Hear us, people of Portugal!

Hey hey my little homies! It’s H day and here’s my helpful, heady, higher-order, humanitarian hiking pal… The Healer. And she has heralded this little number for us to deal with, which sure sounds like an adverb but I’m fairly sure it is not:

Hyperdactyly

Indeed it is a noun; an abnormality in mammals characterized by the presence of bonus fingers or toes above the usual count. Also known as polydactyly.

There is only one such human ever to come onto my radar and that’s the girl from John Wyndham’s The Chrysalids. This is easily my favourite Wyndham piece (which I haven’t read since high school) because it’s the most compelling type of plot I can imagine; one where the most vulnerable of heroes (children) are in essence pursued by an overwhelming force of evil and must struggle for their lives and well-being. It’s a story of great injustice and it tugged at my young heart of course.

Now the eleven-toed heroin eventually finds salvation. Sorry for the spoiler but that needed to be said in order to explore the lesser known sequel to the book: The Chrysalids 2: Jake the Cat, which is very factually based on a true story about a Canadian cat named Jake who is the most famous polydactyl cat in the world with a record-breaking 28 toes. Please note I’ve done the research and can verify Jake the Cat is real and indeed holds the world record for toes (distributed through all four paws by the way). Go ahead and look it up. He’s adorable by the way.

In Chrysalids Two this cat, whose extra-toed paws are so wide he can walk on the surface of water, leaves his home in Burnt Cove Newfoundland and strolls out across the Atlantic ocean. But as a sudden storm obscures his sight of the land he rushes in the wrong direction and is lost at sea.

He wanders for forty days and forty nights and meets some interesting creatures such as a whale named Jonah and a woman named Amelia who is just floating around in her damaged airplane, drinking absinthe and painting pictures of the clouds. He also meets a colony of teenage mutant zombie turtles who live on a floating island of plastic garbage and these scenes are particularly disturbing.

Eventually he arrives on the coast of Portugal in the town of Praia da Vagueira which is Portuguese for Fish on a fork. A local telephone repair woman spies Jake’s arrival and welcomes him and takes him to Father Pedro, telling the amazing story of the cat who walks on water. So Father Pedro asks Jake to walk across the village fountain and observing this miracle pronounces to the gathering crowd that this is Jesus returned in cat form. Quickly the entire village flocks to feline Jesus and worships him and congratulates themselves on being the chosen village in all the world and Jake has a great time. He’s eating the best tuna, drinking the best port and smoking the best cigarillos all day every day and submitting to selfies with all the villagers.

But when Archbishop Alfonso learns of this madness he declares the Vagueirians sinners for this false worship and declares Jake a terrible demon cat sent by Satan to deliver a lethal coronavirus to the doomed people of Portugal. A terrible civil war is fought for an afternoon which is swiftly ended when the Portuguese army riddles Praia da Vagueira with rockets. Jake and Father Pedro die in each others’ arms.

But the story does not end here. Redemption follows. The Canadian people having learned of this hideous tragedy demand action from their federal government. They demand retaliation.

Their leader, Justin Trudeau makes a speech which is heard by every man, woman, child, and cat in the country. The dogs were like, whatever…

Trudeau begged his people to remember that they “…are Canadians and as a proud Canadian it is your job to chill; to reap the lush rewards of lethal global first-world corruption so generously provided by the world’s great roster of slave countries and the lush material rewards of the terminally insane rape of the biosphere and to overlook the beguiling landscape of financial smoke and mirrors which transfers ninety per cent of our fabulous ill-gotten riches into the hands of my corporate sugar daddies and do not worry about the gathering storm or the fate of poor Jake. Jake will have eight more lives.”

But the people of Canada were angry because they didn’t understand a word he had said. He had said nothing about hockey or the weather or how polite we all are.

So the next day Trudeau was given a new speech to present in order to win back his favour. And he said, “Hear us, people of Portugal! We are Canadian and we will not have you molest our national cat hero, Jake the Many-Toed and expect us to take it sitting down! It is a dark dark day in the world, when a sweet and innocent feline freak can not take a moistly walk across the water to visit a NATO ally-”

But here he was interrupted as the nation fell apart in riotous laughter.

