The Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection-Chapter Three

Thinking back I can't imagine what possessed Mosley to take seven kids, six guys and one girl, on the road following the Christian Concert Series all the way to Halifax. He must have been pretty fed up with the ministry to put himself through so much hell. Sure, there was lots of bickering and complaining, but Mosley, being the only one with any experience driving a school bus, and where he got that I have no idea, had to listen to it while navigating that piece of shit through city streets and up and down the highway to find spots to turn around when we gave him bad directions, which happened frequently enough that he began to suspect we were doing it on purpose, all the while keeping an eye out for a bathroom Carrie could use and the burger joints we all needed. What a glutton for punishment.
We weren't long out of town before we discovered one of the many unusual aspects of traveling by bus. It only happened to the guys, for obvious reasons, and it happened to me first, of course. When you are in a relaxed state, sleeping for example, the constant vibration of the bus, the wheels on the road, the cracks in the blacktop, whatever, the body takes on a life of its own, if you follow my meaning. I was napping throughout the afternoon, bored silly by the view of field after field, and lulled into a state of somnolence by Mosley's books on tape, which he insisted on listening to, when through the cloud of sleep I could make out the sounds of laughter and I heard my name whispered over and over again. I cracked my eyes open to find the guys all looking at me, grinning like hyena's, and looked down to see a hat hanging neatly over the end of my penis, which was standing completely erect despite being under the cover of my pants and a sweater I'd thrown over myself. My eyes went straight to Carrie. I was completely mortified as I saw she was trying not to laugh and staring intently out the window at nothing. The howling went on for about twenty minutes and I have to admit I didn't handle myself very well, to the point that Mosley had to pull over to break up the fight I prompted by punching Rube in the head.
Crushed by the agonizing embarrassment of the situation I sulked in a chair in the back corner of the bus for the rest of the day, trying my best not to look at Carrie, who had written me off, I was guessing here, for being the biggest moron she'd ever seen, and I vowed that I wouldn't fall asleep again until I was sure everyone else had too. I didn't have to wait long, however, before the universality of our situation became apparent to all of us. This time it was Mark. Having fallen asleep he had developed the same condition I had only hours before and now he was swinging his fists in Gary's direction as Gary tried to hang anything he could on Mark's knob.
A quick pow-wow on the side of the road, with a probable explanation from Mosley, settled us all down but from then on when we wanted to sleep we would swivel our chairs to face the window so as not wake up with all manner of things hanging around down there.
We drove all through that night to get to our first gig with the Christian Concert Series, which was being held in a field outside of a tiny little town in northern Quebec, and which was scheduled to start at noon the following day. Things had been quiet for a couple of hours when Mosley jammed on the brakes so hard most of us went flailing to the floor, hardons and all. I peeked my head out the closest window and saw that it was almost dawn and I wondered if Mosley had fallen asleep at the wheel. He hadn't but he was sitting straight up in his bus driver's seat staring ahead with an intensity that scared the shit out of me. I climbed over the bodies of the others, noticing that Mark was still sleeping, and crouched down beside Mosley to ask him what was wrong. He just pointed out the front window of the bus and there, illuminated by the headlights was the biggest and strangest looking bird I had ever seen. It was fully four feet tall, with a fat, round body, supported by two legs so skinny it didn't seem possible that this things was standing on its own. It stared right at us.
"It's a heron." said Mosley and I thought he'd lost his mind because I'd never seen one so big before. It looked like it had walked out of a dinosaur picture book. It was perfectly still, as were we, until a noise behind stirred it and another one stepped into view behind the first.
"Open the door, Mosley." I said and he did. I got off the bus and stood there by the side of the road locked in a staring match with one of the birds.
"It's so beautiful." It was Carrie. She stood behind me and grabbed my hand as she pressed up against me in the chill of the morning. I completely forgot about the birds and said, "Yeah."
Then the horn sounded and I jumped about a foot and saw Gary leaning on it. Mosley pushed him out of the way and got off the bus. The birds weren't the slightest bit concerned by the honking horn but they slowly, very slowly, began to pick their way towards the side of the road and eventually disappeared into the long grass of the swamp that ran along the side of the highway. We stood there for a minute staring after them before Mosley whispered, "C'mon, before someone rear ends us.", and we climbed back on the bus. I sat down in my chair and everyone else did the same without a word, and as Mosley slipped the bus into gear I looked over at Carrie. She was looking out into the morning light, smiling very faintly and then she sighed and closed her eyes.

The Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection-Chapter two

Spring. Just saying it makes me feel giddy. There is a smell in spring air that lights up the blood, making it course a little stronger, a little quicker. The heavy jacket comes off and you feel naked outside without it on. There are still small patches of snow, clinging to life in the ditches, wads of decayed leaves are uncovered on the sidewalks and even the faint smell of a farmer's field thawing, that can carry miles on a spring breeze, can't dampen the enthusiasm of a sunny morning in April.
We were in Mosley's back yard where the bus was parked. It was a school bus he had picked up for next to nothing and where he was now inserted upside-down under the hood breathing a little life back into its filth encrusted engine. I had just arrived to find Gary and Rube handing Mosley the tools he needed as he shouted out for them, one by one. Mark came along right behind me and I caught a faint whiff of weed as he said hello.
Mosley jumped down from the front bumper and with a cackle of glee he ran up the stairs into the driver's seat of the decrepit bus. Amazingly the engine turned over and we all cheered and Gary reached into his ever present duffel bag and pulled out a six pack of Blue. We sat around the blue plastic picnic table while Mosley outlined the plans for us and then we went to work tearing out the seats of the bus.
Over the next two weeks we completely gutted it, lay plywood down on the floor, built a partition half way down and carpeted the front area. Mark's dad had supplied us with a half dozen old swivel chairs from the hotel he worked at for seating and with a ghetto blaster plugged into the cigarette lighter it was as road worthy as it was going to get.

After the successes of the last year, Mosley had come alive in a way he never thought possible. I guess he'd always had a dream of being a rock star but his parents had pushed him into the church and he had let it go until his teaching on the side gave him the idea of a lifetime. With three of his guitar students, a drummer he'd known for years and a reference from his wife's hairdresser about a certain dope smoking piano player, Mark that is, he had put together 'a little act', as he called it when he was preaching to his congregation. With close to thirty gigs under our belt and a leave of absence he was ready to spend the summer on the road in a bus we'd renovated into a home for us while we drove half way across the country with the Christian Concert Series, making stops in every town from Ottawa to Halifax and back. The fact that he was really the only Christian in the band didn't really matter much to Mosley; we kept our mouths shut and he did the talking. It would be fine.
With our leave date set for June 18 we were busy making final preparations when we hit a snag that put us all on our asses. Carrie announced she wasn't coming because she didn't have any 'personal space' on the bus. At first I had no idea what she was talking about because none of us had any personal space. To her though, it was a big deal.
Carrie had joined the band towards the end of last summer to help Mosley with the vocal chores, which she did wonderfully, but had turned out to be a bit of Prima Donna, not that I loved her any less for it. Eighteen is like that. Whenever we played a gig there was always a fuss about where she would change and "How come I don't get my own room?" complaints that I thought were just plain spoiled brat tactics. In retrospect I can see that my judgment was clouded by thoughts of sharing a changing room with her as I magnanimously offered to avert my eyes while she changed, if always a little too late. She had a point though. Not only did our new tour bus not have a bathroom, a thought none of us guys seemed to think was a big deal, but it had no partitions at all and it was pretty unlikely we were going to be able to get across the country without having to change clothes at least once.
Mosley, a good Christian man, came to her rescue by hammering together a little cubicle that we stuck in the back portion of the gear space so that if it was necessary she could have a little privacy. God bless him, but I would have quit right there if she'd actually refused to go with us. I didn't like the band that much and I cared for half the members even less. She was the only reason I'd stuck it out this long. She liked me too because, once we got know each other, she told me that she could talk to me, where as she couldn't with the other guys, especially Gary. With a few more years under my belt now I know I should have got off the bus right there, but in those days I didn't speak Woman and had no clue that she was telling me it was never gonna happen between us. We were friends, for Christ's sake. Love is deaf, dumb and stupid as well as blind.

There few things in my life that I remember with as much fondness as being on the road that summer, but the inconsistencies that are starting to rear their ugly little heads as I re-tell it you are a bit confusing to me. As I poke and prod my unreliable memory for the details of what happened next, it occurs to me that it wasn't as much fun as I remember. Well, I guess I'll let you be the judge.

The Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection-Chapter One

In the spring of 1982 I started to take bass lessons from a guy out of a church basement somewhere on Carling Avenue. I got a drive from Stittsville, where I lived, to Kanata and caught a bus, dragging my brand new $150 Newtron Bass, silmultaneously embarrassed and elated, the first because the case was bigger than I was and I couldn't help banging into people and having it fall over every time the driver cornered the bus, and the second because I was now, indisputably, a real musician.
It was an exciting time for music. Sprinsteen had just released 'The River' and Blondie was quickly rising up the charts. Dan Fogelberg was singing his swan song but the Police and Siouxsie and the Banshees were fresh and young. Yeah, Lionel Ritchie was crooning 'Endless Love' but The Stray Cats were doing 'This Ole House'.
I had never gone into the city this far by myself and I was pretty determined that I wasn't going to need any help getting there, so I was twenty minutes late for my first lesson. I got off the bus two stops early, afraid I was going to miss it and my teacher introduced himself, gave me some sheet music to learn and sent me home.
As the months wore on, my fingers toughening up and my shoulders filling out from lugging my bass around, I started to get pretty comfortable with the scales and simple songs my teacher gave me. One day as we were finishing up he asked me if I played in a band and I told him no. He offered me a spot in a band he was putting together from his students and I said yes before I even asked what kind of music they played. For two weeks before our first meeting I drew up list after list of what songs I wanted to do and one of them might have looked like this.

