Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

A Stupendous Evening of Absolutely Nothing

Posted: May 24, 2011 in Life
Tags: , , ,
2

The slim dark-haired girl with the slight sexy figure wrapped in the tight little black dress sauntered over to the table.

“Well, hello” she said.  “What can I get you?”

The patron smiled. He was a sucker for pretty faces.

“Just a Chardonnay for now, thanks.”

“Sure.  Be right back.”

She turned and sauntered way, with the same careless sway that high heels scrambled to enhance.

He opened his iPad, and turned to the espionage novel he’d been munching on.

It was hard to concentrate.   The piped in music in the dark bar was infectious.   Mick Jagger’s “Dancing in the Street” demanded some attention.  He read a few words, and then looked around.

The server sexily sauntered over again, with a massive tray – which held just one drink.   “Here you go, hun.”

Hun.  He smiled quietly.  Such a word was usually the purview of buxom older women, who endeared all and sundry to their tender affections.  It was the clarion call to favours, usually manifesting in the form of tips.   It seemed odd coming from a 20-something little college girl.

Back to the book.

Except that an older couple showed up not two minutes later.    Unremarkable, except for his booming voice.   The quiet reader quickly learned that this couple was celebrating twelve years of dating, or something.  Anyway, it was twelve years since their first date.   And as the music on the speaker system changed over to Lily Allen’s “The Fear”, the boisterous man and his date began to sing along.

At first, the reader was annoyed.  He muttered an aggrieved curse.  “Oh for fuck’s sake…..”

And then he found the humour, and began to laugh, shoulders shaking.   “Money for Nothing” began to play.

“WE GOT TO INSTALL….MICROWAVE OVENS…CUSTOM KITCHEN….DELIVEREHEHEHEEED”   The man and his wife/girlfriend sang with the gusto of bottomless lungs.

He smiled.   Maybe it was the Chardonnay.  He wasn’t sure.  But he wasn’t annoyed.

Against the backdrop of the singing, he found his way back to the book.   People died horribly.  One guy was strung up in a torturous position.  He worried about dying, even as his girlfriend raced to his rescue.

More wine came, and the reader imbibed.   Even more arrived, like magic, and like magic, it disappeared.

The older couple eventually paid their bill and left.   The reader read.

The sexy server came back and quietly placed a plate of Bruschetta on the table.  He was oblivious, until his hand hit the plate.  He looked up and saw her across the room, smiling.  He transacted another smile, and mouthed a “thank you!” in reply.

As the Chardonnay evening blurred, he managed a few tweets on Twitter.   In the Olympic sport of Inebriated Tweeting, he might have managed a Bronze, but that was it.

Cute brunette brought the bill.  He paid it, while silently thrumming to the sound of “I’m So Glad” by Creme.

It was nothing remarkable.   Just a pleasant night.

Still though – it was something.

Longing for The Rapture – or a Heart Attack

Posted: May 22, 2011 in Life, living
Tags: , , , , ,
18

So we’ve come through the weekend and no rapture has occurred.  No planes fell out of the sky, pilotless, no suddenly empty chairs at restaurants, no sets of clothes sitting on park benches, no empty operating tables, with nurses and doctors scratching their heads, wondering where the open heart surgery patient went.

For most of us, life goes on.  We never gave much credence to the 89-year old preacher who predicted this weekend would be IT anyway.  We made plans for Saturday and Sunday (today) and for next week, confident we’d see our way to getting them done.

Not so for a great number of other people though.  Many – and a great majority didn’t go to the same church as Rev. Camping – were truly disappointed.  One of my FB friends lamented this way of thinking, noting that many of her friends had offered up, without sarcasm, the sincere wish that the world would have ended this weekend.

I know for a fact that they mean it, because I used to wish the same thing.  If you’re ultra-religious, you dress up that wish in robes of sanctity, by expressing the belief that you just want to “be with Jesus” finally.   You lie to yourself and to others.

What you really mean though is that you’re trapped in a life that offers nothing but a grinding emotional, spiritual and intellectual poverty; a life married to a spouse whom you’re growing to despise, because the Bible says that once married you must stay that way; a life that negates your sexuality – if you enjoy it too much, you’re probably putting your soul in peril; a life in which the only promise of joy is one that is provided after you slip this mortal coil.