“Dude, did he just say moistly?”

“I think so! LMAO!”

“Who says moistly!”

“I don’t know Dude, but next hockey season better not be delayed or I’ll personally kill the fucker.”

“No doubt,”

And in the glee of this great comedy Jake was forgotten but his spirit lives on. And Trudeau, refusing to be rattled over the term moistly, hired the finest musicians in the land and he recorded the Moistly Song and he sang it with pride.

The end.

Now if this tale sounds far-fetched I assure you it is all true. And here’s the proof:

Day seven already?

So I was a sleepless wreck for a few days. Finally last night I enjoyed a couple decent little sleep sessions and am feeling motivated today. I put all the garbage and recyclables out to the curb and am now still basking in the glory of this accomplishment.

But I have also committed to writing for the rest of the day and evening except for a skype break with my dear family and have invited my writing buddies to a virtual write-in on our google hangout. Two have joined so… here we go. Wish me luck.

M is for Middling

In the last 36 hours I have:

• Lost my wallet and $190.
• Negotiated with burdened outdoor renovation workers to access my own driveway.
• Attended the 8th or 9th annual Wafflepalooza of which I was a founding father.
• Hugged friends.
• Reminisced with my dear writer pals concerning the inspiring ascent of The Liaison, who departed oh so young on the verge of a writing career breakthrough.
• Hugged more friends.
• Tinkered with yet another indulgent mindcrack lair.
• Found the wallet!
• Barely -- barely -- endured the 45-minute torture of an ultrasound session in which the tech sweated buckets trying to push holes through me (drawing blood even but not much).
• Butted heads politely with a senior bank associate trying to smother Gramps and I in a blanket of red tape and liability paranoia leaving me exhausted and almost hopeless before a wonderful junior associate, a young black man with brilliant instincts, wisdom and kindness gave us everything we needed as soon as the former departed.
• Parked strategically so Gramps could piss in a parking lot.
• Talked about life and literature with Earth Writer and remembered how we used to be closer (I think).
• Attended Scooterville NaNo Thank God Its Over celebration.
• Won nice little prizes.
• Hugged friends I’m very glad to find are still friends.
• Sat in the car hoping that a young person I will always care for will come to understand I would never ever want to hurt his feelings and that I only want his life to be better and him to be happy. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

I’m in the middle of things.

Peace.

B is for Brocrastination

Okay that was a cheat. But B is for bed-ridden, blurry-eyed and.... Bengals.

Bengals as in Bengal tigers - as in the Jr. B lacrosse team that landed in the middle of my life about the time I disappeared from blog world, and swept me away.

An old pal - we'll call him - LaxMasterMind has quietly become an internationally elite lacrosse GM and coach in the fifteen years since we were associates with the Chiefs Jr A team. Oh wait - I blogged about this two years ago.

Long story short: I was dragged out of my Total Lacrosse Retreat by LMM with the news of a local Jr B team which he was basically running and which I did not even know about (this community has spawned previous junior lacrosse enterprises over the years which emigrated to nearby communities). I saw a game, was amazed at the new elevated caliber of Jr B lacrosse, felt inspired to write about it, but was at a complete loss how to do so. One: I have changed so much in the intervening years and competition, winning and losing have become so very uninspiring compared to such higher-evolved things - like creativity for instance, and generosity, which are for me important elements of lacrosse. And two: I was no longer an insider. I knew nothing of the current lacrosse community and its peoples. How would I write as an outsider?

Fast forward April 2019 and LMM speaks up again: the team is looking to fill new exec positions including Director Marketing and Media Relations. I seize on that one. It's my way back in. I take it on faith that I will find a way to write about it. And god knows I should have the time for it given the 101 important projects I've been blissfully ignoring (B is for blissful ignorance).

"I'll be your director media marketing," I type back after literally about 20 seconds of deliberation. I was intentionally bold. Take it or leave it.

He took it.

The task I took on for myself; the goal, is enormously ambitious. The work I cut out for myself is potentially endless. And I admit I don't know how to accomplish the goal, if indeed it's possible. But I trust in finding useful components and pursuing them on faith that they will be part of the final solution. More on all this some other time.

