At the Lion's door

I saw the JazzLion today for the first time in too long. He shares a big old house in Guelph with other young people; young people of the finest kind, I sense; those with spiritual and creative vision.

I sensed that his trademark plenitude of nervous energy, so vital to one who’s mind always bursts with new ideas, has been dialled back a bit as he has slipped into his later twenties, but also that his mind has migrated in sync, prone now to deeper contemplation.

We talked about music keyboards/synthesizers which we both now possess. We talked about music in general from the broadest sense, such as it’s capacity for communicating experience, to technical details such as the tuning of frequency in drum set pieces as well as their significance and usefulness, or lack thereof.

He listened to some of my little tunes on Youtube and was very supportive and complimentary.

We talked a long time about Terence McKenna and the psychedelic experience; a matter particularly dear to me currently. The apparent compatibilities between the psychedelic and poetic processes are of serious fascination. From JazzLion’s vast experience he taught me about acid, shrooms, DMT and the ultimate process: Ayawasca.

He talked about marijuana as a sacrament; a celebration of the spirit and the four elements, and plugged hemp as the greatest of earth’s gifts since water and air for its long list of noble uses.

We talked about the shared perceptions stemming from our respective escapes from the illusions of society: The great necessity of the evolution of consciousness and the terrible hurdles therein. We talked about the relationships between discipline, repetition, focus, awareness and capacity for learning in the musician, the poet and the legendary alchemist.

We talked about meditation, contemplation, symbolism, motivation and the pioneer spirit, and empathy of course.

We talked about the usefulness and wisdom in ancient texts hijacked and misused by absurdly over-simplified religious programme.

We talked about Neo and other fascinating people we know.

We parted with promises to visit more often. And I’m confident we will. For now, I go forth inspired.

More on birthdays

My recent post regarding birthdays was hopelessly incomplete. I really didn't explain anything meaningful.

Why don't I subscribe to the birthday tradition?

Just because it's normal? Just to be different? Just to bolster my reputation as a contrarian? No, no and no.

I'm not officially against birthdays by the way. No more than I'm against Christmas gifts or marriage or owning pets. I'm not interested in opposing these things or convincing others to abandon them.

It's just that as a poet who has learned what I've learned I know that we must learn to question our culture and traditions because this species is failing to evolve. The status quo is a path to destruction. The nature of all species is to eventually fail. Extinction is almost inevitable and the unsustainability of almost all we do in North American culture supports this idea fully. I don't say these things off the cuff by the way. I have very full explanations for every statement. If readers would challenge me in the comments section I would happily explain anything I've claimed in greater detail.

So - I've learned not to do things just because it's what we've always done. So when I dispense with tradition and treat each phenomenon as something to be questioned I find that with birthdays the cons outweigh the pros according to my own priorities.

In essence: As someone who sees the good in people as far more relevant then the bad; sees the miraculous quality of your existence, I feel we should make each other feel special every day. When we go out of our way to celebrate a birthday there is always, should one consider it, a question of motive. Is it out of a sense of duty or habit rather than true joy at your having been born? Not that that's a big deal. But there are often spectres of reciprocity lurking in the shadows of the mind. Many people do occasionally suffer some degree of guilt or insecurity because of a forgotten date or failure to reciprocate (at all or at the same level of expense).

This society is a material commercial marketplace disaster and I have deep remorse for all the pointless gifts that get buried in the ground. How sad that in most circles creative offerings are not respected. A symptom of our society's tremendous failing to realize that all humans are artists of every ilk, with such activity marked as the privilege of the sterile pop culture marketplace elite.

It occurs to me that material gifts should occur on the occasion we stumble upon something that we know someone particular would love - instead of all these mandatory purchases which pile-up, demanding bigger homes and bigger landfills.

But like I said - not a big deal. There are a few select people with which I recognize birthdays to some degree because I find it useful in that particular circle. But I never expect to receive any acknowledgement at all on January 7th. And for the last few years I actually would never have noticed the date's arrival if not for some good-hearted naive pal pointing it out on Facebook!

Eat what!