If you’re young, and living with a menacing, raging alcoholic father, in a family of six kids with the constant night-time sounds of him trying his best to beat the shit out of her, you’re miserable too.  God hasn’t answered your prayers and killed him, so you kind of wish the rapture would come.  And on a Saturday night when it’s really bad, and all you can hear is the bellowing, and the crying and the sounds of fist hitting flesh, you want the rapture to come now, damn it.

And later on, when you’ve married someone who has the same rage issues as your father (a psychiatrist’s money train condition, if ever there was one), and you’ve realized what you’ve done, you wish in those silent moments of thought, that she would maybe get hit by a car.   You gasp at your own thought, and immediately repent of it.  Then there are times when it’s bad, and you wish YOU were dead.

“Please God – take me home now” becomes a constant prayer.

And then later on, just because you’re morbidly curious, you begin googling ways to kill yourself.  And then there’s that time when you were driving down the road, late at night, and there’s a little voice in your head, suggesting that it wouldn’t take much, at the speed your car is going.   Just a little twitch to the right, and it would be all over.  There’s a whole forest of trees there.  Just need to smash hard into one of them, and you’re home-free.

What really makes me sad is knowing that the above is true for so many people.  Mostly those who’ve never quite matured in their thinking, who don’t know that they can author their own changes.  People who’ve never taken the time to examine themselves, and find out who they are.  People who are *still* wrapped up in the cling-wrap of religious dogma, or in the expectations of others.

People who have never learned what it means to LIVE.

My process started the night I almost ran the car off of the road.  The force of that impulse was so strong, that I realized I was in trouble.  So I sought help.  The family physician – who, though not a psychiatrist, happened to specialize in cognitive therapy – helped me through it.   It took a bit of time to realize that those “little voices” didn’t just get there.  We talk to ourselves all the time.  She told me how to figure out what I was telling myself, to pay attention, and even to write it down.  At first, I was skeptical.

“No way, Doc.  I don’t talk to myself.  I’m troubled but not crazy.”

“We all do” she said.  “Here’s how you figure it out:  the next time you feel a strong emotion – disgust, joy, sadness, anger, whatever – stop and look back to what you were thinking, or feeling just before that emotion arrived.  It’ll take time, because emotions don’t just suddenly happen: they build up over a stretch of thoughts.  Then, write it down.  Do this every time.”

I did it.  And discovered she was right.

Then I realized I’m not a captive victim.  That I have options and choices.

One of those choices was about my marriage, which was clearly on the rocks.   Self-illumination is great, but the slow build-up of confining dogma is a tough trap to crawl out of.  It means re-examining every single thing you’ve ever believed.   I had to start slow.

The particular dogma that kept me captive in a miserable marriage was this one:  God hates divorce.  And the way I finally saw my way around that one had to do with Jesus’ stance on sinning – which He described as an occurrence of the heart, long before the deed.

So I asked myself, honestly:  “when do you think divorce happens, in God’s eyes?  Does it happen when the judge brings the gavel down?”

And I answered myself, with relief:  “it happens in the heart, long before a lawyer learns of your intent.”

My wife and I agreed we needed to separate.   So I went looking for an apartment, knowing full well I couldn’t expect much, since as a result of the separation agreement, much of my income would be gone.

I found a place.  It was a little one-bedroom apartment above a store-front in the downtown section of the city.  I could live there, just existing really. I was worried though, because my credit rating was sucking mud at the time.

I remember the day I got the call and was told the apartment was mine.  I thanked the landlord and then went to a nearby diner to have breakfast.  Before the waitress brought my order, I sat and thought about it all.  And suddenly, in that very public place, I got a lump in my throat.  Nothing worse than being a big macho guy, suddenly realizing you’re going to have some unwanted tears.    But that’s what happened.  I was relieved, elated, joyous.   That vicious weight had resided in my chest for so long, I didn’t realize just how heavy it was until it finally lifted, the day I was told my apartment application was approved.

(I got around the sudden tears by fumbling around and grabbing my wrap-around sunglasses and shoving them quickly on my face)

The other tool of release from dogma came through a book I’ve spoken about many times:  Jitterbug Perfume.   If you want to read a book about *life*, that’s the book to read.  Unstopping full-force throttle with no reverse – that’s the author’s approach to it.   My stance on life was once again taken from a scripture that said that Jesus came so that we could have life, abundantly – and He didn’t mean “but only after the rapture” – He meant here and now.