1.Pale Shelter-Tears for Fears
2.Don't Stand so Close to Me-The Police
3.Stand and Deliver-Adam Ant
4.Tempted-Squeeze
etc. etc.

I was pretty disappointed when the list of songs for the band actually looked like this.

1. Queen of Hearts-Juice Newton
2. Blue Bayou-Linda Ronstadt
3. I Love a Rainy Night-Eddie Rabbit
and unbelievably....
4. Endless Love-Lionel Ritchie and Diana Ross

I was in a band! I just couldn't tell anyone I knew about it. The name of the band was Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection and that was when I figured out that my teacher was also known as Reverend Mosley and he was an ordained minister. Since he pretty much decided what kind of events were held in his church's basement we were booked solid for the next six months, playing wedding receptions, bake sales, and the neighborhood Rummage Rally. Every gig I did counted as a successful lesson completed and so while I tried to fade into the background as much as I could, I was still getting credit for every time we played anywhere.

Our first gig outside of the church basement was, unbelievably, at the Chateau Laurier, at a reception held by one of Reverend Mosley's parishioners. We piled into Mosley's van and headed downtown. The gig went off without a hitch but when we came out to the van, which was parked in the Byward Market in front of a Deli, all the tires had been slashed and Mosley just about cried. The guitar player, Gary, entertained us with stories about a party he had gone to the night before and smoked cigarette after cigarette while we waited for a tow truck. I was hooked by life on the road, even though we were only on the road for about twenty minutes.

After the 'incident' with the van, which probably cost the church a penny or two, we stayed close to home, for a while anyway. I was getting to know the boys in the band pretty well, even though we were from all over different parts of the city, and even though I was known as the 'country boy', which rankled because I was the most urbane 17 year old in Stittsville. Gary used to bring a twelve of Blue to every gig and hide them in his duffel bag and we'd keep a bottle ready for a quick swig between songs while Mosley was talking to the audience. It was then that I found out that the geek who played piano, Mark something, smoked dope and he would disappear between sets to have a doob. I grew up in Stittsville, so it wasn't like I'd never smoked pot before, but we were playing in a church basement and at the time I worried about propriety and stuff like that.
That was also about the time that Mosley decided he need a little help in the singing department and introduced the band to Carrie. She was the daughter of one of his parishioners and could sing, apparently. We made all the appropriate noises about chicks in the band and all that but I could tell by looking around at the other guys that this was gonna be trouble. Gary had a look in his eyes that would have made a goat look like a priest. Even the horn section, Matt and Rube, the two biggest losers in dating history, were counting down the days until Hell froze over and they could actually get a chance with a real live girl. Me? I was in love.

Stay tuned as Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection change their sound and hit the road!

Abandoning Entanglements

"Abandoning things is superior, pursuing things is inferior."
So says Yen-t'ou.

I'm not so sure as I have abandoned quite a few things in my time and that empty tranquil state still eludes me. One of the first times I can remember having a 'zen' moment came while I was looking at a tree while I was waiting for a bus. It occurred to me that this particular tree had stood there long enough to have seen thousands of people rushing by, entangled in their own webs, consumed by thoughts that this tree would never be aware of and yet none of this made the slightest bit of difference to the tree whose sole delight was to be alive and breathing.
It ended shortly after I got on the bus and the guy sitting three seats over leaned into the aisle and puked on the floor. I got off immediately and waited for the next bus.
Yeah, I'm entangled, what are you going to do?

Do you remember sitting in the willow tree with me behind the house I grew up in? I had a friend who explained perspective to me by asking me to imagine the house I lived in and then he said, "Now back up so you can see the whole town." And then I backed up again so I could see the whole country and then the planet and then the solar system. It made me seem very small, sitting in my willow tree, and by association it made all of my tiny troubles seem insignificant.

"It is not that you sweep away ordinary feelings and bring into existence some holy understanding. When ordinariness and holiness exist no more, what is it?"-Daikaku

A Bird's Eye View

I looked up to see Gabriel's hounds heading south and knew that it was over. Inside for the season, inside to settle by the fire, for the hounds herald the change of season. Named because of their cries they were once thought to be the souls of unbaptized children, doomed to circle the heavens until judgment day, I prefer to think of them as weather vanes pointing south, away from the inevitable. My hounds lead me in circles, however, and I spend my time looking at the sky instead of at the ground.

She took my hand and squeezed it as hard as she could, which wasn't hard at all, and she smiled at me. I opened the car door and she got in, reclining, closing her eyes and falling asleep almost immediately. I drove carefully so she wouldn't wake up and as the sun came up I positioned the visor to shield her eyes.

I had the habit of getting up early, 6:30 or so, and driving into town to get a newspaper and a coffee which I would take to the small park. I would sit at the edge of the river and smoke a cigarette or two and wait for the world to wake up. The sound of the river calmed my fears and watching the ducks paddle back and forth settled my mind and helped me believe that the world was right and beautiful. She would ask me how my morning was as I helped her up and into the shower and I would say, "It was nice; quiet." I didn't tell her that I saw the hounds wheeling away from me, leaving the sky empty and grey. I did tell her about the ducks, though.

Journal

My toes were little cubes of ice and I wondered what would happen if I didn't find somewhere to get warm. I imagined myself toeless, unable to keep my balance, falling into some woman's lap and excusing myself by saying, "No toes, y'know." She would look at me with sympathy and offer to take me home, helping me to keep my balance as she had her driver tuck me into the back seat.

I thought if Dilly and I huddled together under a bush our body heat would keep us warm until the sun came up but he wasn't having any of it. Just the sort of dumb idea one comes up with at three in the morning, having missed all the buses home, with no money for a cab and too far from anywhere to walk.

There are times in my life when I find myself in situations that defy explanation. I have to admit that I was probably drunk on more than one of those occasions but then we all have our flaws so don't even think of laughing at mine. In about two minutes I could come up with plenty of reasons you should probably keep your mouth shut.

As I said, Dilly wasn't having any of the 'under a bush' thing. He just couldn't stomach the thought of cuddling up to me even if it meant not losing his toes. He's a stupid arse anyway. We were walking down Murray street when he spotted a bank machine entrance we could get warm in. For some reason lying under a bush in the park was more attractive to me than spending the night in the bank machine cubicle but I followed him in and sat down against the wall. He was asleep in about a minute and I sat there until dawn wondering how light was going to change our situation at all. We would still have no money, and it would still be cold out and we would still be too far from home.

As it started to get light out I kicked Dilly but he wouldn't wake up. I left him there and began to walk. I was cutting through the Rideau Centre when I saw a guy I used to work with a year ago, or so and I went over to talk with him. He was waiting for a bus and I asked him for enough money to get home. I was kind of surprised when he gave it to me and I thought briefly about asking for enough for Dilly too, but I decided not to push my luck. Dilly could find his own way home, stupid tool.

My mom was just getting up when I got home and she made me some breakfast before she left for work. I told her I didn't have to work today so she asked me to clean up a bit. I will, but not right now. Right now, as soon as I'm done writing this, I'm going to bed. I'm tired and pretty hung over too. I got twenty bucks from my mom, though, and Hatcher's got some pot. I'll give Kylie a call, later, and she if she wants to hang out. Two weeks until my birthday.

So Long, So Wrong

The road slowed, curved and was quickly hemmed in by a flanking white posted fence strung with cables on a wide shoulder of gravel pictured, remembered and stored for use at a later date and eventually reflected in the folk art of the countryside, tickling my dormant mind into remembrance years later, those posts standing guard around a graveyard of regret and shaded unhappiness still courting some half dead archetype and wounding it by association; no wonder it retaliates with such ferocity. It taught division and partitioned my mind, while hovering just beyond, the long and wide expanse of green grass I wish I could have run to for recourse, for re-ammunition or for sustenance lay open and inviting but too good and too far for me to reach by the time the car slowed and he jumped out, accusing and sure in his anger. I could have run, but I wasn't guilty. I could have hid but had nothing to hide. Now I wish I had thrown a rock at his car, subversive and small-minded fit his description of me much better than young and distracted, hiding from the tanks that were rolling into town on that hot sunny day in August, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

Learning To Swim

I wish I could breathe under water. I can hold my breath for a really long time but it's just not the same.

The Sub-Idiot's Guide to Daydreaming

I was a little disappointed in how I scored on the math portion of a recent aptitude test and decided I needed to go back to school and brush up on my math. Really, sometimes I do get the most asinine ideas in my head. I got out a book I have called "The Idiot's Guide to Physics" which has a brush up chapter in algebra and other basic maths at the beginning. I'm not sure what you call someone who is dumber than an idiot but I need his guide, apparently. C'mon.

Chapter two study question.
An object has an initial velocity Vo and an acceleration a. How far does it travel in a time t. Hint: If a=6.0ft/s squared, Vo=6.0ft/s, and t=1.0x10's, then x=360ft.

I settled into the pool, careful not to spill my drink. What the hell! Even if I did that little man who runs all over the place for me will get me another one. The water was warm, fed by a spring gushing up from the earth, and filled with minerals that soothe away sore muscles and all the aches and pains. I noticed her looking at me from across the way and smiled at her in invitation. She smiled back and stood up and began to walk towards me. I was grateful for the "No clothing" sign posted beside me.

Chapter two study question:
Use unit analysis and the proper defining equation to express (1) 9.2x10 to the seventh miles in meters, (2) 1 day in seconds. Remember that all digits are significant in defining equations and only measured quantities limit the number of significant figures in your calculations.

The sun was warm and the grass was soft. What more could I want. I watched one cloud in particular as it passed over me against the backdrop of a sky so blue it reminded me of the ocean in Mexico. A frisbee careened over head and I heard laughing just before someone said, "Hey Thompson! You want another beer? And how do you want your steak done?"