This is currently my only guilty pleasure: Eat Poop You Cat - or EPUC for short - is the doodle/caption version of the classic telephone game. Web site eatpoopucat.com has done a great job creating an online forum. You can start a new strip or you can call up a strip-in-progress and respond to the current panel. If the current panel is a picture, you respond with a caption - and vice-versa. Once you've submitted your panel, the entire strip-in-progress becomes visible to you.

For instance: I received this panel: I'm a gonna catch that goldfish this time!

And I responded with this:

It's great fun for anyone with creative urges of any skill level. The culture is adult but polite, often with some measure of sophistication. For those with other inclinations there are special groups such as The Troll Bridge where good-natured provocation is the norm or the Anarchy group where random craziness prevails.

Besides the drawing and captioning, you can view finished strips (always nine panels long). You can read and leave comments and you can award kudos to any panels you deem clever, skillful, funny or whatever. You can also track your kudos received and how you fit into the all-time standings.

There are more than a few significant artists as regulars but pros and amateurs are all friendly and supportive of one another. Fun stuff and always good for a laugh. Registration is a breeze. You just need a username and password and you're off. If you join up, my username is newday.

Kicking at the darkness

We live in an absolutely fascinating time; a potential transition of epochs for the human race, for earth and possibly the universe: A time when a critical sum of evidence has become available which could trigger an astounding evolution if optimumly applied. Poets were putting it forth a thousand years ago and scientists are finally on board, though each tribe seems not to know of the other.

In its simplest essence: Human beings are not what they think they are.

Believe me, I could go on all day with the details.

Some couple months ago or so I threw a hint on my facebook page to see if anyone might pick up on it. I wrote: What would happen if a robot gained the slightest shred of consciousness? Would it believe you when you told it that it was not responsible for its own apparent choices; that the infantile consciousness only suffered the illusion of choice and responsibility."

No one picked up on what I was really suggesting.

The answer, I'm almost certain, is no, it would not believe you. Because we already have a creature with just such a shred. And that creature does not believe me when I say that you are not what you think you are; that you are not the captain of your ship.

Do you?

The point was to suggest that this robot scenario is precisely the human condition. I know that feels all wrong. But human feelings have never had a talent for approaching truth. Once you contemplate this idea long and courageously enough, it becomes clear there is no other possibility.


"The simplest emotions are born and grow in impenetrable darkness, attracting and repelling each other like thunderclouds in accordance with secret affinities. All we see on the surface of the darkness is the brief flashes of the innaccessible storm. That's why the best psychological hypothesis can perhaps throw some light on the past but can never tell us what the future may hold. And, like many other conjectures, they merely hide a mystery that our minds find intolerable even to contemplate."
- Georges Bernanos: Under Satan's Sun

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I am physically present in a society I have very little regard for. I am a prisoner of a tribe of people who call themselves "Canadian."

In my own mind and, to a large degree, habits, I have divorced myself from this society and with it a long list of traditional and cultural subscriptions: Marriage, birthdays, commercial Christmas, economic and vehicular entitlement, wealth and reputation mongering, etcetera.

An arbitrary calendar feature reared its head recently which makes me 44 and subject to being fussed over according to the great flock.

Being physically present here, and being humble and quiet with regards to my hard-earned poetic insights, people don't tend to remember certain things that I say - such as "I do not subscribe to the birthday tradition."

It also doesn't help that I sometimes participate in birthday celebrations in precisely the same manner that a Jew might participate in a Christian church celebration on the occasion his close Christian friend is getting married. Subscription and choice are two different things. I try to remind birthdayers that this is the circumstance by giving them cards that don't actually use the word "birthday." Usually I adapt blank cards. One of my personal faves featured a wolf on the front. "Sorry to hear about your lycanthropy," I wrote. "Get well soon."

[Editor's note: Lycanthropy has to do with being a werewolf.]

Anyway -- none of this is a problem. It's just a reminder that I spend too much time with people who don't understand me. But then - it's up to me to educate - isn't it?

2013

November 2011 I succeeded at NaNoWriMo for the first time, hitting 56000 words or so. I borrowed from that success. I approached other goals using the same method of forecasting, tracking and reporting but on a scale of one year instead of one month. By New Years eve just past, I had succeeded in a couple goals and fell short of many more.

I can not keep falling short.