So, with that scripture, and with “Jitterbug Perfume” in hand, I made a few important decisions.  Starting with “I’m going to fucking well LIVE, damn it.”  And I lost weight, started taking acting classes, and improvisation classes, going up on stage, going to Paris, skydiving.

Still, there are those out there who don’t realize that they have options too.  I meet them all the time.  Their common refrain is “oh I could never do that”.  Or there’s the equally troubling “must be nice to be able to do all that you’re doing.”

There’s the knowledge that they’re often that way because of a lifetime of conditioning.  I don’t know how to shake them out of it, and believe me, I’ve tried.  Many times.  Often, I’ve been exasperated, and in one case, ended up raising my voice a bit.  Not proud of that last one, because all it did to serve was to push that person away.

It’s people like that who say they wish the Rapture had occurred this weekend, and that they’re now disappointed.   Even though I have a life example to give them – my own – for them, it changes nothing.

I guess there’s wisdom sometimes in doing what you can, and then walking away.

Unless I’m missing something?  Anything?  If you have answers, I’d like to hear them, please.  Or just share your own experience.

Wolf-Yoga

Posted: May 14, 2011 in humor, Life
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I’m going to invent a new type of discipline.  Going to call it Wolf-Yoga – or something else as equally narcissistic.   It won’t be anything like the usual types of yoga (not that I’m all that aware of the various types of yoga).  It won’t be a stretching-get-in-touch-with-your-pancreas type of exercise.  Its main source of Chi-enrichment will be Chardonnay.  On Saturday night.  With a good book.

Wolf-Yoga will demand self-accountability.  Having problems eating too much?

The mantra you will repeat to yourself just once, consists of one word only.

STOP.

You’ll have to say the word out loud.  Once.  And then sit and let it resonate.  Let it echo in your head. Think about it.  Ruminate.  Consider.

And then, once you’re completely bored, get up off of your ass and go do something.

TV doesn’t qualify as “do something”.  It qualifies as fat-enhancement.

Wolf-Yoga will require a daily disciplined exercise, involving the lips of your face and of your soul.  (Lips of your soul.  I like that.  It’s deep.  I’m so damned impressed with myself right now.  Everyone should be.)

If you listen closely to what your inner self is saying – and quite often it comes out of your outer self too – you’ll hear complaints.  “Damn, I’m tired.  Geeze, it’s cold out.  Oh my dear sweet Lord do I ever hate my fucking job”)

When you realize you’re saying this, close your lips (soul and face) immediately.

If you’re a girl, wag a virtual finger in your virtual face as a means of self-shame.  Tell yourself “don’t do this, girlfriend. You’re better than your complaints.”

If you’re a guy, lift your left foot up, and then stomp it down hard on your right.   Then say “man up, dude.  Let both testicles drop.  Stop being such a little girl.”

Wolf-Yoga has no tolerance for complaints.

It does, however encourage change.   Wolf-Yoga understands that change quite often is invigorating, and it cleanses the soul, or Chi or whatever.  Anyway it’s good, sometimes.

You’re fat?  Wolf-Yoga demands that you don’t blame your sedentary job, or the proximity of your favourite café that features those brownies that you just can’t resist.  Wolf-Yoga says that your fat (or bad job, or bad relationship, or gnawing loneliness)  is a treatable condition.  So treat it.

You don’t like your job, and you’ve been stomping on your foot all day and you’re still talking to yourself about it?  Find a way to change it.  You only live once, so why spend so much time doing something you hate?  Are you being a martyr?  Is that it?  In Wolf-Yoga there are no martyrs.  Only potential candidates for satisfied lives. most of whom are still sleep secure in the fake safety of their procrastination, which they mistake for self-compliance – a willingness to “settle” for the status quo.  How often have our friends told us not to “settle” for Mr. and Mrs. Right Now?  If it’s true for our prospective mates, how much more true is it for us?

Wolf-Yoga does not tolerate self-martyrdom, nor does it put up with false selflessness.  You’re staying at your job, or in the relationship you hate, because you don’t want to put anyone out?  What the hell are you?  The quintessential Canadian or something?   Get cool with being selfish.  It’s how you survive.

Oh yeah – and Wolf-Yoga really doesn’t like preachers, and takes a dim view of the writer of this blog, who seems to have set himself up as one.  Wolf-Yoga prefers the doing to the talking.

Wolf-Yoga seems to resemble my crotchety old grandmother, actually.