Was I crazy to take this on given I can't keep up with anything currently? Here's my weird rationalization: To take on a world of work which is unlike most of my current work in that there are tight schedules and outside stakeholders, which means I will be properly motivated to Get It Done, which may be just the thing to re-teach me a proper work ethic. When the season ends in a few months I can move my new work ethic and apply it to my own works.

Well that time is now.

So I'm back.

I say that I am here to stay. Fingers crossed.

And by here I mean blog world, yes, but I mean much more. I want to really be here. Being present again. Being productive. Making a difference. Being the person I should be instead of the loser I have been for the last year and a half.

This morning I arose after 6 hours of sleep (not bad! though sleep remains a critical Needs Improvement Area) picked up Chess Champ, met up with The Healer, journeyed to Station One former fire-house turned cafe and there met Sweetproserpina and the Ponderer for a joyful write-in. Here I am. The Ponderer's partner is beating her cancer. The Healer's mate has finally become employed again by a college where I worked for awhile. And Chess Champ has finally released some writing to the semi-public sphere. A big step. I really look forward to finally giving him a read. Given sleep and eye problems I have not really read for this year and a half. Another Needs Improvement Area.

Continuous improvement. Every day. Am I back? It would be nice if I were back.

Love Fwig

Afterimage

The Liaison, so far as I currently understand, had three basic categories of friends: Writing friends online from around the world, writing friends online who he met in person at various writing retreats and workshops, including some of the most committed and robust programs out there, and writing friends online who he also knew in person right here in Scooterville including myself, Sick Boy and Chess Champ, each of whom you might glimpse in the video below.

His dearest friend of all is the very sweet and deep-minded Cerulean Blue, a constant online companion from Europe, who has flown out here many times for extended vacations with him. She is a satellite member of our local NaNo chapter and our little year-long writing sub-group.

I sense that their companionship is of some special design of their own which they need explain to no one, and I sense that this was the only non-familial relationship of any significant intimacy in the Liaison’s living experience and I am very glad that he had it.

When Cerulean first appeared on the scene I was troubled by an email from her in which I sensed a pre-mature attachment to us and unwarranted worry over subtle interpretations of online encounters which I personally viewed as inconsequential. I thought it inappropriate that she would presume that we had some kind of deep friendship at stake when we’d never even met in person and I was not shy at the time to try to firmly inform her of this.

In the end, it appears that she was on the right track. I came to sense a special friendship between us and now I wonder why I have seen so little of her when she has spent most of her time here in Scooterville with brief returns to her home abroad, ever since November when the Liaison fell ill. The blame is surely my own.

Now that he’s gone and with her next return flight scheduled for the day after his funeral (in essence a coincidence) there remains for her a couple of free days and a couple of partly free days and no one for her to give constant care for.

Yesterday those of us available took her out for the afternoon, which slipped gently into the evening. We went exploring with no urgency or real agenda, with a strong bond in our hearts and common private thoughts on our minds - of a sweet boyish man whose hard-felt absence seems to have washed away the tensions of tentative friendship between we of very sensitive, but otherwise diverse personalities.

I will see Cerulean at least two more times before she goes away. Given the pain she has endured here, I doubt she will ever come back. And my own chances of ever getting to Europe are slim. It is with significant heaviness that I consider a likely-final farewell. I wonder how her life will change now, with such a significant absence, and how comfortably she might endure a continued online relationship with us, where triggers may abound.

Today the same gang will go hiking and what-not without me but with the excellent Healer and her canine companion Doctor Snuggles.

I hope they all feel the same love which I did yesterday and which I attempted to capture here:

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

Snotty Movie Criticism

Here's the scoop, movie lovers!

Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children ***

(2016) Eva Green, Asa Butterfield

Surprisingly amusing family fantasy-action flick of the sort I rarely bother with. I didn’t altogether regret it. As a prerequisite though, you must either have kids or really like fantasy.