Chapter two study question:
Disguise unity (1) using each of these equations and write the result: 6.0x10'mi/hr x 5280ft/mi x 1hr/60minutes x 1 min/60s, that is , 6.0x 10'mi/hr x 1 x 1 x 1.............yeah.
Whatever.
Now, where was I.

I'm drifting slowly but can't make out where I am and I realize it's because I'm in a cloud. I drop down and suddenly see the earth below me, hundreds of feet below me and its turning slowly in a wide arc. I can see a field and surrounding it, trees, and I realize its coming closer. The circles are becoming smaller and I suddenly know that I'm a bird and I'm flying. I push down hard with my wings and veer over the edge of the hill and the land drops away from me with a rush of vertigo. I'm not going to land just yet.

I'm Dog Tired

Swana Boli, in Nepal, is the 'Dog's Day'; every other day of the year is open season on dogs who are kicked, chased and generally despised. Cervantes wrote , in Don Quixote, that 'every dog has his day' and the Romans used to mark the high summer months because the dog star, Sirius, ascended during those months and they believed it contributed to the sun's heat. If it goes 'to the dogs', it has come apart and is good for nothing and you might need to eat 'dog grass' in order to relieve the intestinal cramping. "Dog Soldiers' who were caught 'dogging it' usually ended up living a 'dog's life' and sometimes the 'dirty dog's' were left to 'die like a dog'. Up until we started letting them sleep with us, lie on the couch and eat off our plates being a dog wasn't a great thing.

The point? Do I have to have a point?

Yesterday, this dog had his day, and I would like to thank everyone who had a hand in it, and in the celebrations last Saturday. That you all came together to help me mark the day has proven that to be a rich man all you need are friends and I'm going to work like a dog to keep it that way. Thank you all. Now, I'm just going to have a quick nap in front of the fireplace. What? I didn't do it. I'm not going out there, its too cold. On the floor? You want me to sleep on the floor? Ow! Ow! Ooooooooooooooooh.

Untitled

I dreamt of Pilate again. I don't know what it is about him that causes this unrestful sleep. At once above and in thrall to a political coup, he did what he thought prudent. This mystery tires me, leaving the gate wide for insurgence.

This night, like so many before, is full of enemy faces, leering from the shadows. I sit with my face in my hands waiting for the blow. Do not disappoint me. Still, my limited expectations don't relieve me of my expectations and you should know this: I am not who you think I am. By the light all is well, but the wonders of the darkness swell and multiply faster than my sensibilities can predict. And, like Pilate, I will give in, forsake rest, walk away from the disparities and succumb to the will I will not.

Math Sucks

I recently underwent a battery of aptitude tests and revisited a personal hell of my own. Math. As a language, mathematics has its own way of describing the world, one at which I was a poor student. As I sat trying desperately to remember how to express the volume of a cylinder I was tempted to yell out my usual response, "I'll never use this in the real world." As it turns out I could have, but wonder, like any devotee of Star Trek, how my life would have been different if the nuances of numbers had settled into a cohesive system in my brain.

I was also quite stunned, in a P.C. kind of way, when I was told that the vast majority of us actually reach our potential in relation to our employment. "Stupid is as stupid does." was what I was told. I'm no Occupational Therapist, but I was pretty surprised to find that for the most part the proof is in the data. There's an argument here, however, for a chicken and egg kind of debate, but what matters is the reality of the situation and that is that most of us have exactly the aptitude to do what it is we do. The key, not surprisingly, is reading and comprehension because if you can't read or understand the warning you'll likely stick your head in the chipper to see what's got it all bunged up. Not considering those who have perception issues, like dyslexia, the door closes on any who aren't paying attention in class as the single most important factor in determining someone's abilities in the workforce is reading and comprehension. Now before my conspiratorial back gets up I'd like to point out the most obvious flaw in this argument. The number of students entering University with below level language skills is unbelievable. I shudder to think about all those essays I wrote for people who currently exist as anomalous members of the test group. It also makes me wonder why I didn't just cheat in math class and go on to become a physicist.

Anomalies aside, it's important to remember that the language that O.T.s use to explain all of this is a close cousin to the language of math; statistics. It's fair to say that given my low aptitudes in that area, there's likely something going on here I just don't understand. I need to find someone to sit in for me during the next round.

The Divine Spark

I have heard God described as, quite simply, the passion that embraces a man when confronted by the mysterious connections he perceives. This state is euphoric, contemplative and wistful in that it never lasts. Put on a piece of music you like and let it carry you into that state and as you hang, suspended on another's imagination you will glimpse the passion of the author and meet his god. I have always been astounded that while we can barely perceive each other, let alone understand what others want from us, we can sometimes bridge this gap in a non-verbal way.

Even as filtered as our senses are, we receive an incredible volume of information every second we are alive. It divides our minds into rooms, categories and sub-sets and we sift through all of this and make judgments based on experience and genetics. Now, recall a moment when every sense you have was focused on a single thing. Something that pricked your mind to attention and held you, while you explored the feeling, the sensation and the experience. Somewhere in there is the passion, and you rarely come away from it without an awareness of something mysterious.

As advanced technologically as we are, no one has ever been able to quantify this experience and we hover somewhere between Heaven and earth because we can't explain it away. It may come to you while you're listening to music, or reading a book, or working on your car, or while you're jogging, or staring into the face of your child, or cooking the perfect omelet or while you're having sex (maybe that should have been first), but describing it runs a very distant second to experiencing it. Spiritual? Definitely. Divine? Maybe. Singular? Always. Fun? You bet!

Our efforts to simulate the experience have been ceaseless, simply because it can't be simulated. We will endure a lifetime of hangovers, both alcohol and drug induced, looking for a substitute so that we can command a spiritual bliss to descend on us on demand. Good Christians everywhere frown on the effort because if someone finds it, they, and God, will be out of a job. I wouldn't worry, though. Collectively, we couldn't find our asses with both hands.

The Devil and Evy the Cat

I took a mortgage out on my soul a while back and the interest is killing me. His eyes were two different colors, like Bowie's, and if not for the loathsome reputation, which had me on edge, I could have really liked him. As it was, the negotiations went smoothly and for awhile things were great. Time passed and for one reason or another I missed a payment or two. I was frying up some bacon after a night out when an apparition appeared to me and invited me to a little gathering in the bowels of hell. I was a little nervous but once the dust settled we came to an agreement I could live with, for a while.

It was apparent to the Father of Lies that he couldn't trust me. It's an element of human nature that causes us to be so dishonest with those we know are dishonest themselves. You don't see drug dealers and murderers getting their feelings hurt when someone lies to them. They don't lie awake all night wondering why somebody done them wrong, they just hire a thug or two to come by and pull your toenails out and crack your head once or twice. The Soul Reaver doesn't use such mundane tactics, however, and his reign is such that he can afford a certain sense of humor when it comes to punishing the wicked. He sent me a cat.

I was lulled into a false sense of security when, for the first couple of weeks, the cat seemed to be fairly normal and maybe even a little dumb. Small and wiry, his coat is black, of course, and his eyes weep a little, lending him an air of helplessness. I suppose its not fair to assume he even knows what he is. It may be that he thinks he's just a cat but it has become clear to me that he was spawned, not birthed. That he sometimes becomes a tool with which the Destroyer watches my every move, I don't doubt anymore. You'd know what I am trying express if you were to wake up in the middle of the night with this thing sitting on your chest staring at you; a portal through which the pure and deliciously malignant nature of the Waster of the Underworld can peek at you while you are completely defenseless and a little groggy.

"It's a kitten!" you cry, as he purrs into your psyche, lulling you into a submissive and relaxed state. When he stretches out you smile at how cute he looks, and when he misses the jump from the couch to the coffee table and tumbles to the floor with a self conscious squeak you say 'awww' and scoop him up to pat his battered head and smooth out the ruffled coat he spends hours grooming. It wasn't your toothbrush I caught him using the other morning. Who else could be re-programming the remote? We'll see how you feel when, with his prescience and devil-inspired foreknowledge he heads to the litter box seconds before the doorbell rings.

Having related all this, with the cat perched on my shoulder, I feel it necessary (and a little prudent) to tell you that when I received the Master of Dread, fed him some coffee and cake, the night before last, he denied ever having sent an agent into my life. "Do you really think I need a cat to keep a eye on you, Mike?" He laughed at my descriptions of the feline's destructive abilities and said, "He does sound fun." but denied any involvement in the matter.

Things are square, now, between me and the Blackest of Hearts and the cat remains. But you tell me. When the Great Deceiver tells you that cats are just cats, and that maybe I'm just a little bit paranoid, which he claims no responsibility for, who would you believe?

A Dog in Waiting

I always seem to get caught, on an open stretch of road and as the distant trees turn slowly and the world spins on it axis, perception seems to indicate that the world revolves around me and perhaps I can be forgiven, if this is nothing more than childish remembrances, too many trips spent looking out the back seat window, upside down and backwards, or, as has been observed clinically, an overbearing sense of self importance, and yet there I was again, wondering what I wanted, when clearly what you want should be more important to me while base shame, my beloved compatriot, you lie, a dog in waiting, forever willing to console and mortify with contractual servitude and a litany of offenses at the ready, you take charge and the trial begins, I standing in for any or all witnesses, charging ill-will and selfish certitude, when nothing in heaven and earth has been certain since time was invented to obscure the real reasons the world tips between this realm and that, drunken and enraged, but for no reason that I can perceive, this is the curse, perhaps, and nothing availed leaves nothing accomplished, much less attempted and again the pendulum re-invigorates my senses as I'm forced to duck and weave, the doing awaking nothing less than a full reversal and my own anger explodes in it's vacuum soundless, ineffective and rendered sterile in a blinding flash and, oh, there's my exit.

