Yeah - so this is my eight-thousand, five hundred and twenty-ninth attempt at getting this blog properly rolling - as in posting almost daily. Haven't given up the dream but I'm certainly making no promises.
I took this challenge in 2012 and 2013 (getting as far as W and V respectively) despite April being a Camp NaNo month (50,000 words of fiction) and found that the dual challenge was really too much. So this year's plan is to have all 26 April A-Z articles completed in March and then just hit a publish button each day in April.
Of 26 articles I have so far completed exactly one, and there are still four days to go. Lookin' good.
As for the big reveal, this year's theme is a secret. There will be one thing in common to every article. I'm curious to discover how many articles it will take before someone figures it out!
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
A [ey]
It's FWG versus the dictionary. This should only take a hundred years or so.
I was twelve, thin, slightly more than average height and blessed with a knack for athletics. I had just stepped onto a lacrosse floor for the first time in my life, strung up in out-dated, cumbersome, ineffective lacrosse pads.
Immediately the coaches divided us into sides and dropped the ball for a practice scrimmage face-off. The ball squirted off to the boards and I won the race to it, eager to show the in-crowd boys what this new kid could do.
And what I could do, as it turns out, was get immediately clobbered from behind by a mutant 12-year-old who could have passed for a chunky 16-year-old, and get driven face-first into the boards. Apparently Brutus was just as eager to show what he could do.
I hauled myself off the floor as promptly as my spinning head would allow and then spent my entire first lacrosse season playing defense only, conveniently losing loose-ball battles, pasing off too quickly and trying to avoid getting maimed.
Our squad's veteran players harrassed the coaches to name a captain and two assistant captains; a pointless ceremony at our age, but the experienced boys knew that jerseys looked more impressive with a C or A stitched on them. So the coaches relented, though ironically, and assigned the honours to the three rookies on the team; myself included, which the vets accepted with surprising grace.
I would return the following season with my pads cleverly modified and an inexplicable new confidence and get placed on the top line with the fourteen year-olds and soon develop into a better-than-average player but with a lack of spirit and very little 'touch' around the net for lack of opportunity.
In my sixth season which I knew to be my last of minor lacrosse, I finally tried out for the travelling team and made the cut, though barely. And in the game which I soon understood would be my last; an elimination match in the year-end Provincials tournament, as we went into the third period down a couple goals, I suddenly mourned what was seeming to come to an end, and I came alive. I played my heart out for twenty minutes, crashing into an opponent to win a loose-ball battle just before the closing buzzer halted my uncharacteristic charge to the opponents' net.
In the quiet dressing room after, though I hadn't scored a single point as was often the case, the coach said loudly, from across the room, that I'd played a great game, and other players, some who'd snickered at me in earlier years, looked at me and nodded their heads. Some echoed his words. I said nothing. It only made this fine experience harder to let go. I would only miss it more; this very skilled team; this fine sport at this elevated calibre; this sudden new feeling of belonging.
In that final twenty minutes I had finally re-discovered the eagerness which had been born and lost years earlier, in a span of five seconds.
I can't help but wonder how many people's lives have run according to this metaphor; spirit lost too early; regained too late. I hope my own is not.
Brutus - I think his actual name was Stu - turned out to be a nice kid, by the way, and right after that first practice he apologized to me for the hit. I never did take any opportunity to perform in a role of assistant captain that year and I never had mom stitch an A on my jersey.
I was twelve, thin, slightly more than average height and blessed with a knack for athletics. I had just stepped onto a lacrosse floor for the first time in my life, strung up in out-dated, cumbersome, ineffective lacrosse pads.
Immediately the coaches divided us into sides and dropped the ball for a practice scrimmage face-off. The ball squirted off to the boards and I won the race to it, eager to show the in-crowd boys what this new kid could do.
And what I could do, as it turns out, was get immediately clobbered from behind by a mutant 12-year-old who could have passed for a chunky 16-year-old, and get driven face-first into the boards. Apparently Brutus was just as eager to show what he could do.
I hauled myself off the floor as promptly as my spinning head would allow and then spent my entire first lacrosse season playing defense only, conveniently losing loose-ball battles, pasing off too quickly and trying to avoid getting maimed.