Should

Posted: May 8, 2011 in Life
Tags: , , ,
15

Don’t know about you but the next time someone in real life starts a sentence that starts “Wolf, you should…” I’m going to pay real close attention.  Probably the first thing out of my mouth will be “why?”

Followed by “why?”

And the answer would be followed by “yes, but why?”

Like some snot-nosed little kid who truly wants to know, but comes off looking like a little shit disturber.

I’m not talking about logical “shoulds” – they’re welcome.  “You shouldn’t touch the stove when it’s hot” is generally a good idea.  As is “you should save your money” and “you should be careful about what you eat”.  Those are all designed with your well-being in mind.  It’s the moral “shoulds” that interrupt me.  The “shoulds” that get blurted out from some long-held tradition which isn’t easily explained.

Like “you should go to church”.  Or “you should give to panhandlers”.

Or, “Wolf, you should stay married.”

“Why?”

“Cause God hates divorce.”

“Yeah, the Bible says that.  But why?”

“Well….”

“Is it because the culture of the time was pretty lenient towards marriage and divorce, and people had a propensity for taking almost-one-night-stands and using marriage as the moral tool to make that happen?  Is it because all one had to do once the deed was done was say ‘I divorce you I divorce you I divorce you.’?”

“Well the Bible doesn’t give parameters for God’s emotion.”

“Well, do you have emotion?”

“That’s a stupid question.  Of course I do.”

“And do you have reasons for your emotions?”

“Yes, but so what?”

“And are you made in the image of God?”

“Yes, but…”

“And so doesn’t it follow that if you’re made in His image, with emotions that came from Him, it’s likely He has reasons for His emotions?”

“I suppose, but…”

“So aren’t you trying to set yourself up as moral judge here?  Aren’t you trying to paint a multi-coloured situation as black and white?”

———–

Man, I wish I had all of the above handy when I was still going to church and believing that stuff.

But the thing is:  this kind of “should” nonsense happens inside circles of people who aren’t necessarily religious too.  People want to feel morally right about everything, so they deny their feelings, by putting a big old “SHOULD NOT” stamp across their emotions.

The thing that brought this my attention recently was the fortunate demise of Osama Bin Laden.   At first, when I saw updates on folks’ Facebook pages talking about how it’s good that he’s dead, but we shouldn’t be rejoicing, I thought “well, that’s typically a religious -wrongheaded- approach”.   I entered into some pretty heated conversations about it, to no avail.

But then I saw the same sentiment being uttered by non-religious people.  People who felt it was wrong to be happy about anyone’s death.  Even Noam Chomsky has a problem with his death; he tried to paint a comparison between troops going in and murdering Osama (which is clearly what they did, as he was unarmed), and terrorists coming in and murdering George Bush.

What I’m really hearing people say is this:

“I feel good, and maybe even joyful that the murdering terrorist tyrant Osama is dead, but I feel bad about feeling good.”

What nonsense.

Maybe the problem is one of distance from 9/11.  It seems likely that, had Osama been killed within a few weeks of 9/11, very few would have felt the least bit bad about feeling good that he was dead.  That swelling feeling of justified vengeance would have been too overwhelming.  Anyone who raised an objection would be viewed with high distaste; they would have been seen as hopelessly naïve and stupid.

It got me thinking about other things in our lives where “should” takes the place of honesty.  One of the pitfalls of growing out of childhood is that we become so socialized that we forget the joy of saying what we think.   Many old people have figured that out, and have reverted to blurting their honest thoughts, which is off-putting to so many of us.  Can you imagine a truly truthful conversation among your peers?

How many times has “should” ended up shutting your mouth?  I mean fine, you saved on an argument, but at what cost?

This is the kind of stuff I think about, at 2:30 in the morning when normal people are fast asleep.   When I *should* be asleep too.

The Gardener

Posted: April 10, 2011 in Life
Tags: ,
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You need to understand:  she would not have approved this post.  It wasn’t her style.  She was not a braggart – about herself or any of her kids.  She preferred actions to speak for themselves.

She’s not here to stop me.   And it’s a post I’ve wanted to write for quite some time – since 2004 actually.

We only know bits of her childhood from what’s come out in passing.  We knew she was a little heavy as a child.  She lost the fat once she hit her teens.  Apparently she was an amazing baseball player.  She mentioned that she was always late for her games, so she had to scramble and ride her bike, often arriving covered in sweat.  It was said that she was an awesome figure skater too.