And I Did

"Wake Up."

It was a small town, maybe two or three thousand people. Every year they held a festival, in the square. A band played and we danced until dark when the lanterns were lit and one by one our names were read and our accomplishments applauded. Even to the lowest some consideration was payed and it was considered an offence to the town to ridicule any small achievement.

"Wake Up."

I didn't recognize her at first, while we chatted and exchanged pleasantries. She was very engaging and smiled freely; her attentiveness I found very attractive. Slowly her mannerisms and her familiar way encouraged recognition and I knew it was her. I looked into her face and found it radiant, unchanged and peacefully kind. She brushed away my apologies and I wondered at the changes in her and in myself.

"Wake Up."

I was between the walls, sliding sideways, dusty and a little claustrophobic but not afraid. I could see into the rooms and knew it was my grandfather's house. I wondered if the money box was still under the stairs leading to the attic. I wanted to go up, still anxious after all these years to go anywhere near the basement.

"Wake Up."

The cold plains stretched for miles in every direction. I ached from the ride, not entirely comfortable on the horse. I have never felt so free; the sky wide open and the view never-ending. I could smell the grass and the leather and when we stopped, I stretched and stamped the blood back into my legs, and felt alive and filled with anticipation.

"Wake Up." And I did.

Spara and The Aqua Tofani

Spara stood on the scaffold, scanning the crowd, right up until the last minute, right up until they slipped the noose over her head and kicked her feet out from under her. She wouldn't come, of course, knowing she would be arrested and tortured and hanged just like the other five. Spara hoped she had made it away, and she hoped for but didn't expect any forgiveness on the other side of death. At least now she could rest.

After the tomb of St. Nicholas was re-interned in Bari, a church built over the site, followers noted that the embalming oils his body was covered in " which kept it from corruption and proved a health giving remedy against sickness to the glory of him who had glorified Jesus Christ, our true God", still seeped from the tomb and calling it 'The Manna of St. Nicholas of Bari', started hawking it as a cure-all to the world. The year was 1087. The manna still flows today.

The Catholic church will accept a number of the stories about St. Nicholas as true, but they won't call him Santa Claus. He is the patron saint of children but that is said to come from an act of kindness he committed for a man in Myra, where he eventually became Bishop. The man had three daughters and was on the verge of ruin because he couldn't marry them off, having no dowry. I guess they ate a lot of food and kept stealing his pocket change because the guy was penniless and had decided to sell his girls into prostitution. You'd think St. Nicholas would have smote the old bastard and told him to smarten up, but instead he started dropping bags of gold through the old guy's window. With a dowry for each, they were married off and on the last visit St Nicholas was spotted. Later, after he died, the story was remembered and the church started calling him the Patron Saint of Children. They should have called him the Patron Saint of Crusty Old Farts, but since when does the church do what's right.

In the seventeenth century, with St Nicholas' reputation bigger than life, another young girl was married off by her family to a prick in Italy. Her sense of humor was sorely tested by the abusive treatment she received and she concocted a remedy for her suffering. With a clear and tasteless poison she solved her problem and then began to market it to some of the women in town with similar problems. Mrs. Tofani had a booming business selling her Aqua Tofani all over town, the labels reading "Manna of St Nicholas of Bari" but the authorities at the time didn't get the joke and came looking for her. She promptly left town, but Spara and four other women were not so lucky. They were arrested and convicted and sentenced to hang.

The convulsions went on for a long time, long after the women lost consciousness, at least she hoped. The crowd, loud and raucous at first, quieted and slowly began to leave the square. They had been whipped into a frenzy by the loud denunciations, condemning the five and calling for blood, but now they were mute, shuffling off. The men watched closely for any signs that their wives were sympathetic or of a similar mind to Spara. Mrs. Tofani, cloaked and shrouded, hung back and picked a secluded alley from where she could see Spara's body as it was cut down and loaded onto the cart. She looked up at the church, thrusting its peaks to heaven and called on St. Nicholas, not to pray to him, but to chastise him for his lapse. She received no answer, however, and wrapping her cloak around her, ever tighter, she disappeared into the coming night.

Tough Titties

The prophet wants to know how it is that grown men can still find so much amusement in hiding dirty words in a paragraph of text. If you don't know what I'm talking about, take another look at yesterday's post. She caught me feeling a little ashamed of myself and I decided to try something a little more advanced. As the Christmas season is just about to suck the ever-living joy out of us, I thought I'd incorporate some of my feelings about the events that led up to our present state into an Acrostic variation called an abeccedarian hymn. It goes like this. A one ana two:

An ancient anniversary, awesome annunciation and assembly
Bearing beatitude beyond beneficent belief before bestial bestriding
Celestial certitude calcifying cruel calumnies
Deific divination decries defiling degeneration
Effulgent evangelical emanations entrance esteemed excellencies
Future forbearance facilitating filial faith
Galilean gentiles gratuitously goading
Hallelujahs hallow hegemonic hierarchies
Idealism inciting ignominious individuals into illusory illumination
Judging Judaism, Judas, juxtaposing Joseph, John, Jesus
Knowing kindness kindles kindly kingdoms
Learning leitmotif lessons

...and then I quit. Three things happened all at once. I broke the spine of my dictionary, I realized what a pompous ass I can be and I completely short circuited my brain trying to keep up with the plot line. On top of that I plan on telling the Prophet that I like boobs and I thought it was funny. There's nothing wrong with that. I know you'd like to see men, in general, get over the fascination with scratching, burping and fart jokes, and some day I'm sure we will. I just hope we don't turn into somebody who spends three hours trying to write crap like this. Wait, that didn't come out right.

Born Out Of Bored Solitude

Most of us are familiar with word games. Doing a crossword
is a great way to pass time waiting for your wife to get out of the shower,
knowing you may have most of the morning to kill, and it's a good
exercise in word development.
In ancient times, words games came in many varieties, including
something called an Acrostic. These were often in the form of a poem,
a proverb or a prophecy. Acrostic derives from the Greek 'Akros',
meaning 'extreme' and 'stichos', meaning 'row' and often contained
a hidden message for those who could find it. Usually self referential, the
zenith of acrostic design was meant to reinforce the text with an
inference made from combining the letters of certain rows.
Not being one to forego a challenge I thought I would
give it a shot. I'm a beginner, though, so don't be too harsh on me.

So Long Gone

There were two lines of trees that ran parallel from the road, and in between stood a rough shack, a pea in the straw, ready to be spit down the valley. The house was dwarfed by the refuse, discarded bits of machinery, cracked and rusted odds and ends of scrap material, bags of household garbage and six or seven shopping carts. The garden, beyond the garbage pile, had long lost the fight with the surrounding wilderness and had quietly succumbed years ago. The lane, once wide enough for a wagon had slimmed down to shoulder width and didn't run true to the road anymore, a path cleared by drunken missteps and far away eyes. The shack leaned heavily, sagging under its own weight, and would have fallen years ago, if not for the supports that looked accidental, straining to hold on, sinking into the soil. The door, hinges loose, rattled in the wind, and talked the old man to sleep on those nights when his mind played memory tricks on him and he wandered in a circle around the stove, lost and looking for a dog dead for thirty years. In the corner, the bed was littered with newspapers and magazines that detailed life for the last two decades and beside it, nailed to the wall was a picture of the Virgin Mary, faded but recognizable, if only by the halo and baby in her arms, illuminated by a ghostly light. The windows, covered years ago with heavy cloth, had disappeared into the background except to break the even skin of pots, pans, brushes, rope and hand tools hanging on nails and forgotten. Some shelves had been mounted on one wall and were full with rusted tin cans, labels mostly missing and some of them open and black on the inside. A small table stood close to the stove, on it a pail only half full of water from the well in the back. Two chairs stood ready, but only one did any work, the other was for company, never invited and never missed.
The percolator on the stove started to burp in time, a rhythm that sometimes made the old man get up and dance with graceful steps, with an imaginary woman, so long gone, but beautiful and full of grace. She smiled at him and he, encouraged, would spin her around, showing off the dances he had just learned the previous evening. She lay her head on his shoulder and he knew then that they would be married soon. He looked down to throw a sly wink at the dog, dead for thirty years, and wondered that he could be so happy.

In The Trenches

I came into the room and sat down on the couch and the cat looked at me and said, "Don't get comfortable, there's a show I want to watch at nine."
"Not likely. My t.v., my apartment." That was what started it and now he won't talk to me at all.

Roommates can be a tricky thing. I mean having them, the division of chores, the responsibilities for the bills, taking out the recycle box, that stuff. I've had them all: the stink machine, the compulsive talker, the hour shower, the naked guy, the screamers, the pukers, the eat from the box guy, the never wash the dishes girl. I once had a roommate who kept a Polaroid diary of his morning evacuations, to put a friendly term to it, in a row along the wall of his bedroom. Then there was the guy who would repeat my phone conversations back to me, doing a terrible impersonation of me, to boot. The late with the rent guy was better than that girl who smoked pot from the second she woke up, and she was way better than the internet computer sex guy. It wouldn't have been so bad if the computer hadn't been in the living room.
The funniest are the compulsives. The neat freak who had to line up the remote perpendicular to the t.v., or the one who complained to me that the towels were folded wrong. That's just asking for it. The hours I spent moving the cutlery drawer around are some of the best I've spent torturing a roommate. I once spent a week re-arranging a roommates stuffed animals after she told me she thought the house was haunted. I even headed up the call for a seance to find out why the animals couldn't stay where she'd put them.
After another one started celebrating Bob Dylan's birthday a week early by playing his albums night and day I began to leave cut-out pictures of Bob with his teeth blacked out lying around for her to find. Good times.
It hasn't been all bad, either. I really liked the roommate who wandered around in her bra and panties, and the one who cooked these outrageous meals for me. The best was Richard, who made his own beer, and if I helped him bottle it, I could drink as much as I wanted. Couldn't get the smell of hops out for awhile, though.
I have to admit that I'm probably not the best roommate, either. Impromptu parties, twenty drunks strong, have a tendency to materialize on payday. The band has been known to inspire some of my roommates to pull fuses and then pretend we blew a circuit. And I do like some pretty crappy music.