2013 is the test.

I have brought even more goals onto the radar, adjusted the numbers to be more realistic and appropriate, devised the structures to make the discipline easier to obtain, and even devised a method for improving motivation; for keeping inspiration within reach for those critical decision-making moments.

Currently there are four pillars to my existence; this enterprise that is New Day Rising: Financial, Health, Poetic Growth and Manifestation (productivity). Each one has become more vital then ever. They are completely interdependent and the failure of any will bring the roof crashing down.

And what if the roof crashes down in 2013? Then I must soul-search again. I must re-examine my life goals and maybe have to roll back some of my dreams; a sober thought. But for now I have no intention to be in that circumstance.

I will here lay out the precise goals. It's not important that readers read them. What is important is that I divulge my progress monthly. That is one of the motivators though certainly not chief among them.

FINANCIAL
secure additional employment
pay off Canada Revenue Agency
re-friend insurance industry
save for/purchase CPAP machine and mask
pay off personal loan


HEALTH
get Sleep Apnoea treated
darken bedroom windows
get proper earplugs
follow diet 365 days
walk 600KM
lose 60 lbs


GROWTH
get music keyboard/Synthesizer
learn to use keyboard/Synthesizer
get "talisman"
18 sessions with Neo
12 other inner-circle sessions
12 outer-circle sessions
research 18 subjects
log 180 quotes
write 330,000 words
compose: 80 sessions
edit 144 chapters
read 624 chapters
explore 150 new albums


PRODUCTIVITY
record 12 original songs
post 12 original music videos (not slide shows!)
24 circle of support meetings
36 charitable sessions
37 young readers sessions
37 young writers sessions
post 3 interviews
blog 200 articles
journal 72 items
publish something


First reporting: February 1st. Here we go...

Speedy recoveries or lack thereof

I've mentioned Speedy a couple of times. A former tenant at Corrections Heaven. He ended up having to finish the last month of his conditional warrant back in the big house when he got a little edgy with his warrant expiry looming and with no pad lined up and no job and no prospects for either. His mentality and his behaviour slipped a little down the tubes.

He promised to call as soon as he got out again. That date came and a few days passed. I was busy with NaNoWriMo and not too worried. He was probably getting settled in at his mom's place.

Then I heard rumours he was staying at the Sally Anne. So I went to try to see him. It didn't go well. Between common friends and staff at Club Fed, I was able to piece together the story.

It's unclear whether or not he received his start-up funding, as is whether or not he then blew it all on street drugs - and I don't mean pot. Either way he went looking for someone to borrow cash from. He mentioned my name as a possible source (dreamer) and was told by a common friend, not to do that; that I should not be taken advantage of, given the (generally non-monetary) support I've already given.

So he went on an armed robbery spree. It took the third try to get caught and put back in jail where he will be sure to get the support he needs for a long time.

He'd never shoot anyone. He faked having a gun - his M.O. but that will not buy him much time off the sentencing according to more rumour.

Another resounding failure in FWiG's lifelong mission to save everyone.

Next...?

In other news... I had a 6879-word-day on November 30th, hitting the NaNo goal of 50,000 at 11:53PM to claim winner status for the second consecutive November. Then I got massively ill for a short time and I'm now recovering nicely. I'm already looking ahead at 2013 and all the goals I want to achieve, as well as the critical things I need to achieve. It's daunting, frankly. I need to put structures in place that will keep me motivated and moving in the right direction. It won't be easy.

Mississauga

I’m passing through the great array of wide commercial valleys that are the streets of Mississauga. I’m on my way to see my dear friend Mateo, always a great source of inspiration; surely useful in this early stage of an especially challenging NaNoWriMo project.

I left the highway early because it was congested and I was ahead of schedule and it’s useful sometimes, to wander to one’s destination, taking in the sights.

It is a very curious experience being here. The emotion is hard to interpret for a while. It is some kind of nostalgia certainly. This is the city where I last lived when I was still normal. This is the city where I lived while experiencing the bulk of my journey out of normalcy.

These are the streets I traversed late at night looking for some quiet space to explore or from which to stargaze; some park or beach or river.