The Birth of a Nation****

(2016) Nate Parker, Armie Hammer

Gripping and disturbing true story of one of the great struggles against blind ubiquitous evil, which, dear Americans, we have not nearly sufficiently learned from.

Truth ****

(2015) Cate Blanchett, Robert Redford

Another superb Blanchett performance and another of the endless looks into the American Empire’s ongoing destruction of life, liberty and happiness for anyone other than the ruling class. This time it’s nervy W5 producer Mary Mapes standing in the bulldozer’s path with mostly predictable results. Valuable viewing for anyone with courage.   

Eastern Promises ***

(2007) Naomi Watts, Viggo Mortensen

Plotty dramatic flick. Decent if you’re a big Mortensen fan I suppose.

Django Unchained **

(2012) Jamie Foxx

Yet another pot of Quentin Testosterino stew overflowing all over the goddam place. Bring a shovel.

Wiener-Dog ***

(2016)  Greta Gerwig, Keaton Nigel Cooke, Tracy Letts

Quirky and near-loveable look at a gaggle of Everyday Losers and the thin excuses for joy which we embrace. Some good sincere laughs. I recommend it, especially to Neo and The Healer. (Netflix)

The Last Samurai ***

(2003) Tom Cruise, Ken Watanabe

Fun but thin exploration of late nineteenth century Japanese political strife, too low in integrity and too high in masturbatory American mojo.

Mustang ****1/2

(2015) Gunes Sensoy, Doga Zeynep Doguslu, Tugba Sunguroglu, Elit Iscan, Ilayda Akdogan

Thank goodness I failed to pass on this bold and gutsy film when the previews looked dangerously chick-flickish (a cowardly accusation I know). Wonderful painful important stuff concerning one of the most morbid of human traditions and the brilliant determination of youth. Must see!

Morgan **

(2016) Kate Mara

Potentially Intriguing tableau immediately dissolves into pointless action flick with hilariously over-telegraphed plot twist. Too violent for your kids and too dumb for you. Possibly good for thirteen year old boys with a naughty penchant for girl fights?

The Light Between Oceans ****

(2016) Alicia Vikander, Michael Fassbender

Laudable tale of love and honour and if that sounds ho-hum, I don’t mean it to be.  

Regression ***

(2015) Emma Watson, Ethan Hawke

Catchy thriller on the subject of child abuse which fails to achieve the subtlety it aspires to. Quite compelling though and historically significant.

Anthropoid ****

(2016) Cillian Murphy, Jamie Dornan

Vivid and gutsy; often distressing truth-based Nazi-rebellion story ramps up as it progresses. It’s worth the punch line and just squeezes in to my holocaust movie A-List.

Life**

(2017) Jake Gyllenhaal, Rebecca Ferguson

Decent action flick according to one action flick subscriber who I happen to respect. But with such a grand title and the participation of Magnet-For-Gems Jake Gyllenhaal, I had some really high hopes as dashed to smithereens as a certain space station. Here are my suggestions for a more appropriate title:

Alien 5: The Regurgitation

My Dinner With Calvin

With Six You Get No Egg Roll

Calvin and the Ship-Munch

Sardine Wars

Jake Gyllenhaal Picks a Lemon

Okay, I’ll stop now.

Thorne’s Quest

I think it was five years ago, on November 30^th; the last night of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo): it was the Liberal Theologian, Aqualad and myself remaining at the coffee pub in the aftermath of a larger celebration. I then decided I deserved a decadent dessert waffle as reward for my NaNo success. I had won the challenge, setting my personal November word count record and in doing so finished the novel I’d started the year before on November 1^st. Aqualad agreed and claimed his own such reward, making it an event. L.T. then followed suit and named our night together: Wafflepalooza.

On the same date this year, I rushed away from my late shift at the Courthouse to join the greater gang for Wafflepalooza Six where staff reported to me that twenty waffles had been served!. Most of the gang had left by the time I arrived and another few left shortly afterwards, leaving Chess Champ, the Healer and myself. We talked about the struggles and victories of this craziest NaNo in our memories.

I announced that I intended to visit the Liberal Theologian, our former NaNo Scooterville leader, before going home. (I wished to discuss with her my failing evolution which certain  NaNo struggles made very apparent this year.) The others wished to join me. At that I was surprised but pleased. The conversation would be a different one but that’s okay.