The cat just murmured his approval from my shoulder, which is where he sits when I write, and come to think of it, is pretty much the strangest roommate behavior I've seen. Now he's on the couch watching his show. I can afford to be generous, I suppose. I don't want to show up in his blog.

A Birthday Wish

Beautiful, so beautiful, and radiant. She exuded calm and serenity but could burst into laughter so easily, and she had a willful way about her. Unlike so many of us, she was what she appeared. She loved her life, she loved her family and her friends, she loved her dog, she loved to read, and to wrap herself in a blanket in front of a fire. She also loved to dance and to hit the town dressed for trouble. She worried and cared so much for her friends, but was the first one to tell you the truth, and the first one to offer to help.
Her confidence was a wonder to me. So comfortable in her own skin, she knew what was important and simply disregarded the rest. She was private but could shock you with her frankness, and then laugh at the expression on your face, pushing the envelope just a little more.
She showed me that living life is about living your life. She showed me the path to happiness and then set me on it. I have stumbled and fallen but she helps me get back up again and again.
She would have been 29 years old today and all I can give her is my promise that I will learn the lessons she tried to teach me.
Happy Birthday, Beth. I love you and I miss you.

Oh, Look!

I dream of falling quite often. Standing on a precipice and then free falling. The terror I feel rushes through me, vertigo pulling at me as I flail, knowing death is waiting for me below. And I wake, alone and afraid and wondering what's wrong with me. The psychological interpretations are not lost on me and I've looked and looked for an answer, none of them clear or satisfying. Yet, lately there has been a change. Like a dog hiding from his master, I still reel with horror when I lose my balance, and I scream and try to clutch at anything near, and then, strangely I give in and accept that I will die. I look at my fingers and into the wind. The feeling of vertigo is there, but on the edge of pleasure, a sensation attaches itself to me and I begin to feel exhilarated.

There is a Buddhist koan that tells the story of a monk walking along a mountain path. Out of the bushes on his left a tiger rushes at him and he leaps into the chasm below. As he plunges to his death he grabs a sapling that is growing from the side of the cliff and hangs on. Beneath him is certain death on jagged rocks and above him is a hungry tiger who wants to eat him. He is considering these when he notices a strawberry bush with fruit on it growing beside the sapling. His fingers are beginning to slip as reaches out for the strawberry and eating it says, "Oh, what a delicious strawberry."

It Hurts When I Do This

From the diaries of Malcom Pettigrew, published in 1976, a year after he succumbed to the effects of years of alcoholism.

"I was in Lawrence, Kansas attending a symposium convened to debate the effects of alcohol on the unborn fetus, when I was approached by a young woman who would only give me her first name, that being Regina. I was staying in room 17 of the Eldridge Hotel, where the meetings would be held in the various conference rooms all throughout the week, and had ventured into the bar, the Jayhawker, to have a drink before dinner. Regina sat in the stool next to my own and began to speak to me in a familiar manner, saying she was attending the symposium at the request of her employer, a doctor in Topeka, and that she was to speak at the lecture in the morning of the following day. When I somewhat clumsily excused myself claiming fatigue, she followed me out and in the foyer accosted me and accused me of rudeness and demanded an apology. I was extremely uncomfortable with the public rebuke, and as our conversation was drawing unwanted attention I suggested she was mistaken in my intent and I offered to buy her a drink, hoping she would take this offer as an apology, to which she acquiesced. Again, in a dark corner of the Jayhawker Bar, she resumed her harangue, albeit at a somewhat modified volume, and I suspected that she was already drunk and I began to mollify her by means, both comforting and friendly, which resulted in her leaving off her criticisms of me and we talked long into the evening about her studies and her interests in the subjects of depravity and addictions. She proved to be quite knowledgeable in both areas and when I offered to host an extension of our discussion, as the lounge was closing for the evening, she agreed, if only to convince me that her somewhat liberal attitudes towards these topics could corrupt my 'towering condescension', as she called it. I accepted the challenge and, as it turned out she was correct; her methods of persuasion being far beyond my ability to refute.
As I prepared my toilet the following morning, somewhat confusedly, I discovered that I had misplaced my carrying cases and assumed that I had left them in the lounge, the only locale I had visited the previous evening, after checking into the hotel. After a short conversation with the daytime manager of the lounge I was informed that my luggage had not been discovered by the cleaning staff and it was suggested that I check with the concierge. I did so and began to suspect fowl play when he informed me that not only had my belongings not been discovered, but that he had no record of anyone named Regina lodging at the hotel and that he could not ascertain her commitment to speak at the day's lecture.
This left me in the most undignified position of having to admit that I was not only without a scrap of clothing to wear but that my identification and personal banking information was also amongst my luggage. When I explained the nature of my situation, that it was impossible for me to contact my family, in particular my wife or household staff, because of the certain indelicacies, I was awarded with a visit from the Chief of Security who informed me that the law enforcement officers, who had been called on my behalf would bring me some pieces of clothing with which I could cover my shame.
He neglected to convey to me, however, that the Police would not take a statement from me concerning what I now considered to be a crime against my person, but that they would also be removing me from my rooms and filing charges against me for fraud and the expenses of my visit. This I discovered after a frightening visit to the local constabulary and after I was told that I would be held in the station for a period of time until I would be presented before a circuit judge to decide my fate.
The next period of my life was a tortuous example of how a decent, upstanding citizen of this great country could be so perversely persecuted especially by those who had committed themselves to my well being both fiscally and matrimonially. The shame I feel at the cruel and merciless treatment of myself at the hands of my family and society in general has quite made me a vessel of belligerence and I find myself at odds with one and all. For shame, I cry, not at those who would take advantage of my good nature, for those souls are already lost to the great evil awaiting, but to those who, witnessing my hour of need did forsake me and punish me for a cruel twist of fate. My solace these days, as in so many others, is in the helpful and hopeful people of this house I now find myself in. For while I find the habits of my housemates unfathomable when it comes to cleanliness of the body, I find their spirits to be beyond rebuke. In particular I would extol the efforts of the gentleman who occupies the room next to mine, Slim, for his efforts at my convalescence and his generosity regarding his eagerness to execute daily outings on my behalf, to the pharmacy, for nothing more than a small monetary reward. He is, truly, one of God's munificent creatures."

Now that's a night to remember. I'm sure there's a lesson here, I'm just not sure I know what it is. How this turned up in a study on Fetal Neurology I don't understand but apparently this guy was a doctor. Yeesh.

Lying in Winter

The wind followed me, taunting and rough, until I reached the ravine and plunged down the side into the copse of squat trees, their latteral spread covering most of the bank this side of the water. I sat hunch-backed on my heels until I was sure no one else was going to join me. My face burned from the cold and I couldn't feel my fingers anymore. I stuck my hands into my armpits and made myself as small as I could, thinking the cold might let me go for awhile. Inside my shoes, my toes were doing a maniacal little dance of their own volition but nothing alleviated the ache and I thought about the stories I'd heard of people feeling calm and blissful right before they froze to death. I felt as far from bliss as I could get and assumed I was alright for awhile.

There are moments I'll remember as pivotal, usually for the desperation and always for the revelation. Like a cornered animal my mind finally accepts the situation and turns down a path, unmarked and fresh, to a conclusion never dreamed off and in the middle of the road is the epiphany, waiting for a vessel.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the chocolate bar. It was a Big Turk and I hate them. I've never been to Turkey and I have a hard time accepting that Turks sit around eating these things and feeling delight. It was the closest to my escape route, however, and my newly minted life of crime wasn't going to be thwarted by my palate. I took a bite and nearly gagged. I spit it out and threw away the rest and decided there, under the shrubs, that I just wasn't cut out for this kind of thing. If I couldn't steal what I liked, what was the point of stealing at all? Still, I waited for another twenty minutes before crawling away from it, ashamed and nearly frozen; I was afraid I'd been followed. My own inflated guilt made me believe that there must be a posse of candy store employees out beating the bushes for a fifty cent chocolate bar in the dead of winter, wanting to teach a lesson in humility to an eight year old boy who was stupid enough to steal the worst chocolate bar in the world.
Sometimes we don't need anyone to teach us anything as the truths can come from within. I don't have the constitution for crime, the creek is a bad place to be in the middle of winter, Big Turks are gross and I can punish myself better than anyone, thank you very much.

Happy Thoughts

Great news everybody. Rob Patterson and I have embarked on collaboration of Photography and Essays entitled A Thousand Words. Simply put, the essays are directly inspired by Rob's photography. Take a look. Read the words and speak your mind. www.wordphoto.blogspot.com will take you there.

Abracadabra

I was watching CNN yesterday for a little comic relief. Honestly, watching Wolf Blitzer or one of his half assed cronies trying to question someone is an exercise in futility. If you don't know what solipsism is, just watch for a while and you'll get it.

In between Wolf's pretend aggression, when questioning some U.S. politician's 'real views' on world issues, and a re-count of the bodies laid low on the streets of America, there was a very interesting interview during which a 'leading' U.S. doctor talked about the benefits of walking. He has spent his life and millions of dollars in trying to quantify the years added to your life for each minute you walk. He went on to say that, 'stunningly', diet is a factor in one's health. The bottom line is 'eat well, and exercise'. I have to admit that to a country who silmultaneously controls most of the free world and consumes more Big Mac's than anyone else, it must be hard to decide what's fit for the news. I imagine a big meter, one side reading 'they get it' and the other reading 'they don't', which the producers watch by the minute, having learned that once it tips too far in one direction the ratings drop dangerously close to "Fresh Prince" re-run levels.