Why do I feel like I somehow miss that old pre-journey life? That life of work and sleep and play amid the web of illusions? Surely I would never wish to return to that.

But before I reach Mateo’s house it has become clear what it is which I feel the nostalgic pang for. It is a loss of innocence.

The Army Of Stupid strikes again

Some floating head with no awareness of who I am or what I'm about, who covets her position of authority at Corrections Heaven with all the greedy self-interest the lowest order of humans can muster, has decided that I should not be allowed to remain in association with the Mennonite Church Circle of Support Creative Exchange or Dismas Fellowship communities because of imagined conflict of interest issues.

You see, if I'm championing community safety and offender reintegration efforts on more than one front, no matter how harmonious, then obviously I'm going to make friendee-friends with Club Fed tenants and before you know it I'll be helping them smuggle whores and cocaine into the centre and driving the get-away cars for their bank robbing sprees...

The dullness of this decision; the soft thinking; it's so... typical.

The amount of good I was doing and could have continued doing was very significant. I will not be falsely humble about that. It's bad enough that the Army of Normal does not value this; that I must lose money in order to do this. That the Army of Normal must put a stop to it altogether is tragic.

Contracted employees in effect have no rights at all. My employer is powerless to help me. The union is powerless. The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms is powerless. Freedom of Association means nothing. Any contracted employee can be dismissed at the whim of the client for any or no reason whatsoever.

I have not given in. But I must consider my moves carefully. For now, NaNoWriMo approaches and I will lose myself in my writing for a month.

My patience for this spun-out-of-control society has worn threadbare. We are the worst slaves to ass-backward instinct in the entire world of humans I would bet. Of no more significance or use to the world than wolves or vultures or parasites.

If it weren't for Neo I'd be gone. I would go the way of the alchemist. I would vanish without good-byes. And somewhere far away, in the third world, a new man would appear, evolution complete; a silent man with a strange name he would not speak.


"For the first time he contemplated, lovelessly but with pity, the lamentable human flock, born to graze and die."
- George Bernanos

Wendy saves the day

Want to hear about my super special day? Here it is in a nutshell:

Woke up with a headache that stretched all the way down the side of my face to my jaw, and kept it the rest of the day. So what does that mean? Do I have bed bugs or something? Do bedbugs have one enormous fist which they use to sock their sleeping hosts in the jaw?

Got to the Princess of Schools to discover I forgot my school key. Fine. Just had to canvas random staff to open doors for me as necessary. Oh - and what's this? No wonder my laptop bag seemed so lightweight. Not because I've turned into Mr. Universe. No. It's because I forgot to put the laptop in it. So now my prepared 'lesson plans' are up in smoke and I have to improvise for the day. Fine.

At the end of the day I discover that my planned visit for next week falls on Halloween day which is bad news. The school agenda goes a bit haywire for pumpkin day. By a great stroke of non-luck, three of the remaining four days that week are in fact three of the four days of the ten-day cycle which I have agreed not to interrupt with reader/writer group schedules. That leaves only Friday which is the only day of the week I personally can not do. So now I'm staying late negotiating with the art teacher so that I may come on one of the forbidden days. Luckily the art teacher is an excellent young gentlemen and we hammer out a deal. But now I'm running a tad late. I have to get home and pick up the Liberal Theologian. We have a write-in planned with the Crisco Kid.

Booting home along the highway I see by the clock on the dash that I am going to make it on time. No problemo. Except that what I didn't see on the dash was the fuel gauge which was very politely and quietly reading WAY below the red zone.

I managed to run out of gas right at an off-ramp where I could easily access the local neighbourhood. On foot. In the rain. I knocked on the window of the first house and was greeted immediately by a pair of large barking dogs and soon after by a woman who looked about as pleased to see me on her porch as she would a creeping loping undead swamp beast.

I yelled through the firmly closed door that my car broke down and could she please call me a cab. She did so.

Cabbed it to the gas station and purchased a gas can and tried to call the Liberal Theologian collect (no change or credit card) to warn her I'd be late and not to worry, but her telephone account is set to automatically decline collect calls. Fine. Let my absence be a mystery.