She was a devout Catholic and made sure her kids were washed and dressed and out the door every Sunday morning.  Sometimes she allowed them to attend the Saturday night mass.   She smiled to herself as she watched her brood all go through the requisite Catholic rituals:  First Communion, where the girls dressed in little wedding gowns, and the boys dressed in little dark suits, hair all slicked back;  then Confirmation, at which both girls and boys dressed in wine-coloured robes.   Her kids all remembered the heady smell of incense, and the dry drone of the old priest as he mumbled seemingly magical incantations over them all.

Not much is known of her interactions with her parents.   Her father was a happy drunk, which her mother tolerated with exasperation.   Psychiatrists and psychologists theorize that quite often, we marry people who are just like the person with whom we had the most conflict as children, in a vain attempt to “fix” that broken relationship.  “Maybe” they figure “if you marry someone like your dad or mom, and make a successful relationship out of it, you’ll realize you weren’t quite the failure you thought you were.”  Validation.

Whatever.

Anyway, the woman married someone who turned out to be a drunk.   We know he was much worse than her father though.  This particular drunk was angry, even when sober.  When he drank, he become a monster.  He often bellowed in rage at the least little thing.  Her kids recall many times when the bellowing stopped, and they could hear the scuffling sounds of him trying desperately to hit her.  He succeeded more often than not.

Her father died.  I guess she must have caught her husband at a time when he was in a good mood and not drinking, because for some reason he agreed to let her mom live with them.  Things were OK for a while.  The angry drunk times lessened for a time, and the beatings ceased.  We all know what familiarity breeds though, and this family was no different.  Eventually, the man’s true colours came out, and the dreaded nights of roaring and beatings began again.  This time, her mother tried many times to intervene – she yelled at him, and stepped between him and her daughter when he raised his fist.  More often than not, this caused him to stop.  At other times he shoved her out of the way and managed to land one or two good ones.

She suffered from migraines and so there were times when he saw an opportunity – it was those times he chose to hit her hard on the head.  There was a time when she was pregnant and he hit her in the stomach.

During all of these years, she managed to raise her kids.  She taught them all to do their best in school, and to be respectful.  She taught them humility.  She didn’t want to hear anyone boasting.  She taught them to survive their father, her husband.  She taught them to behave quietly, to not set him off.  They learned.  It was only later in life that they understood that abusive drunks will find excuses to lash out.  It doesn’t matter how well-behaved their spouses or kids are – there will always be a reason to be angry, and to hit them.

Her kids excelled at life, at social interactions, and in their schoolwork.   She never praised them directly, preferring instead to tell them what others said of them, how they were the most well-behaved, pleasant kids ever.  And they were.  They also developed a sense of humour, no doubt because of all of the drama.  She encouraged this, and laughed right along with them.   She made sure they expressed themselves.  She was all about openness, or so her kids thought.

One day, after the kids were grown and gone from the nest, the Beast died.  There was a palpable lightening of atmosphere in her house, now occupied only by her and her two cats.  Her six kids came around often.  Most of them did anyway.  The oldest boy didn’t visit as often as he could have –  a fact he often regrets.

They had all grown into respectable successful adults, a fact all of them attribute to her warm successful efforts at raising them during the midst of strife and upset.  She was happy about this.  Quite often she could be found dancing in her living room, her and her cats.  The fear was gone.  The anxiety was a thing of the past.  She lived about seven years with this newfound joy in life.  Her brother and in-laws often complained that she was never at home – she was apparently on the road all the time, visiting people, making the rounds.   Her oldest son couldn’t have been happier for her.

One day, she went to see the doctor about a pain in her leg.

Funny thing about cancer – the first symptoms show up in the oddest of places.  It wasn’t until about three months later that doctors discovered she was riddled with it.  Her lungs especially.   Her fierce independence asserted itself, and she was adamant that she would not go into a nursing home.  So her kids took turns staying with her, making sure she took all of her medication.  When the oldest son stayed with her, he noted that she often complained about being cold.  Not surprising, as she was all of ninety pounds to begin with.

During these final few weeks, she made a point of giving gifts to all of her kids – things she had wanted to give them, but knew had to be given long before their birthdays.  She seemed to have recognized an element in her oldest boy that he was just discovering, and gifted him with a warm blanket with an amazing picture of a wolf.

There were hospital visits.  She took to a wheelchair, an oxygen tank as her constant companion.  During her final hospital stay, some of her kids managed to smuggle her cats into her private room.  During all of the pain, this particular act brought the only smile to her face, if only for a short time.