L.T. still has no gravestone but her location is easy to find. It’s right under the brightest light in the cemetery. When her stone finally arrives it will be appropriately spotlighted.

We talked about her influences on us and the strong mark she left on the NaNo community; the culture she set in motion which we strive to maintain, and how we two became close and how I came to live in her home. We talked about her liberal relationship with God and her generous relationship with religion itself; one based almost entirely upon community and charity and not about specific dogma. How she came into that specific Anglican church where she made her career; one unusually behind the times by the progressive Anglican standards of the day, where its leaders held conservative and superstitious views. But L.T. was very strong. In no time at all she had all her opposition corrected, evolved, defeated or removed and her church became an extension of her own personality: a place of legitimate generosity and inclusiveness.

I knew all this through stories about L.T. which I really love to hear. They thrill me because I did not know her in her more heroic days.but only later, when NaNo was her only time to really shine. Beyond that her disability generally got the best of her and the scope of her life and influence, as happens to all of us eventually, was in decline.

In her final two days, spent in the hospice, she was almost always in shut-down mode; unconscious or semi-conscious or withdrawn, at least at times, by intent. I spent many hours at her side while she existed in some other awareness. How strange it must be, this otherspace of the dying. Where are you Gale? I asked more than once. In hindsight I suspect that, at times at least, she was very nobly making peace with her passing. At the time though I could not see that possibility, too fixated on the apparent problems I perceived.

Where are you? I asked her. Are you riding with Thorne in your other world? I really hoped that she was.

Thorne is the girl in her fictional Thorne’s Quest world. To what degree she and Thorne were the same person, I have to wonder. She wrote an eight book series about her; a very significant fantasy series with a robust imaginary culture and history. Five novels were self-published and had a following. The remainders still need editing which was not accomplished before the end.

The daughter was her editing partner and knows of specific changes L.T. desired beyond the obvious copy editing and continuity checks. Dog Whisperer was a beta reader and technical assistant and also knew the epic story well.

When it became apparent that L.T. would not survive long enough to finish this project but that she wished not to abandon her faithful readers, it was decided that the Daughter, Dog Whisperer and myself would form a committee to finish the job as best we could. I knew the least about the project but I saw that as useful in terms of a certain role I could play. I promised her that at the very least, I would be the impetus to make sure it happens. I promised her. And it has not happened.

The daughter is the official owner of this intellectual property. I broached the subject once with her and she couldn’t talk about it. It is not easy for her to deal with her mother’s absence.  Many things have been put off for a long time.

As we stood gathered around the lamp-lit unmarked hillock, I shared this heavy concern about Thorne’s Quest with Champ and Healer. They warned me that attempting to take on the project all by myself, if Daughter would only release the materials to me and be done with it, would be a very large and lengthy undertaking. But I assured them I could do it if necessary. I could sink myself into it and see it done. I am motivated enough.

I once began reading the first book of the series which I’d bought online when I barely knew L.T. I abandoned it though, temporarily, when I realized I’d been tripping on the unusual conventions of given names in this imaginary culture. I was mixing up characters. I needed to restart the book while taking notes on the character roster and their similar names.

I now realize that it’s time for me to finally do that. I finally realized that step one in getting this editing dilemma resolved is for me to read the books, and then try talking to Daughter again when I can better gauge the scope of the project.

What will I find, Gale? Will I recognize Thorne? Will I find you there? 

Three Ghosts

I feel like the guy from the Dickens A Christmas Carol story who was visited by three ghosts in order to get him to wake the hell up to the joyful realities of life. I have had three extremely meaningful conversations in the last two days:

The Ghosts of NaNo Future

After an out-of-town National Novel Writing Month write-in, The Healer, Chess Champ and I pooled back to Scooterville and the Healer’s good-energy house of books, humans, dog, and cats where we embarked on an impromptu conversation about the glory days of our NaNo region, the dangers in romanticising them or down-playing it’s current level of success; the hurdles in managing it today, the very sober interpretations of dear Liaison’s health prospects, and the great challenge of keeping this region alive and healthy in 2018 and beyond which include some rather perilous politics. The conversation was emotional; everyone’s eyes became glossy at some point or another. Chess Champ surprised me with his level of transparency and emotion and I joyfully sensed that his relationship/friendship with the Healer was possibly beginning to mature - as it had between he and I earlier this November. The Troll was a prominent conversation piece and I wonder am I going to have to credit him with providing a useful “common enemy” to draw us together? I say this half-seriously.

