

I want to write in this space every day. I want people who struggle with a journey in their lives to witness my struggle and learn from it or garner support. Or not feel alone. Or maybe even reach out and say, Hey! Me too! Let's do this together!

But so many pieces I don't publish or don't even write. Sometimes for laziness. Sometimes for sleep deprivation. And many times for the sake of other people's privacy.

I once decided that what I had to say was too important to ever discourage anyone from reading my blog. And so friends have found it and some can identify the aliases of others and this compromise to anonymity leaves me handcuffed. I don't want any secrets for myself but some of my associates might. And some of the people I love most might not like me getting all mushy here.

So I'm fettered somewhat. But that is still no excuse not to write here every day.


Facebook is becoming a source of - depression perhaps? Am I susceptible to depression? I'm not very joyful these days despite the knowledge that I should be.

All the Trump stuff is just plain ghastly. The admission that I'm actually capable of wishing another human being dead - yes dead - assassination; bath tub slip; attack by a flying devil-hunting piano - I don't care. It's just a sad sad state to realize you feel that way about another human being.

It's not just him and all his ghastly intentions; it's what is coming out of myself and others; especially those who support the cretin for their own tiny reasons which seem so big to them, and are so indignant at our outrage because they can't see past their own noses!

Look at this impatience of mine! Look at this lack of pity! I know better than this. All my bad habits and non-mindfulness are piling up and getting in the way of everything.

Yet even in my sleepy self-critical malaise I know the answers. I know what momentum is available to me, to turn things around. Do I just need to hit rock bottom and then begin the rebound? Am I there yet?

My room is too cluttered and needs dusting. Stuff needs to be given away again. This should not be a daunting project! I know that a good friend even offered to help with that but I can't remember who, but why should I need help?

Messages to someone very dear have gone unanswered for two weeks and I feel fear from that, though I am almost certain the fear is irrational. I have no feeling that the fear is irrational. It is strictly an intellectual process. All I feel is the fear.

But to say, "Hey! I'm scared! You need to reply!" is to up the ante. What then if there is still no reply? Panic?

All I feel is the fear. But just seeing it on the page like this - makes it feel less real.

How disappointing. Look at all the fears I once defeated through consciousness. Yet this one I cannot or perhaps just won't.

Is it because that to defeat one's last fear is to dispel the myth of identity? Is that why? Because everything I have taught myself threatens to cure an addiction which I mistake for my very being? I am the one who loves hopelessly. That is me. That is 99% of my life. Loving hopelessly. If that goes away then what is left? Harmony? Oneness? The tough question is: Do I really want to know?

I once discovered such a surprising wealth of power in myself, at a time when my ego was soft and the realization was not a giddy one but a curiosity. Where is that power now? I really sense it is not far and has never been far.

Why not reach out?

Needs

It was perhaps ten years ago when I came to fully understand that I had only three needs.

1. Food to eat.

2. Protection from the elements.

3. Protection from predators.

The same needs as any mammal.

It seemed clear at that time that I would evermore be joyful as long as these three conditions were met. I have since succumbed to an instinctive need, illusory of course: the feeling of need toward that who I love most. Of course I must admit consciously that this (or rather a great component of it) is not actually much love from the universal perspective, even though it feels to me immense. I know that the universal love I once felt is the far more real. But enough of that for now.

I understand fully the truly recreational nature of the hundred and one needs most people think they have and which they pursue with the bulk of their energy, as I once sort-of did, though without typical vigor.

We think we need promotions, respect, wealth, safer accident-protective automobiles, handier cell-phones, someone to love and vice versa (and at times pretend to love and vice versa) at the exclusion of others, affordable hydro, job security, spiritual faith, the correct wardrobe, hope, etc…

And some might add purpose. Though purpose is a cinch. Anyone can design their own purpose. It’s not a need, but it’s pretty useful and there’s nothing to stop us from having it, other than lack of clarity; optimally an “outer purpose” (societal purpose) as Tolle would say, along with recognition of our innate inner purpose; which is to become conscious; fully human.

Here’s the terrible irony: all these illusory needs, which I realize a lot of people probably cannot easily conceive the falseness of -- both alone, and/or in combination with each other, manifest a short list of inevitable consequences in the realm of tribal disconnection, environmental devastation and social/economic erosion (which are all thoroughly related) which brings about this realization:

Pursuit of all these recreational and illusory needs is swiftly destroying:

1. Our food sources both animal and vegetable.

2. The manageability/survivability of the elements.

3. The suppression of inevitably- widespread human predators (preying on other humans).

The relentless pursuits of all the false needs are swiftly and precisely pushing all of our real needs out of reach.

Too many vacations

“Why wouldn’t you?” said Neo.

These words ring in my mind probably every day. I think it has been a couple months at least. Or many months? I have almost no ability for tracking time.

Why wouldn’t I?