Our squad's veteran players harrassed the coaches to name a captain and two assistant captains; a pointless ceremony at our age, but the experienced boys knew that jerseys looked more impressive with a C or A stitched on them. So the coaches relented, though ironically, and assigned the honours to the three rookies on the team; myself included, which the vets accepted with surprising grace.
I would return the following season with my pads cleverly modified and an inexplicable new confidence and get placed on the top line with the fourteen year-olds and soon develop into a better-than-average player but with a lack of spirit and very little 'touch' around the net for lack of opportunity.
In my sixth season which I knew to be my last of minor lacrosse, I finally tried out for the travelling team and made the cut, though barely. And in the game which I soon understood would be my last; an elimination match in the year-end Provincials tournament, as we went into the third period down a couple goals, I suddenly mourned what was seeming to come to an end, and I came alive. I played my heart out for twenty minutes, crashing into an opponent to win a loose-ball battle just before the closing buzzer halted my uncharacteristic charge to the opponents' net.
In the quiet dressing room after, though I hadn't scored a single point as was often the case, the coach said loudly, from across the room, that I'd played a great game, and other players, some who'd snickered at me in earlier years, looked at me and nodded their heads. Some echoed his words. I said nothing. It only made this fine experience harder to let go. I would only miss it more; this very skilled team; this fine sport at this elevated calibre; this sudden new feeling of belonging.
In that final twenty minutes I had finally re-discovered the eagerness which had been born and lost years earlier, in a span of five seconds.
I can't help but wonder how many people's lives have run according to this metaphor; spirit lost too early; regained too late. I hope my own is not.
Brutus - I think his actual name was Stu - turned out to be a nice kid, by the way, and right after that first practice he apologized to me for the hit. I never did take any opportunity to perform in a role of assistant captain that year and I never had mom stitch an A on my jersey.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Looking up
Also I wished to run some errands in the neighborhoud of Down-n-Out Manor where Grampa is a tenant, and I knew he'd want to tag along rather than hasten his return to the third floor room where he imprisons himself but for a few outings per week: the coffee meeting, psych and probation appointments and his weekly day with me and the London Street Dobies.
As luck would have it though, Detective Biff and his partner were in the neighborhood to deliver Grampa Munster's paperwork and Grampa arranged for the detectives and I to meet, which he was delighted about. He'd been hopeful he could rely on me as an advocate in dealing with this new relationship with Scooterville Police.
This was an event of significant impact and it went extremely well. The proposed conditions of the court order - which could last for years; potentially the rest of G.M.'s life - contained only the standard restrictions: basically, no significant life changes (residence, career, relationships) without police consent and no contact with minors without approved supervision, or any presence in places where minors are likely to frequent - which is all great. I have been urguing Munster to look at the inevitable order, not as a hurdle but as a tool in helping him stay on the good side. A tool that is useful and appropriate given his presumed acknowledgement that help is required to be sure he'll succeed (otherwise he would not have come to our volunteer organization for help in the first place).
The usual prohibition from associating with prior offenders of the same ilk was, however, not included in the proposed conditions. Amazingly, Detectiive Biff strayed from the counsellor's and probation officer's advice and anounced his support and praise for the Mennonite Church's volunteer community and agreed that Grampa Munster needs our full support and should be free to attend our frequent community events. Furthermore he readily agreed to amend library restrictions if accompanied by myself or another trained volunteer and granted that certain park-type areas could be accessed for exercise walks under the right conditions - again supervised. He offered further concessions around movie theatres and supervised trips out of Scooterville city limits. I have a friend outside the city with horses on his property which Gramps would love to visit. He adores horses and dogs.
I explained to Detective Biff that my efforts to give Munster a little extra freedom came from my belief that the best route to community safety was not to encourage him to sit alone in his room day after day, letting his mind wander through potentially dangerous thoughts, but to get him out, filling up his time with useful positive activities; creating healthy habits and healthy rewards to reduce the need for selfish habits and rewards.
Detective Biff said he couldn't agree more! He gave me his card, told me to keep in touch, praised us for our work and acknowledged that we are all on the same team.
"I want [Grampa Munster] to succeed," he said. "If he succeeds, I succeed."