She lasted about seven months, from first doctor visit to the morning she died.

It was only after she died that her kids realized that she hadn’t shared all of her life with them.  The woman had some thoughts she kept to herself.  They were so used to seeing her as “mom” that it never occurred to her that she was a woman with facets that didn’t necessarily include her family.  They found an old calendar from the year when her mother died.   Scrawled across the month were the words “Mom, why did you leave me?”   The pain she must have had at her mother’s passing was heart-breaking.

Her oldest boy provided the only final gift he could give her, and it was read at her funeral, seven years ago.  I wrote a poem for her, entitled

The Gardener

Through mists of rain and clump of thunder

Gasps of wind, midst whipping branches

Small group of seedlings cower low

Aware of nothing, with blinding future

A hand scoops down, grasping her prodigies

Almost motionless, with musical flourish

Looks fruitlessly for soil, unblemished and rich

Nettles abound, and dirt is scarce

Hands pricked and hurting, but children are planted

Nurtured and blessed, weeded and pruned

Plants flourish and grow, abundantly filled

With music and water, overflowing and fruitful

Her blossoms now strong, the gardener rises

Brushing her knees and wiping her face

Feet start to move, independent of thought

Nature’s music strums throughout the glade

And the gardener, the gardener

She dances

The sun overhead, beats rhythms with abandon

The gardener laughs, arms wide in delight

She moves through the thicket, the garden, the forest

Alive and aware, unfettered and strong

The sky darkens quickly and the music falters

The thorns of old now cripple her fingers

Her feet stomp angrily, but lose their focus

She lies down on the loam, while she catches her breath

Her heart beats slower, yet the music remains

Background only, nearly inaudible

Nature’s drums thrum softly

The work not yet done

A greater gardener scoops low

And gathers this jewel

With a smile on His face

He moves to His field

And plants her anew

Midst blossoms well loved

Her dream now renewed

More free than she imagined

She dances with Him

With her mother and brothers

Not chained to the sunlight

Dancing day, dancing night

Joy in her face

Laughter in her limbs

Gentle the gardener

She dances, she dances

Real or Nicely Dressed Scam

Posted: March 30, 2011 in humor, Life
Tags: , , ,
26

Having become completed disgusted with the (lack of) water pressure in my apartment, and having gotten so tired of uselessly swearing at the severe temperature swings when trying to have a shower, I decided to explore the internet for some decent apartments.  I want a step up this time, and want not just good consistent water pressure and temperatures, but climate control as well.

I saw a promising ad, and put in a query to discover more about the apartment.  Here’s the response I received (key information has been redacted; it might be that the person who responded is legit).  Put yourself in my place, and consider your own reactions to this response.

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Subject: RE: $800 / 2br – Spacious and large 2 bedroom 2bathroom apartment (Downtown Toronto)
Reply-To:

Hi,
    Thanks for your interest in wanting to be my tenant. I am looking for a responsible & clean tenant that will be able to take good care of my apartment because I work as Research Associate in Molecular Imaging Research/Neurology and I do travel a lot, Presently I am in United Kingdom for a research and I don’t know when I will return back to Canada that’s why am looking for a Tenant who will live in the apartment and take care of it as i dont want to sell it. The apartment is available for long term and short term lease is also accepted.
   The apartment is located at (redacted)

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I didn’t start looking for problems until I read through the entire message.  Let’s examine this: the man currently owns the apartment.   He has provided information that theoretically should be of no interest to me.  But he has provided it for a reason: to establish credibility.  He owns the apartment but travels a lot and is currently out of the country.  The message he’s conveying is that as the potential renter, I can’t meet him to discuss the apartment.  And because he’s the owner and not here, I can’t even get in to see the apartment.  I must therefore rely on what he says and on the pictures he chooses to provide.

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when i come back to canada, i will not be living in the apartment as i am about to buy a new house. The apartment is furnished but if you need it unfurnished, i can order for the furnitures be moved to storage. The rent is inclusive of the below listed utilities.

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Translation: “don’t worry about being kicked out when I come back.  And furnishings aren’t a problem either, if you don’t have any.  If you do, the furniture in the apartment can be removed, at my expense.  No worries for you as the renter at all.”