The answer I gave him was not fair. For some reason I did not approach it in a straight-forward way. Instead of explaining what I think the barrier is; I found myself trying to show him instead. It’s not that I wish to be tricky. Not at all. I deeply regard clarity. But the problem here is so very delicate. I think I tried to show him as a way to ask for help. I have long made a habit of underestimating him. We gathered weekly for so long and then, when our visits fell to monthly or bi-monthly, I failed to anticipate his swift maturation. Now on this occasion I gave him unlimited credit. I allowed that maybe he could be so brilliant as to see right through my problem. If indeed it is a problem.

Why wouldn’t I?

Why wouldn’t I want to cross that threshold? Why wouldn’t I want to further evolve? To perhaps embrace a permanently enlightened state, if indeed I was as close to such a state as I felt like I was those – what – five years ago? Ten?

I was so joyful and so at peace for so long that I told no one; only hinted. For no one would have believed me, or so I figured. And let’s face it: a lot of people have been tricked into such an apparent state by subscribing to other people’s programs built of compromised logic and puny scope. Born again or what not. People would have assumed that of me and I was in no mood to carefully explain the integrity, the courage and the patient wholeness of my journey. And I did not trust the submission of my ego enough to get into something that could become bragging. There is nothing to brag about. I have never forgotten the long roster of failures which allowed me to slide into such a rare space that reality became so easy to see. My story is not one of successes.

Why wouldn’t I?

Why wouldn’t I want to be genuinely enlightened? Permanently so?

In so many ways I have slipped backwards; too often impatient; too often tribal; too often unforgiving. Temporarily I mean. I always smarten up after some amount of time; seconds or minutes; perhaps hours rarely.

It seems I never lock the cell door anymore. My ego takes little parole vacations according to its own whims and on my own whims I say, “Hey fucker! Get back in your cell!”

I forget my goals. I am disloyal to my own plans.

Build the plan. Work the plan! The foundation of any enterprise. I suspect sometimes that I fail out of fear. If you work the plan and the plan fails, then what next? Working the plan invites possible failure and I don’t know what post-failure looks like. I don’t know what the new plan is. I know I should have more clarity than this. I’m not clear what is holding me back.

Why wouldn’t I?

I’m not sure I can express here, the difference between what I should have explained versus what I did say.

I think I’m afraid of losing my identity. My identity is dear to me despite its seductive torment. As it is with the child abuse survivor who refuses to give up being a child abuse survivor. I’m the guy who loves immensely and wants nothing but to show it and is always handcuffed from showing it; whose heart is always dangerously close to bursting.

“But when you’re enlightened you won’t care about that anymore,” says Neo.

I must presume that is true. But it is still unimaginable.

I worked so hard to get so far and then I paused and said, No, I can’t go any further because I’m leaving everyone behind. I can’t remember what it was like to be like them. I am losing my ability to relate! I must back up a bit so I can reach them; so I can communicate, so I can help them along! Why ever should I go on alone? If I can do this, anyone can and everyone can! I have achieved out of rare opportunities, not rare talents.

I took a long journey, a working journey, and I came to what I perceived was a gateway; another one-way gateway, for I’d lingered at such a structure before, prior to marching forward, when I’d understood the matrix and decided I had to leave it; that despite the terror there was no turning back. No blue pill after all. But here at this new gate I did turn back and I have been too often on vacation ever since.

It has to change.

Disappearing

"He said Delores, I live in fear
My love for you is so overpowering
I'm afraid that I will disappear"
- Paul Simon (Slip Sliding Away)

I just realized that I understand this passage. I understand it entirely. Except that I am not afraid; not of disappearing. Perhaps I should be, but I'm not.

100 Must-See Films! -- Love

“No mysteries?” he says. “What’s love then?”

“A Bordeaux blend.”

He laughs. “I know you like your wine,” he says, watching me sip it, “but surely you can do better than that!”

“Bordeaux is nothing but a word. No Bordeaux grape exists.”

“It’s a region in France.”

“And it’s also a Big Idea. And the idea says that if you blend a combination of grapes – any combination; two or more – from a set of very real varieties: Cab Sauv, Cab Frank, Malbec, Merlot and Petit Verdot – from that French region, yes – you will get a very special complexity of flavour; an intensity of flavour; a special wine; the Bordeaux blend. And that is love: an idea that arises from a special feeling; an intensity of feeling  which is nothing singular but only a combination of real connections, from a large set of possible connections: attachments, dependencies and the like – within the brain. It’s the accumulation of attachment. It’s the weight of them… Love. Which is why every love is different. We like to think that there are different types of love – for the lover, the family member, the dog… No. We are addicted to patterns and programs and labels so we think that way, but no. Every instance of love is a complex unique formula. A special blend.”

42. Ice Castles (1978, USA)

Lynn-Holly Johnson, Robby Benson, Colleen Dewhurst, Jennifer Warren, Tom Skerritt,

Love of sport, father and boyfriend and the extra pressures which weigh on each, pull a sensitive young Olympic figure skating hopeful in different directions, threatening to tear her apart. Is it ultimately too much? How she will escape – or how she will claim her ground?