Like I said, I was in search of comic relief. And I have to admit that it makes me feel superior, which is a cheap shot. It's like watching Jeopardy! with the cat. He might know the answer but he can't talk. Ha ha. I always win.

I then flipped over to the House of Commons 'Question Period' to see how the Liberals were going to avoid a Christmas election and defend against corruption charges, when I suffered a blow to my national ego. When parliament first voted to open the question period to the public, via television broadcast, it was hailed as an important step in drawing the public into the political process. Now, I can see the merits of governing in secret. The process means nothing, accomplishes nothing and is really embarrassing to watch. A whole room full of schoolyard victims verbally bitch slapping each other, threatening to tell their moms for each inane comment and off topic re-direct. It's funnier than the Trailer Park Boys. It's funnier than Anderson Cooper.

Like any good magician will tell you, misdirection is the key to fooling anyone. And I got caught. Imagine, watching the news for up-to-date information on important issues. Fool me once...

Oh, Canada

The most incredible aspect of the First Crusade was that it actually succeeded. It's true that along the way the pious and legendary leaders often strayed off the path to slaughter and conquer who ever they thought they could, and that they fought the whole way to Jerusalem about who was going to get the odds and ends of the various battles they instigated, but while history freely acknowledges the free-wheeling and mostly debauched behavior of the leaders, it also remembers that when offered the title of King of Jerusalem, Raymond of Toulouse refused to be kinged where Jesus had died and that Godfrey of Boullion said pretty much the same thing. Raymond had other ideas and ran off to sack his own city and Godfrey claimed regency, only. Then he slaughtered every inhabitant of the city.

Just remember that when the election comes. Politicians are remembered only by their victories and the atrocities they commit along the way are forgotten, if they win. Richard the Lionheart is remembered for his piety, his capture and subsequent return to rid England of the notorious John, his brother. Richard hated England, however, and pretty much picked the bones clean to raise the money for the third crusade. He is quoted as saying something like, "I'd have sold London if I thought it would raise enough money."

Granted politics has become a much less nasty procedure over the years, but the best politicians remain men at heart. Canadian politics, in particular, shows little of the teeth when it comes to manipulating voters and I'm pretty sure none of us have ever been asked to vote with a sword in our backs, instead we are coerced by money, the current currency representing life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I can't claim any moral high ground here because I'll take the money, knowing full well that other promises aren't likely to be kept. Hell, if someone offered me free cable and a lifetime supply of coffee I'd likely vote them Holy Roman Emperor. The point is, let's not mistake anyone's intentions. Here, the differences in policy between our political parties are akin to different piles of the same shit. Ultimately the prize is the chance to pillage the public coffers before the subsequent inquiries and the grand standing by some future representative of the opposition party.

Meanwhile, back in Jerusalem, Godfrey died a year after he became the ruler and his little brother Baldwin was crowned the first King, Baldwin 1, having little reservations about usurping Jesus' title, despite his earlier work as a cleric and the intentions of a life devoted to the church. Still, despite his political prowess and military strength, it wasn't infidels who he had to worry about but his comrades who took every form of potshot at him simply because they wanted his throne. Truly he feared not his enemies but his allies.

While it's true that our next Prime Minister isn't likely to slaughter anybody, at least in the corporeal sense, it is time we recognized that he's not really looking after our best interests, no matter who he claims to be working for. I'm going to vote for the best looking candidate, although that may come down to simply choosing the lesser of two evils.

Let Me Show You

The afternoon had warmed and the sun was out. I hadn't really had time to dress or shave so the first time she saw me I probably scared her half to death. I called everyone I knew to tell them, but it wasn't until I was on my way home that the reality sank in. I got into the back seat and stared stupidly out the window all the way home. The trees still swayed in the breeze, the grass was as green as it ever was, the sky still as blue but it was all different now. It was more than I ever knew it could be.

I thought I had lost my wallet. In it was the usual. I.D. A few cards, my drivers license, but the only thing I cared about losing were the pictures of her. I've carried them since they were developed, each of them a moment in time that throws a cloud over my mind as I race back through the years to the days they were taken. At one, two, three years old. I was afraid. Afraid that I'd never be able show them to anybody, anymore, which I still do even though she's so much older now. She's still the only thing that keeps me going.

I found my wallet and I found the pictures. No worries. I should probably put them somewhere safe but I'm going to leave them in my wallet. What kind of father would I be if I couldn't show you a picture the most beautiful girl in the world. My daughter.

Perchance to Dream

The wind was awe inspiring last night. I fought with my heat and the windows to reach some sort of consensus; this time of year it's hard to know whether you're hot or cold, but the need for fresh air is paramount. I had settled in and was dozing on the couch while Wesley Snipes was busy training for some inevitable win two hours into the movie (I don't know why I bother, except that it's easy to sleep to) when the wind slammed my window shut.
After I calmed down I went and got some pliers to remove Evy's claws from my chest and I decided it was time to sleep. I have to admit I was a little jumpy, so maybe it's not surprising that sleep was a long time coming but before I drifted off I experienced a strange phenomenon.

In psychological terms it goes like this. The body/brain has a routine for shutting down that rarely varies and as you relax your body literally becomes paralyzed, then your brain leaps into action. That prevents you from wandering all over the house looking for shit when you're dreaming. It also prevents you from trying to perform those roundhouse kicks you think you're good at (stupid Wesley Snipes) while lying in bed. So while you are experiencing all of these sensations your body isn't fooled and you dream the night away.
Sometimes however things shut down in the wrong order. It's just a glitch in the programming that so far no one can explain or get rid of. This is what happened to me last night.

It occurred to me that I could hear someone crying. Then into my ear as I lay there, trying to sleep, a soft voice said my name. "Michael" Stuff like that freaks me out, so I decided to get up and take a look around the apartment just to settle the cat down who had also heard the voice. I went into the kitchen and while there was no one there, I could still hear someone crying. It was a man's voice, sobbing uncontrollably. I asked Evy, but the cat just shrugged; he didn't know who it was either. I sent him into the cupboard under the sink to check things out and now the voice turned into a wail that pierced me through to my soul. I grew more frantic until at some point I woke myself up. I was in the kitchen and the wailing, which I could still hear, was the cat, who from under my foot was complaining that I weighed too much.

From here on in I'm going to wonder if some of the things I dream about are really happening. I can't trust that when I think I'm asleep in bed I'm not actually in the car headed south or running down the avenue with no clothes on. I'm just hoping that if you see me you'll wake me up and send me home. And when you see that damned cat tell him I'm sorry.

The End Is Near

"He couldn't find his socks; that's what took him so long. We were all out there, marching up and down the sidewalk in the freezing cold, our hands becoming one with a styrofoam cup of coffee and he was at home, rummaging under his bed for a sock. I say we kick him out. If he doesn't take this seriously then I say we make an example out of him. Take away his board and we'll find someone to replace him."
"Calm down, Gord. He's here now, and he's the best writer we have, so he stays."

I had just walked into the seventh annual Sandwich Board Artist's Fair, over at the Jack Purcell Community Centre and the tone of the competition was fierce. This was an event held annually to celebrate the talents of some of the best in the fine art of the Sandwich board. Most of the action and all of the events were outside but contestants, contributors and the public were allowed access to the centre to warm up, use the facilities and buy coffee. That's where I found Team Torrington, last year's winning team, getting ready for the 100 Yard Strike Breaker, the event they had the most trouble with last year. After a brief introduction, I had a chance to talk with Tim Torrington, the dynamic leader of the team and, as I'd learned from the above almost altercation, something of a diplomat as well.

"Thanks, Tim, for taking a few minutes to speak with us, just before what must be the most punishing event at the Fair. "

"No problem, Mike. It's always good to see you. As you can probably tell, the tension is getting a little thick, but y'know that's what Sandwich Boarding is about. To compete at this level, I believe the team actually works better with some amount of friction. A Sandwich Board Artist is a confrontational man, and I never try to discourage a member of my team from making a point on or off the field."
"Tim, the Strike Breaker is a controversial event, one you've always had a little trouble with. What is it that sets this event apart from events like the Apocalyptic Warning or the Religious Coercion and in particular, it seems to me that the kind of friction I'm seeing here, on your team today, might not work so well in an event like the Strike Breaker, where a team must be unified in purpose to be truly effective."
"Mike, let me set the record straight by saying that Team Torrington has never been stronger. The Strike Breaker comes down to some very precise foot work and the level of concentration needed to be 'unified in purpose', as you say, is actually honed by the distrust and recrimination of the team members. My purpose is to redirect that distrust of each other outward, for this event and right up to the last minute the emotional intensity displayed must be sincere, otherwise no one would believe it. Last year, we had a tough time with this event simply because we had had so much success earlier on that we let that intensity wane. Not this year Mike. If I may be so bold, I'll bet your headline tomorrow reads, 'Team Torrington does it again.'"

Team Torrington, however, did not do it again and the defeat came from within as, during the last stage of the Strike Breaker, two team members started to fight with each other. With nothing but their gloved fists showing they ran each other and the crash was deafening as their boards met. While no one was hurt in the melee, it was clear that Tim Torrington's hopes were dashed and that perhaps he was wrong about the level of intensity he likes to inspire in his team. A Sandwich Board Artist is a peculiar breed and while no one could accuse them of not being devoted to their art, some of them are a little too confrontational for their own good.

The Ignorance of Bliss

Today is November 11th. Remembrance day.

Have you ever asked yourself what beliefs would you risk your life for? If you are like me, raised in a time when anti-war sentiments were the vogue and all forms of engagement were frowned upon and you lived in a country where we had the luxury of deciding whether or not we wanted to be involved in such things, the answer would probably be, "Not too much."