"Likewise," said I.
"Exactly."
What an exellent departure in philosophy from these years of mistrust between the volunteers and the particular authorities who have worked with G.M. up until now.
Munster has a long history of incarceration; repeat offenses in the past and then a series of probation breaches, and now five years clean. We're all happy and eager now, while Grampa Munster remains nervous. He has not had this degree of "freedom" in about forty years, and he's unsure if anything is really going to change. I think that the slight loosening in restrictions is not the central issue. It is that we must use this event as a trigger and change our attitude and outlook. It's time to get out of the tower cell and participate in life again and make friends.
In the discussion with Detective Biff in this regard, I said to him, "I can't be Grampa Munster's only friend. There are other things I need to do with my life." I glanced at Munster when I said this. We've not used the word friend before, in terms of our association, though I know he wishes to think of me that way.
I suppose I must be generous for a the next while and give him more of my time and be sure that things start to change; that he sees changes happening and is inspired. This is a critical occasion; a turning point, and we must ensure it is a turn for the better.
Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Monday, January 06, 2014
The ultimate horror
Lately I've been re-watching all my favourite holocaust films - somehow favourite feels like the wrong word; perhaps, in this case, most disturbing is better. These films tend to all blend together in my mind and it's a good time to try to sort them out as I endeavor to put together a review of essential films (of all genres) based on my own priorities and idiosyncrasies. Given my devotion to the art of storytelling and that I've watched at least two thousand movies in my days, I'll dare consider myself a bit qualified in this regard. Perhaps the April 2014 A-Z Blogging challenge will be the venue for the review. Or perhaps not until April 2015. There's a fair amount of research to do.
So I just watched Sophie's Choice which I hadn't seen in many years and I was really struck by Meryl Streep's performance. Incredible acting. Amazing, I thought.
In grade eight my best friend at the time was penning swastikas everywhere, for no particular reason as far as I was aware. I didn't know anything about the symbol. I'd certainly heard of Nazism but didn't connect it to the icon. So I drew one on my arm in pen; a goofy temp tattoo of sorts. Our teacher observed this, and addressed the class with a factual impromptu lesson on the swastika symbol and how it was a hurtful thing for some people and I immediately dispensed with my decoration. Shortly thereafter we read The Diary of Anne Frank and then devoted a long series of lessons to holocaust material. Whether this was all a response, or coincidentally the planned curriculum I don't know. I always assumed the latter.
The subject has haunted me in various forms ever since.
I have been able to wrap my head around the whole phenomena much better over the last few years but still - the sheer volume of cruelty and suffering can be - just too much to contemplate. Especially seeing images of children in concentration camps, waiting to die. It's devastating to me. Something disconnects, like an emergency shut-off switch, and I can't properly think about it.
So even though I fully understand that humans are natural born killers and it makes perfect sense to me and that the basic manifestations which made up the Jewish holocaust are still happening all over the world, though not at such an alarming concentration as far as we observe, there remains this overwhelming quality.
The DVD-extra documentary, however, offers these words from director Alan J. Pakula, and I was deeply touched by them. I was comforted in a way:
"One of the struggles of art, in dealing with the holocaust is that the reality exceeds the capacity of the imagination. Had it not really happened, no novelist, writer, thinker could have ever touched this experience without somehow exceeding any bounds of the capacity for art."
What a cruel trick; the name of this film. One will initially assume the choice is that between the two men; two lovers. But if you subscribe to the idea that there is not one holocaust story, but six million holocaust stories, then is there possibly one more horrific than this?
Pakula goes on to say: "I always believed the holocaust was an expression in the extreme of what is common to the mainstream of western society, which therefore makes it important, if not essential, for us to grapple with."
I totally get that. It's why I keep grappling.
So I just watched Sophie's Choice which I hadn't seen in many years and I was really struck by Meryl Streep's performance. Incredible acting. Amazing, I thought.
In grade eight my best friend at the time was penning swastikas everywhere, for no particular reason as far as I was aware. I didn't know anything about the symbol. I'd certainly heard of Nazism but didn't connect it to the icon. So I drew one on my arm in pen; a goofy temp tattoo of sorts. Our teacher observed this, and addressed the class with a factual impromptu lesson on the swastika symbol and how it was a hurtful thing for some people and I immediately dispensed with my decoration. Shortly thereafter we read The Diary of Anne Frank and then devoted a long series of lessons to holocaust material. Whether this was all a response, or coincidentally the planned curriculum I don't know. I always assumed the latter.