It could be claimed sappy or schmaltzy I suppose! But for me, and I know many others, it tore at my heart throughout and the ending is strictly unforgettable.

I know the film was re-made in 2010 with new actors and the same writer/director but I have taken a pass. I will stick with this original again and again!

Writers: Donald Wrye, Gary L. Baim (Ice Castles 2010)

Director: Donald Wrye (Death Be Not Proud)

Budget: $9,500,000

IMDB rating: 6.5

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SjHRC5iO7fE

43. Juno (2007, Canada/USA)

Ellen Page, Michael Cera, Jason Bateman, Jennifer Garner, Olivia Thirlby, J.K. Simmons, Allison Janney

In 2004, young actor Ellen Page graduated from such Canadian television projects as Trailer Park Boys and I Downloaded a Ghost, taking on eight theatrical films in two years, culminating in the starring role here – which “she killed” as youth would say... I think.

Page, armed with writer, Diablo Cody’s arsenal of ticklish kid-slang, would have stolen any show with this performance: at once bold, quirky, clever, down to earth, rebellious only to the necessary degree and miraculously, thank goodness, not the Hollywood stereotype bitch of a teenager. And when the shit hits the fan, so to speak, and she must confess her troubling circumstance to father and step-mom, and Dad says, “I thought you were the kind of girl who knew when to say when,” Page quietly delivers hurt, humility and brave defiance each in subtle, artful measure, quietly stating, “I don’t know… what kind of girl I am.”

Brilliant! She was nominated for all four of the grand slam awards for Best Actress. Cody took the Oscar for best screenplay.

And of course Michael Cera and the meek Paulie Bleeker role were just perfectly made for each other. It seems like every other Cera role struggles to eclipse a mere shadow of Bleeker.  

A rare comedy brimming with laughter, charm, style and substance which helps define an early millennial youth culture; a renaissance of digital communication, unapologetic sexuality, and the eternal uphill struggle that is adolescence.

Writer: Diablo Cody (Young Adult)

Director: Jason Reitman (Up in the Air)

Budget: $7,500,000

IMDB rating: 7.5

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0SKf0K3bxg&nohtml5=False

44. Lars and the Real Girl (2007, USA/Canada )

Ryan Gosling, Patricia Clarkson, Emily Mortimer, Paul Schneider

The premise sounds untouchably weird. Yet this is one of the most charming stories ever filmed. It speaks to the great diversity of love, our pitiable fears of love, and the capacity of love within the family and within the community.

This is a comedy which makes you laugh out loud and yet accomplishes so much more than that. I can’t think of any other film which touched me in quite the way that this one did.

Lars Lindstrom: How'd you know…? That you were a man?

Gus: Well, it's not like you're one thing or the other, okay? There's still a kid inside but you grow up when you decide to do right, okay? And not what's right for you; what's right for everybody. Even when it hurts.

Writer: Nancy Oliver (True Blood)

Director: Craig Gillespie (Fright Night)

Budget: $12,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.4

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNcs9DrKYRU&nohtml5=False

45. Brokeback Mountain (2005, USA/Canada)

Heath Ledger, Jake Gyllenhaal

Jake Gyllenhaal was only sixteen the first time he read this script and, in his own words, swore he wanted nothing to do with it. That was 1997; a society already evolved thirty three years beyond that dark age which serves as this story’s setting. And still it took a further seven years before we were ready for this film, and the shooting began. At twenty-three, Gyllenhaal re-read the script and claimed, “It’s too beautiful to say no.”

Though missing out on Best Picture Oscar, any look across the broader film critic and film award landscape reveals Brokeback Mountain the most heralded film of the year.

Hailed by Newsday: “A revolutionary act of cinema.” Said Rolling Stone: “Hits you like a shot in the heart.” It’s an emotional whirlwind. Sad. Sadder. Saddest. The climax is one of the most heart-wrenching moments in modern cinema. Even the joyful moments are laced with fear.

Like Romeo and Juliette: a desperate fight in the name of love, against all odds. I believe this is partly what Bruce Cockburn lamented, in addition to the AIDS crisis, in Lovers in a Dangerous Time, when he sang: Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight; Got to kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight.

Writers: Annie Proulx (The Shipping News), Larry McMurtry (Terms of Endearment)

Director: Ang Lee (Life of Pi)

Budget: $14,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.7

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-xuugq7fito

Short List:

Biutiful (2010, Mexico/Spain) Javier Bardem, Maricel Álvarez, Hanaa Bouchaib

Arthur (1981, USA) Dudley Moore, Liza Minnelli, John Gielgud

Mask (1985, USA) Cher, Eric Stoltz, Sam Elliot

Out of Africa (1985, USA/UK) Meryl Streep, Robert Redford

The Big Chill (1983, USA) Glen Close, Tom Berenger, Jeff Goldblum, Mary Kay Place, Meg Tilly, William Hurt