Sure, if someone came in through my window and wanted my t.v. or my stereo or to stick a knife in me while I slept, I'd put up a fight. But as a young man, living in Canada I have very rarely ever been taken to task on this. The older I get the more I realize, especially in today's global environment that the luxuries we have, are rare and more, those luxuries were the gift of generations of men and women who knew that they could and would fight to allow me those comforts.

As a parent I don't ever want my child to suffer at the hands of another, I want her to have the same level of security that I was so blissfully unaware of, all the while I rattle on about the senselessness of war. Senseless, it may be, but the fact is it happens. The other fact is, there are people, unlike me, who have served in our armed forces for years, for generations to protect my innocence and my ignorance.

Today is not about the glories of war or about victory over adversity, it is simply an opportunity, I would say responsibility, to think about the people who have given up there lives, whether you asked them to or not, so that we might have the option to grow and raise our own in peace and ignorance. To allow them the chance to remember the friends and family they lost, people who could answer in the affirmative, "I would risk my own life for my family, my friends, my way of life and my country."

I will express my gratitude to them, today, because they chose to do what I could not.

Look Both Ways

With our rocket ready and the launch pad prepped we climbed back in the window and huddled together in anticipation. Three stories up, we aimed it out over the park and looked up and down the street to make sure no cars were coming. I looked at her beside me, could feel her arm touching mine and wondered that anyone could be so beautiful, so serene and so reckless at the same time. We hadn't told the others about us yet and the secret swelled inside me like a balloon and my chest was almost bursting.
Her brother called out a countdown and at "Zero" he pushed the button and the noise was louder than I thought it would be. Everyone screamed and we jostled to get a view of the rocket as it shot skyward. And then, in slow motion, I saw the guy on the bicycle. The rocket reached its apex and started to come down and I ran all the way down stairs, only see the guy on the bike swerve and ditch it on the sidewalk. I could hear them squealing from the window and for a second I didn't know what to do. The rocket was in the grass about ten feet over and the poor guy had been so scared he lost control.
She burst out the front door and helped him up. I wondered if he was going to be pissed, I wondered if he would call the cops, I wondered if I was going to jail. I couldn't hear what she was saying but they were both laughing and I calmed down. He got back on his bike and left and we stood looking at each other on the sidewalk for a minute or two without saying anything.
Then she burst into laughter and I couldn't stop grinning, I was so happy and felt so alive. We picked up the now cold rocket and took it back upstairs and found that they were all hiding in different parts of the apartment. I felt like I was twelve again.

Rocketry. It makes me high.

Karma Cereal with Strawberries and Cream

I've spent a good chunk of my life trying to figure things out. I did the philosophy thing until I found that reading with a dictionary beside you is just too damn time consuming. Then I did religions and found that you have to have faith to believe and that was just too damn hard too. I studied the Mysteries for a while, learned about pyramids and astral travelers, I studied some ancient civilizations for hints at the big secrets and I dabbled in some armchair psychology, physics, biology and got lost along the way. All of this I did just to discover something about human nature and the unanswerable questions.

The questions I need the answers to are:

1. Why do people give me the finger for going the speed limit.
2. Why does the kid who packs my groceries act so smug.
3. If you know you're going to be hungover and barf, why drink?
4. Why do we put up politicians, lawyers and Walmart greeters?

These are the really hard questions and so help me if I hear, "That's just the way it is." one more time I just might start to believe it and then where would I be? I'd be a well adjusted normal person. PPHHHHTTTTT!!!!!

Well, here it is. After years of searching I've found the answer I need. People are assholes. That's it. Me too; I'm an asshole too! At last! Spiritual calm, heavenly enlightenment! Oh, I'm gonna be busy for awhile, now that I know what I need to do. Ohhmmmmmmm.

A Showy, Showy Night

I threaded my way through the streets, the empty streets, when I saw the first one. He was parked back off the road and had his headlights off, but the interior light was on and I could see him, hunched over a newspaper. It if hadn't been for the huge plow attached to the front of the truck I wouldn't have given it another thought, but as it was I wondered why he was even out. It hasn't snowed yet and there's nothing for a snowplow driver to do.
I drove on, letting the scene slip into the back of my mind and it was three blocks later when I saw the next one. He was stopped at a light and as I crossed his path I had to ask again, "Why are the snowplows out tonight?"
At Preston I had to stop and across my path, on the green, another snowplow trundled down the street. This was too much and I slipped in behind him. I guess curiosity was getting to me, but there was also a fair bit of indignation rising; indignation at the thought that the city was paying for at least three snowplows to drive around looking for snow that might not come for another three weeks.
I stayed a healthy distance behind the plow, until I noticed another coming up behind me and further back in the distance I could make out two more. I turned at the next cross street to let them all pass and I counted six in all, following the first one. This was looking more and more suspicious all the time and I followed now, further behind, spying on what they were up to. If it wasn't for the fact that seven snowplows make a lot of noise I would have guessed they were trying to be stealthy. I got lost after the third or forth turn and it wasn't until we stopped that I had a chance to get my bearings.
They had pulled into an enormous paved field to meet their brothers, about forty of them, all at the wheels of a city snowplow. At first I didn't recognize the place but then by a twitch of memory and some imagination, I did. You would have recognized it too if it had been filled with tons of snow, piled to the sky. Snow mixed into a gritty slurry of offal from our city streets, forming the dirtiest, most foul snowhill, a twisted fantasy to anybody with a sled. It was the dumping ground, empty on this early November night, except for close to fifty snowplows now driving in a huge circle, their lights casting about for any signs of intruders.

I can't say how long I was there, trapped in a state of near panic at being discovered while the crazed scene developed in front of my eyes. Part Masonic ceremony, part devil invocation, part feverish celebration during which at least three small cars were symbolically buried under a pretend load of snow, represented by a close to a ton of bleached wood chips followed by drive by laneway blockages and all the while the voices of the drivers could be heard over the noise of those massive engines as they cheered each pass and called out to their leader, who stood above the crowd in the bucket of the biggest truck there. At last he called for calm and with fifty trucks pointing at him he gave thanks to the skies, the city and lead a prayer for a bigger budget.

It was then that I finally found my bearings and could move away, back into the night, creeping to my car, still terrified that I would be discovered and sacrificed; used to consecrate the base of the mammoth snowhill to come. All the way home I tried to calm my fears, telling myself that no matter how powerful they were right now, these men would be out of a budget by January 15th at the latest. But I'm not so certain I'm backing the right guys. I've always supported their cries for more money, in the past, now, however, I'm not so sure we aren't all locked into a never-ending battle with the forces of evil. Be brave, citizens. We need them and in our need they will come, but they're already out spending the money for this year's snow removal and I fear we may not make it to the other side of winter.

Smells like Truth, Must be Truth

Verisimilitude. A literary term.

Say it. Feel it in your mouth. And whenever you have the urge to say something like, "Well, this has the appearance of truth." say instead, "I can appreciate the verisimilitude." This is a guess, but I think it's a combination of 'attitude'(aptitudinem), 'similar'(similis) and 'veracity'(veris), that is to say that something has an 'attitude similar to truth' or verisimilitude.


Other words that are cool:

Effluvium
Arcane
Concatenation
Lachrymose
Gloaming

...but I wouldn't try using them all in the same sentence.

Happiness is a Cold Gun

Another one of my favorite words is serendipity. Its not only the meaning, which is roughly "happy accident" or "accidental discovery", that makes it my favorite, its the spelling; the look of the word. And then you say it and it sounds like a fun word. Alexander Fleming's discovery of penicillin was serendipitous, after noticing some mould had contaminated an old experiment.

One of my own serendipitous moments came during a bad cold a few years ago when after drinking some Neo Citron I took a some Nyquil. Before I passed out some very funny ideas came to me. Of course, the serendipity came when it occurred to me that I might just as well have slipped into a coma. I hope I don't need to tell anyone that it's not a good idea to try this at home.

Others have made some great discoveries that I'm sure were nothing more than happy accidents. For example, freezer chilled underpants in the dog days of summer, or peanut butter, cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches. (O.K., these are mine too. I get distracted easily.)

Zemblanity is serendipity's opposite and it is defined as "making unhappy, unlucky and unexpected discoveries occurring by design", although it seems to me this could be just plain old stupidity. So tell me about your serendipitous moments. Accidents that paved the way for something wonderful, like my very cold underpants. Underpants by the way is, according to me, the funniest word in the English language. That's for another day, however.

Ritual

The sky looks like brushed stainless steel this morning. I can' tell you why I'm up at 7:30 on a Sunday morning, but it might have something to do with Evy crawling all over my head, looking for some one to feed him. Since I'm the only someone here, it's my job. He's napping now, having eaten, and I'm typing.

He was tall, about six foot four. I called him Slim because he hated it. On more than one occasion he tried to swat me but his clumsiness was legendary and when you taunt a giant you'd better be ready to run.

Since I was a teenager I've been an early riser. I need time in the morning for the process of rummaging through the hazy and retreating images of my dreams. There are moments, sitting with a coffee in my hand, where I'm not sure which reality I belong to. I wonder if I'm waking up or falling asleep. I know a few people who catapult out of bed, the panic and the confusion blocking their attempts to think coherently, late for something and cursing the day from its beginning. I've done it once or twice myself, but the mayhem is bad for my constitution so I try to avoid it. The morning is thinking time. Well, trying to think time, I guess.

Two hundred of them stood, their packs at their feet and they swore secrecy and vowed to die before giving up their names. They roamed far and wide and spread fear by their aspect alone. They were honored, out of fear, as heroes although their acts were anything but courageous and when they met each other on the road they would stop to brag about their doings and drink late into the night.