The subject has haunted me in various forms ever since.
I have been able to wrap my head around the whole phenomena much better over the last few years but still - the sheer volume of cruelty and suffering can be - just too much to contemplate. Especially seeing images of children in concentration camps, waiting to die. It's devastating to me. Something disconnects, like an emergency shut-off switch, and I can't properly think about it.
So even though I fully understand that humans are natural born killers and it makes perfect sense to me and that the basic manifestations which made up the Jewish holocaust are still happening all over the world, though not at such an alarming concentration as far as we observe, there remains this overwhelming quality.
The DVD-extra documentary, however, offers these words from director Alan J. Pakula, and I was deeply touched by them. I was comforted in a way:
"One of the struggles of art, in dealing with the holocaust is that the reality exceeds the capacity of the imagination. Had it not really happened, no novelist, writer, thinker could have ever touched this experience without somehow exceeding any bounds of the capacity for art."
Pakula goes on to say: "I always believed the holocaust was an expression in the extreme of what is common to the mainstream of western society, which therefore makes it important, if not essential, for us to grapple with."
I totally get that. It's why I keep grappling.
Sunday, January 05, 2014
Happy. New year.
My stays there are very enjoyable. I love the affectionate, well-behaved dogs, and in the absence of house-mates, I can sleep well during the day before pulling occasional night gigs at the jail. The house is always clean, organized, well-stocked with anything I might need, and it's decorated in a very multi-spiritual way, with Hindu, Buddhist, Christian and Jewish iconography, so it's all very attractive and soothing to me and a perfect environment in which to achieve superior work - and the lack of a human audience allows me to noodle at the guitar without inhibition.
However there are rare treats too. Big TV's for superior movie-watching, and for video-gaming, and now a hot tub. It's getting to be a bit of a resort by my standards. And indeed I might be accused of making this last stay pretty much 100% vacation and zero work.
But pondering the theory of a restorative nature of vacations, I might honestly say that I feel well-equipped now, to get back to work in a big way.
It seems many things are lining up and pointing toward a successful 2014. I will stay in touch. That's a promise.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Sixteen
Tonight I'm celebrating Aqualad's birthday with he and his super-amazing moms at La Spaghett which, by the way, is the most amazing restaurant I'm currently aware of. I could weep, their pastas and sauces are so good!
I have written this in his card:
What a thrilling age you've come to!
May this 17th year hold much exploring, learning and dreaming -- and the ongoing discovery of what an amazing world this is, what a grand adventure life is, and the tremendous powers you possess in your health, your heart and your intelligence; your power to become any kind of adventurer you choose!
*Aqualad is formerly known as Gifty McBrainchild.
I have written this in his card:
What a thrilling age you've come to!
May this 17th year hold much exploring, learning and dreaming -- and the ongoing discovery of what an amazing world this is, what a grand adventure life is, and the tremendous powers you possess in your health, your heart and your intelligence; your power to become any kind of adventurer you choose!
*Aqualad is formerly known as Gifty McBrainchild.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Neo
Saw Neo last night for the first time in two months, We don't usually go that long. Having known him since he was twelve; a short time by my perception; a longer time, surely, by his -- I am often startled by his rapidly compounding insights. Regularly I will begin to express a higher-order concept and he will, in essence, finish the sentence for me.
I am not immune to the instincts which blind us to changes in people, though certainly more aware of it than some. But late-adolescents develop swiftly. I'm trying to get accostommed to that. It's delightful to witness in most senses, though somewhat melancholic when awkward paternal instincts get in the way.
Neo has lately engaged in bold new experiences; further proclamations of his prodigous adulthood and as always he regards these with the robust inward contemplation of a natural writer/poet/musician, or as he would probably say: just someone who's not a sheep.