I arrive home exactly the time we were supposed to be at the write-in cafe. So we'll be late. Fine. On the way there, cruising down the middle-right lane of main street; a very busy five-lane affair, I spot a man stumbling backward off the curb, trying to regain his balance. He stumbles all the way into my lane, falling on his back. I'm all over the brakes and stopping just in time while Drunken Asshole #9 lies there looking at his cell phone/blueberry/whatever and while my passenger goes into anxiety attack mode.

"Call the police please," I say. "He needs to be picked up before he gets killed or else causes an accident." But her cell phone is missing from her purse.

Fine.

We make it to the cafe without further incident. And find that it is mysteriously dark inside. And also closed. Remind me why I got out of bed today?

So we go to the Mulberry; the next most obvious write-in venue and the Crisco kid is not present. Turns out that he was taking his time and was about to show up there looking for us - right after we left.

Meanwhile we picked up some Wendy's take-out and went home. And miracle of miracles: They actually, for once, got our order right.

Heh. Go figure.

The two of us

There are four different routes that I take to get home from Club Fed.  I like variety. Sunday morning I'm on the route which takes me past  St. Joseph's Villa nursing home which was Biodad's home for several months as he adjusted to life with an artificial leg. Now I am thinking about him  for the remaining three minutes of the trip home.

Though we resided so close I did not once visit him. We have not spoken in two years. For that three minute drive I ponder the situation. He moved back home five weeks prior and two weeks prior I received a phone call from our mutual friend, his best pal, Vee. Biodad had asked for my phone number. I gave her permission to give it to him. So far he had not called or at least had not left a message. I decided on that Sunday morning drive that I would give him a call.

Why? Because I wanted to see him? Not particularly. But because I wanted to clear the air so to speak. To at least allow him the chance to understand my perspective; that in essence, we have proven ourselves useless to each other.

But I will not be making that phone call. As soon as I arrived home Sunday morning the phone rang. It was my cousin Lisa; always the  bearer of family news. While I was deciding that I would make that call, Biodad was already gone.

Two years ago I walked away from him. There were no sacrifices left  for me to make for him, and he had treated me poorly. I wrote him off for dead and I never thought he'd last this long.

At Grandma's house where the family initially gathered, at Biodad's rental house, where friends gathered, at the funeral and the subsequent celebration; all these people; I had to endure their condolences though I, in no way, was entitled to any comfort.

I abandoned him. I will not miss him very much I don't suppose. I am not deserving of comfort. I must face the reality that there was more I could have done, if I had chosen, which would have made his final days, perhaps months, more comforting. I must not escape the consequences of my choices no matter how much that goes against the standard perversity of our society; a society of constant rationalization.

It is Vee who needs the comfort; her who should have sat in the front row at the service instead of me. I have spent much time with her this week. I went to her not knowing how she would feel about me. If she hated me; if she wanted to take a swing at me, well then I would let her. If that would help her feel better.

She watched bioddad hasten his death for three days. She suffers the perceived guilt that she called 9-1-1 too late to save his life. He fought the authorities tooth and nail, then succumbed just after arrival at the  hospital. And worse; yes, worse: the guilt that she called 9-1-1 too early. Her best friend spent his last moments spitting every vulgar name he knew at her; furious that she ruined everything. He just wanted to die at home with his dog, Charlie.

His only other communication during his final days was a single text  message to a friend. A one-character message. A period.

He emerged into childhood the very same way I did, abandoned by an alcoholic father, and all for the best, so to clear the way for another man, one more qualified, to eventually do the job of  fathering. I know well the bond between a mother and son who form a family just the pair, at least for a while.

Biodad had no savings nor do I. His funeral was inexpensive to say the least. Grandma will keep his ashes and one day they will be blended with her own.

"It started out just the two of us," she said. "That's how it will end."

It's a dangerous world out there

Had to renew my First Aid certificate today, with a full-day session at St. John's Ambulance. I scored 100% on the test despite missing a couple lessons while sitting in the bathroom. My tummy wasn't in the best of moods and I'm sure the colourful amputation videos did nothing to calm it.

The questions were all multiple choice; four options each, of which at least two would be altogether stupid. In every scenario I answered the question as if I intended to be helpful. Had every answer set included "e) Run screaming from the room"  I probably would have scored a tidy zero.