Writing is a must. The mechanics of it force the perspectives into order and the linear nature of it embodies a propulsive force. From here to there. The beginning comes before the end and, in my mind, order is necessary to preserve sanity. Coffee is necessary to preserve wakefulness, my addiction to which is as effective as the cat for getting me out of bed. By pushing my fingers into action and my mind into motion I can focus and the day continues from there without further prodding.

The alley smelled bad and I wondered how long I'd have to wait. What was she doing? My mind wandered for a bit but was snapped back when the light went on. I stood to the side so she wouldn't see me but that blocked my view of the rest of the room. She was alone. That was good. It broke my heart when she brought someone home and if she did I would only watch for a little while, the heavy feelings in my chest finally pushing me out of the alley and home to nothing, home to sit motionless while I imagined the passion and the cries. The light went out and I knew she was undressing for bed; she was too modest to do it with the light on, and when I could sense no more movement in the room I left happy, for now, that she was home, safe and warm in her own bed.

Alright. Now that the freeform aspect of the weblog is done I can move on to some of the other projects. First I'll warm up the coffee, though. I could never adapt myself to drink the stuff cold, even if you give it a name and sell by the vat it's still just cold coffee. Evy has been staring at me for the last couple of minutes wondering how I can sit here wiggling my fingers for hours on end. Or maybe he's wondering if today is the day he'll make his bid for freedom and be done with me for good. More likely, he's wondering if it's worth the trouble to get up off his ass and wander to the kitchen for breakfast part two.

She lay back on me and sighed, deep and trusting. I kissed the top of her head and closed my eyes. I wished we were going home today but we had decided to stay. She wanted to spend one more day on the beach and I can't say no to her. I tried to look into the future but it was cloudy and as I fell asleep the sound of the ocean blended with the beating of her heart and I felt helpless. I don't want to be alone.

Lamb and Fennel

Jules Renard once said, "The only man who is really free is the one who can turn down an invitation for dinner without giving an excuse."

I learned to cook at the feet of a giant of a man, whose appetite for food was approximate to his appetite for alcohol. I say at his feet because he had a tendency to knock you on your ass if you did something wrong. He believed in giving oneself to the discipline and that apprenticeship was a form of slavery.
My first chore, every morning was to make a soup. At first they were little more than broth with vegetables, but I learned how to make creamed and velvet soups soon enough. When I could make a palatable soup from just about anything I was permitted to move onto sauces. As I moved up the hierarchy, I was also permitted to drive his stinking drunk ass home on occasion, and to buy him booze and fix his drinks. He taught me how to torment dishwashers, trick the bar staff into giving us more wine than we needed and to weasel out of a tab.

In Druidic folklore there was only one way to end an apprenticeship and that was to kill your master. With this in mind I began to encourage him to spend more time at the bar. I massaged his ego into believing I worshipped him and that I wanted to prove myself by doing dinner alone. I began to take over the responsibilities of scheduling and the buying and selecting the cuts to be served. I pushed my imagination to the limit to come up with complimentary flavors and my timing became a thing of wonder. I began to school my own apprentice in soups and sauces and when I was ready I challenged the master. After a fifteen minute meeting with the owner I was cleaning out my locker and I passed by the bar on my way out. The fat old bastard was there, a beer in one hand and a waitress in the other, and he smiled at me.

If I had the chance I'd like to thank him for what he taught me, not about cooking but about life. I'd take him out for a beer and tell him what a difference he made in my life. And when he got up to go to the bathroom I'd slip a laxative into his drink. That would wipe the smile from his face.

A Grain of Salt

Mithridates was a very paranoid man. Maybe with good reason. After having killed off, at various times, his parents, his children, his wife (who was also his sister) and quite a few of his enemies, he realized that he might be in danger of retribution. Pontus, the place he called home, was a little too close to Rome and his wavering political allegiance caused Rome some concern. He began to take, in small doses, a number of poisons in order to build up a resistance to them. By the time Lucullus handed over the reigns of war to Pompey, the wiley old Mithridates was pretty near immune to all types of poison generally available at the time. When Pompey crushed his forces in Pontus, Mithridates packed it in and poisoned himself. It didn't work.

Or so the story goes. I'm not sure I can believe that a man, who spent as much time as Mithridates did building up an immunity to poison, would be so stupid. The source of the story
is Pliny the Elder, who was known to pull a story or two out of his ass, but it has been generally accepted for the last two thousand years, so who am I to complain. At any rate, after finding himself still alive Mithridates had a slave stab him a couple of times and then out of fear of reprisal the slave stabbed himself too. Pompey, coming across all this, in the end, was said to have found an elixir which Mithridates apparently had developed as an antidote for his poisoning habit. A mithridate is now known as an anitdote although you won't find that definition in Webster's.

The clue to the veracity of this story, I think, lies in the last line of the 72 ingredients said to be in Mithridates concoction. The antidote should, and I quote, "...be taken fasting, plus a grain of salt." Who can you trust?

One Hell of a Dream

The long conspiratorial road from reform to real change is darkened by overhanging doubts in our basic abilities to communicate our ideas effectively. Will anything ever change or have things changed so much they seem the same? I like to think that we are running, hard, on the spot. Sure, I will likely pay twice as much to heat this dump this winter, but then didn't last year cost me twice as much as the previous year? Last year beef killed, this year chicken, next year it will be fish. 'Chicken Little" is too adult and violent and the "Roadrunner" was too. Just like Hollywood, our social psyche is hooked into a loop that won't allow new ideas to emerge. Our 'complain' mode is still engaged and change represents new topics, not new ideas. Even that complaint is just a re-hash of what's come before. Are we happy yet? The world is still dangerous, hate is still our favorite pastime and people are wearing leg warmers again. No surprise when you've been around for a couple of revolutions.

Zen Buddhists believe that enlightenment comes one person at a time. You take care of business at home and, assuming your neighbors are doing it too, everything will be alright. We just can't resist the opportunity to peak in their windows, late at night, to see if they actually are trying to clean up their acts. On of my favorite examples of this is the shock I see in people's eyes when I throw a pop can into the garbage instead of the recycle bin. "You don't recycle?" I also don't choke the life out of people who disagree with me on who should be allowed to vote, wear pants or marry their housepets. Things are curiously out of whack when in one area of the world you can be put to death for smoking pot and in British Columbia there are whole towns that still think its 1972.

I am, of course, reducing all of this to imbecilic simplicity, but then I wouldn't fit in if I used reality as a basis to form my arguments, now would I? I was told this week that diapers in a land fill represent no more danger than a sheet of paper, Saddam Hussein works for the U.S. and that Tienemen was faked, much like the lunar landings. It's a good thing my attention span is so short.

I'm not listening

"It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. "-Lewis Carroll

Musing aloud that man should have been designed with a window in his chest, Momus was booted out of Olympus for his bad attitude. It's hard to understand what people are up to when it is most likely that they don't know themselves.

Who is swimming in your pool of tears?

Happy Samhain, Everybody!

Today marks the beginning of Samhain, the 'dark half' of the Celtic year. The new year, so to speak. Christians everywhere, being contrary, like to call it All Saints Day or All Souls Day, and like to remember saints, martyrs and their dead, in general. My dead are never far from me, but today represents a special day during which all those who died without cleansing can be beautified. To me, November first is the beginning of the end. The long slow descent into cold, harsh winter. PPhhht.

I do this every year, this list making business, in an effort to try to appreciate the winter months. I vow to get some skates, go downhill skiing, learn how to snowboard, appreciate hot drinks by the fire and buy some better boots, for Christ's sake. Even half of these would lessen the whining and crying I usually content myself with. When I was a kid, the thought of Christmas and the holidays afterwards, kept me afloat until the morning of Jan 1. Then the slow spiral into depression and hibernation would begin. After New Year's Day you should probably avoid me. The north puts on it's long underwear and we disappear for a few months.

Saints I like to remember:

Saint Anthony the Grape
Saint Augustine the Hippo
Saint Basil the Herb
Saint Denis of Vanier
Saint Hugh of Lincoln Town Car
Saint James the Great
Saint James the O.K.
Saint Jean Claude Van Damme
and
Saint Amour de Witherspoon

If you've never heard of some of these guys don't be surprised; I was raised Anglican.

Three

As the air cools and the days grow shorter, my metabolism has slowed and, at first, the changes were subtle. The molting started slowly, and I was stuck, transfixed by horror as layers dropped away until I was covered by raw pink skin. The air circulating around me stung and I couldn't find a comfortable position to lie in. I kept telling you I'd be alright but even now I don't know if that's true.

At 762 miles per hour, at sea level, the compression and deflection of souls would make it seem like I was a comet, throwing detritus into the human atmosphere. Ernst Mach was measuring colliding egos long before anyone broke the sound barrier. Despite the noise I can still hear your complaints. Clean your own house before you try coming into mine. It's human nature to blame someone else for the mistakes you make, but that's not going to get you off the hook.

In the eighteenth century an expression arose because of oarsmen who missed the water and slowed the forward momentum of the boat. Today I'd like to pull it out and dust it off, because, honey, you are missing the water and slowing things down. I know you're not really trying to catch a crab, but that's all you'll have left if you don't keep paddling.

Since Roman times, lovers have broken coins in two, each keeping half as a pledge of fidelity and affection. You'll find her, even though it may take years under the sheets trying to find a perfect match to the jagged edge you carry. And though it may cut into the palm of your hand, remember that you can't spend it, but you can have some fun trying.

Dreams filled with images of the Halifax Gibbet. Six days I stood with my head in the stocks, a couple of yards of cloth draped over my head, and the memory of being kicked in the ass by everyone who passed by. But like the running man before me, I'm quick and light on my feet. He thought that once he crossed Hebble Creek he was free, but not me. I'm going to keep on running.