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• High Speed Internet
• In-Suite Laundry
• Large in-suite storage
• Cable

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Check it out!  With a fully furnished (or unfurnished) apartment that you may never have to leave, you also get internet and cable TV.  Such a deal

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Its a spacious and lovely 2-bedrooms 2bathrooms and 1 storage furnished apartment, Utilities are included and Pets are allowed. Kitchen completely equipped, Kettle – Toaster – Dishwasher – Freezer – Microwave – Oven – Dryer – Heat – Water – Washing Machine and Electric..

   I want you to note that I am a kind and honest man and also I spent a lot on my property that I want to give you for rent, so I will solicit for your absolute maintenance of the apartment and I would want you to treat it as your own, I would like you to keep it tidy all the time I also want you to let me have trust in you as I always stand on my word,the rental fees is $800 per month, i require first and last month rent. I will like you to drive by to the building at your convenient time to view the exterior of the building for you to know where the apartment is located. Find attached, some of the interior pictures of the apartment for you to know what the inside looks like.

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More bragging about the man himself.  You can definitely trust him because he says you can.  He notes, almost as an aside, that he requires first and last month’s rent.  Of course that’s standard for any apartment.  He suggests I drive by the apartment to see what it looks like.  Having provided the address perhaps he has forgotten Google street view.  I looked.  There’s a condo building there.  It’s a real address.  The problem is: is it his?

He has also helpfully provided some pictures, proving (in his mind) his trustworthiness. He knows the renter will want to see the apartment but, alas, he can’t be there to show it.  So sad.  Here are some pics to help with the decision-making.

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   I will be shipping the keys and documents of the apartment to you through DHL express next day delivery as soon as we have concluded. Once you have seen the exterior of the building and wish to continue, email me asap so that i can send you the rental application form.
 i can be reached on (UK phone number redacted).

Regards
(redacted)

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The deal is simple:  after the cheque clears, he’ll be certain to send the keys and rental application form.  No problem. 

Oh wait.  Problem.  Usually the application comes first; a credit check is done and THEN you hand over the keys.  But hey – he’s across the ocean so we’ll just assume the renter is good to go, as long as his cheque clears.  

Note too his use of the English language, with errors all over the place.  You would think that a person who works, as he indicates, “as (a) Research Associate in Molecular Imaging Research/Neurology” he would have had a fairly hefty education and would have known some basics about the language.  Below are the pictures he included:

So let me ask:  would YOU rent from this guy?

Paradigm Delight

Posted: March 20, 2011 in Life, religion
Tags: , , , , ,
12

I’ve tried to write about this before, and have never felt that I’ve been able to do it justice.  Now that it’s 3:00 a.m. and there’s a virus keeping me awake, maybe I can form the right thoughts a little better.  You can be the judge.

When you grow up in a fairly strict Roman Catholic household, you learn early on that every new minute is a new opportunity to sin.  As a child you learn to scramble and remember those multiple sins committed during the week so that you can vomit them all out to the priest at confession time on Saturday night.  As an adult, you wonder how the priest ever kept a straight face, as he listened to the tortured guilt of six, seven and eight year olds, as they detailed their nefarious deeds.  Those whispered confessions of stealing that cookie, or of sticking their tongues out at the teacher when her back was turned.

We learned guilt, and we learned it well.  I was of the opinion that, from the moment I left the confessional on Saturday night, absolved of all of my sins, I had only a short time before they began to accumulate again.  I did the math.  I knew that the most I could hope for, if I wanted to go directly to heaven at my death, was to be killed within ten minutes of my confession.  After that, there would be residual sin on my soul, and so, being baptized and confirmed, I could maybe expect to sit around, burning just a little bit in the cleansing fires of purgatory.  I hoped there would be loved ones who would continue to pray on my behalf so that I didn’t get too roasted for too long.   A few centuries maybe.

Death therefore had a more ominous meaning to me than merely the cessation of life.

Of course, the priest had a much harsher opinion of my destination, I think, when I became a Protestant.  He was angry and red-faced when I quoted scripture at him, refuting the idea that we need to go to confession at all.  “There is one mediator between man and God – Jesus Christ” I told him.  “It doesn’t say that we need to talk to a priest”.    Confident in my belief, I stared at him, daring him to contradict me.

“Who the hell are you to read the Bible?” he roared.  “You’re not qualified.  It takes years of seminary and study to understand it.”

The priest was not a nice man, often given over to rage, especially at the pulpit.  And now, at me.

I left his place that night, more confident than when I walked in, that I was right and he was a false teacher.