For the last couple years I have regarded him as having the advanced intelligence, curiosity and skepticism (along with many other rare talents) to see the great web of illigitimacies which blanket all of normal life in this society but without that certain brand of evolution; a combination of inspiration, appreciation for context and causality, and the product of long cross-referential work, all of which enable the rare thinker who sees clearly the devil behind every angel mask, and suffers greatly for it, to graduate into the rarer thinker who sees the angel behind every inevitable natural-born devil; a process which seems fully to blame for a whole lot of peace and happiness and freedom which I have witnessed blossoming. And how could such a transformation come to completion in a sixteen-year-old when there is much evidence yet to be seen or experienced?
I told him years ago, on the verge of tears, that I hesitated to try to drag anyone through the specific path I had come, for fear they would graduate to that dark hell where I once lingered, and there lose hope, be entrapped and go no further. These days I wonder whether I've dragged anyone anywhere.
And where is Neo really? Apparently in some dark place though his own perspectives would probably not support that assumption above, though it remains my best theory. But truly, I don't know where he is. Neither of us do.
I just know that I want him out of that place and I want that very dearly. I don't know to what degree I may have some responsibilty for it. I suspect he would claim none at all.
I am not immune to the instincts which blind us to changes in people, though certainly more aware of it than some. But late-adolescents develop swiftly. I'm trying to get accostommed to that. It's delightful to witness in most senses, though somewhat melancholic when awkward paternal instincts get in the way.
Neo has lately engaged in bold new experiences; further proclamations of his prodigous adulthood and as always he regards these with the robust inward contemplation of a natural writer/poet/musician, or as he would probably say: just someone who's not a sheep.
For the last couple years I have regarded him as having the advanced intelligence, curiosity and skepticism (along with many other rare talents) to see the great web of illigitimacies which blanket all of normal life in this society but without that certain brand of evolution; a combination of inspiration, appreciation for context and causality, and the product of long cross-referential work, all of which enable the rare thinker who sees clearly the devil behind every angel mask, and suffers greatly for it, to graduate into the rarer thinker who sees the angel behind every inevitable natural-born devil; a process which seems fully to blame for a whole lot of peace and happiness and freedom which I have witnessed blossoming. And how could such a transformation come to completion in a sixteen-year-old when there is much evidence yet to be seen or experienced?
I told him years ago, on the verge of tears, that I hesitated to try to drag anyone through the specific path I had come, for fear they would graduate to that dark hell where I once lingered, and there lose hope, be entrapped and go no further. These days I wonder whether I've dragged anyone anywhere.
And where is Neo really? Apparently in some dark place though his own perspectives would probably not support that assumption above, though it remains my best theory. But truly, I don't know where he is. Neither of us do.
I just know that I want him out of that place and I want that very dearly. I don't know to what degree I may have some responsibilty for it. I suspect he would claim none at all.Friday, December 06, 2013
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
The Lonely Lumberjack: Changes
My entire life
I have walked
Whatever path alone
Forged ahead
No matter what
Emotions not ever betraying
My stern face
Lately, I have made
A pleasant discovery
It sort of
Crept up on me
To always be alone
Is not
Who I have to be
To bend; accept help
Is to develop
A trust
Not to be like
An old machine
That gradually
Submits
To
Rust
- The Lonely Lumberjack
I have walked
Whatever path alone
Forged ahead
No matter what
Emotions not ever betraying
My stern face
Lately, I have made
A pleasant discovery
It sort of
Crept up on me
To always be alone
Is not
Who I have to be
To bend; accept help
Is to develop
A trust
Not to be like
An old machine
That gradually
Submits
To
Rust
- The Lonely Lumberjack
Tuesday, December 03, 2013
Thank God It's Over
51323 words in November. It was great to hang out with delightful writer pals all month. The pictorial theme this year was 1980's video game. So the stickers and everything are grotesquely pixilated. I guess they thought it would be cute. What's that old eighties saying? Gag me with a spoon?
This first draft will certainly get finished - perhaps during April's Camp NaNoWriMo. It will be a long first draft. A few friends want to read it because they took part in a role-playing exercise to help me orchestrate the sequence of events. But whether I ever carve it up with a proper edit is questionable. I'd only go to the trouble if I anticipated significant market appeal and I don't know if I'm up to the task of banging a book into the standard fantasy genre parameters.
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