Of special relevance I spoke of my own ridiculous falling apart and my sudden willingness to take on some degree of leadership contribution next year, if necessary, in the special (diplomatic) areas where I’m likely to have the most available aptitude - assuming I get my shit together. That’s kind of a big step. After going through my journey years ago I found it very useful to step down from my traditional habit for formal leadership roles and I found that change very rewarding. But if I perceive the community needs me…

The Ghost of Parenthood Past

Then yesterday I had breakfast with a dear friend who I can’t pseudo-name just now for privacy sake; though perhaps that’s not even a concern? Most significantly she reiterated the opinion that her parenting methods or circumstances may not have been the most… useful ever, in her challenging past and that she is apparently paying a very dear price for that, as one of her own sons has basically said - stay away.

This is hauntingly similar to my own emotional circumstance and neither of us, to our credit, attempted to imply that our own loss was any more significant than the other’s. At one point I wept deeply but briefly. I cried for both of us. I don’t know if she perceived that.

The Ghost of Presence

And then I had dinner with Aqualad and he was very brave and told me as best he could about all the emotional weight he currently carries. Some of it broke my heart.

He seems very open to accepting an attempt at help from me. It means I will have to be really on the ball because in turning to the poetic process for guidance here (I have done the math to some almost-successful degree tonight on the night shift despite being outrageously tired) for there is a tremendous volume of material which is relevant to his issues. A tremendous volume. But no worries. We will mostly communicate online probably; and it will take the form, not of me lecturing, but me posing the useful questions so to continuously nudge him toward finding the most useful available answers for himself. The good thing here is that he can set the pace by answering each question whenever he’s ready or has time.

I am very motivated at this time to get my shit together. I’ve been surrounded by a whole lot of love these last two days.

How doth the city sit solitary…

…that was once full of people.

I remember many occasions sitting in my Streetsville apartment looking out the big window, contemplating at great length and seeing all these structures and machinations of society: I had never felt so alone; so utterly alien. At the time I regarded this with some degree of emotional peril; not as much as you’d expect, but more than I later would. My yawning separateness was to some degree just another observation; another new important revelation in a long roster of them. It was then that I found some comfort in that opening line from the book of Leviticus and then that I began reading the Christian bible for the first time since grade school, and then that I began finding wisdom instead of nonsense; wisdom which few priests would, so far as I imagined, ever interpret much the same way I was. It was then that I began to sense that much of this “religious” material must have been borrowed from other sources and that much of it was not intended at its roots to be a tool of Christian doctrine at all.

That alien feeling persisted for a long time, varying in intensity.

I remember a long night wide awake in my attic eyrie which I rented from Long Time Companion; the friend formerly known in blog space as Peter Pan. I’m pleased to say that he has come a long way, finding some peace, and considering that when we were breaking up years prior to this rental arrangement and I’d threatened to murder him (and possibly meant it) in a fit of outrageous jealousy - I guess I’ve come a long way too.

That night I’d felt the weight of this threshold; this decision; this gateway to… what? Enlightenment? This reckoning that I’d found no one yet who was willing to take my hand and proceed with me.

It was that night when I strummed the guitar and the song The Line came out: a simple three-chord ditty in which I tried to voice this conundrum; this great step in evolution (or so it seemed to me then) and my concern that I was becoming too alien from everyone around me and that I was losing the capacity to relate and thus to communicate and thus the potential to teach or to guide.

I did not want my learning; these immensely powerful and useful understandings to benefit me alone!

What I don’t remember is any conscious decision; any intention to back away from that threshold, but indeed that is what I did; not ready to give up on others; and not feeling any confidence that I’d ever be able to reach anyone again if I took this step and launched too far into another realm.

I remember being surprised to so easily embrace a reverse-pretentiousness, how easy it was for me to “play dumb” in a way, to reveal no insights in day to day circumstances where I was wise in relevant terms but wise enough, also, to know that what I had to say would not be understood or not be embraced and so I remained quiet and nodded like some very simple man. I was surprised how easily I could keep my ego in check.

I remember feeling lonely at times because I had no one I could be completely myself with. I literally had no secrets. This is a huge statement to make. I doubt it can rarely ever be honestly said. I had no secrets but yet I had to keep quiet about some things, not for shame (I could admit any flaw or fault I was aware of) but for other people’s comfort. I had no energy or any mandate to challenge everyone’s illusions all day every day.

When I met Neo and observed what astounding mental freedoms he possessed, I knew he was very special and that I had to make myself available to him. And with the brainstorming of excellent associate JazzLion, I began writing a novel in which I tried to plant all my most important and relevant understandings, with the thought that if he read it (along with others if it got published) and was of the kind of mind I had been crediting him with, then as an adult he might unearth that book and look me up. I did not indulge in any romantic notions about such an encounter but in essence I could imagine him saying, “Dude! Remember me? I understand what you’re saying here! And I thought we should talk I don’t imagine you’ve been expecting many people to get it…”

Instead Neo took such an immediate interest in me that we became associates when grade school graduation should have otherwise separated us.

In hindsight, maybe that was all for the worse. Another regret? Should I have finished the damn book instead, and put it in his hands and said goodbye?

One of the joys in our association; call it friendship; call it mentorship, whatever, was that I had someone I could be one hundred per cent myself with. I regarded him as completely trustworthy. Not trustworthy in that I could trust him with my secrets (because I felt I had none) but trustworthy in that I trusted him to be able to handle the truth; to be able to handle the things I had to say.

For the first time in quite a while I had someone I did not feel alien with.

This is the crux of my broken-heartedness.

Imagine being a human but growing up on some far away planet where everyone is wildly different than you and finally you meet another human; the only other human on the planet, and you just feel so at home finally, and your friendship blossoms and then after eight years he just says, yeah I can’t do this anymore bye. 

Sometimes these days I think surely we’ll get back together again. Surely he’ll come to his senses.

But sitting here, trying to be a little present; a little wakeful, I think: How carefully have I monitored this alien issue over the last eight years?

Am I sure that no one else is capable of letting me be me, without me having to be concerned about scaring them off?

I know that the Ponderer and Skeeter Willis are frequent readers of this blog (god knows why; it is so scattered and indulgent) and I must ask with honesty; not to flatter, are they not willing and capable?

I wonder too, about Dog Whisperer and Earth Writer and Aqua Lad. I barely knew them eight years ago. Have we not developed an almost familial bond?

On that note what about my mother and my brother?

Surely JazzLion and Renaissance Kid and Global Citizen; though they live rather out of the way to varying degrees, so to rely on them regularly would be difficult.

And the Earnest Chef too. And The Healer. Thinking about them now, are they not slam dunks? Have I not already felt free with them and just not done the accounting?

Perhaps even the Thoughtful Educator. Haven’t all these relationships broadened and solidified over these years? Have I failed to give some special people fair credit?

And then there’s Dr. Lock of course. I’m surprised as I think about this now - how many friends I am able to consider in this regard

Perhaps I need to sample the waters; open up to more people the same way I did to Neo and see how it goes; if they are comfortable or not.

It would help, I’m sure, if I could be my gentler self with them. Which would happen naturally I’m sure if I could bring myself to be more present; more mindful. I might not be ready though. Let me cradle myself in the writing for now.

With regards to that evolution, I suppose this is another regret: When Neo asked, But why wouldn’t you want to embrace enlightenment if you could? Why ever choose otherwise? For some reason I gave him a cryptic answer that was more about my remaining addictions; my susceptibility to identity, instead of a straight answer. God knows why. It just happened.

I should have told Neo the more simple and sincere perspective: that I was waiting until he was ready to go there with me.