I learned, from that experience, and from many sermons from the Baptist pulpit of the church I attended, that there is only black and white.  Either you’re for truth, or you’re listening and believing lies.  There was no in-between.

It was comfortable.  Safe.

The Catholic Church taught me guilt.  The Baptist Church taught me intolerance.  To be fair, maybe neither of them intended it, but that’s what I learned.

Now that I knew I could confess my sins directly to God, I no longer had to wait for a week to get free of sins.  I just had to remember to confess right away.   It seemed to me that God barely tolerated me, sometimes.

And then……

I don’t know how it happened, but someone invited me to a night time youth gathering in a large Anglican cathedral in Toronto.   The architecture of this place was immense, almost overwhelming.   You could get lost, trying to see the ceiling.

The first thing I noticed, I think, were the dancers.  Girls who flitted up and down the aisle dancing with wide open smiles of joy.  The next thing I noticed was the music and singing.  There were stringed instruments: guitars, violins, and a bass.  There were trumpets, and a saxophone, and a few others.  There were drums.  There was a pipe organ with a thousand pipes.   And there were some singers, and an amazing pianist. Not all of the instrumentalists were up at the front dais;  many of them were scattered among the congregations in the dark stained oak pews.

From my first visit, I was intrigued.  Maybe “intrigued” isn’t the right word.  “Hooked” might be closer.  Better yet:  it was like I had been eating only peas and carrots and lettuce all my life, and all of a sudden someone introduced me to steak and chocolate and wine.

The music, the singing, the dancing was rich.

And then there was the preaching.

Once the music stopped, I expected the normal session of discussion from the pulpit, where I’d probably learn a few more rules for living.  There were so many, it seemed.  I wondered what this guy – his name was Jim McCallister – would have to say.  In a way, I almost resented the fact that there was a sermon at all.  The music – by the way, almost of all of it was created by the singers and musicians there – was so welcoming and so different.  There was hardly anything particularly religious about any of it.  The styles were all over the map, and included even jazz.  I frankly could not believe it – and to this day, I have yet to find a gathering that has such freedom.

Still, when Jim spoke, everyone quieted down to listen to him.  His voice was mellow and rich, and it resonated.  His message was nothing I’d heard before.  He spoke of acceptance, of not just tolerance from God, but joyful enthusiastic involvement.  His sermons planted a seed in me that took years to nurture before anything obvious became evident.

I learned that mankind was not an aberration; that I was not a mistake.  That, if we are created in His image, then that must mean that our basic nature comes from him.  The desire to love our families and each other is our natural birthright.  That our needs: to eat, to read, to have sex, to laugh, to party, to be irreverent sometimes – comes from Him.

As years went by, I took that a few steps further.  Our penchant for seeing God as a brutal dictator who holds very little tolerance for us seems to me to be a construct of mankind’s need to codify our behaviours.   It’s not real, and it’s not true.

I remember seeing a few people around that amazing youth gathering, who I was pretty sure were gay.  And I remember being confused at how welcoming everyone was to everyone – including the gay folk.  It bothered me, on the legalist level, because it conflicted with much of what I’d been taught thus far.  It’s only in hindsight that I see that it was merely behaviour that was consistent with how they truly felt about God and about mankind’s relationship to Him in general.

In particular, it became evident to me that there was no “us” versus “them” at all.  There was no need to pick sides, because we – meaning all people, not just church goers – were in this together.  It was a revolutionary thought for me, and at the time, it was too much to process.

In looking back, I’m still kind of amazed at how forward thinking this group was.

Slight

Posted: March 12, 2011 in Life, writing
Tags: , , , ,
6

He sat at a table in the bar, a glass of white wine in his right hand, nothing particular on his mind.

The door opened, and a draft of icy air wafted through the place, pushing the warmth on tip-toes into the far reaches of the corners.  Two men followed, grating laughter blatting forth, the result of a pre-emptive drinking exercise.  He could hardly blame them.  The prices at this establishment were just a few dollars shy of obscene.

Both of the women sat at the bar, elbow-deep in excited story-telling.  The blonde glanced over at the newcomers, then quickly back at her friend.   It was too late:  one of the men, the bald one with the overhanging paunch, caught her looking.  A self-assured smile broke out, and he nudged his friend.  Nodded at them.

“Nah.  Leave them alone.  Let’s just get a spot”.  The taller one with the long dark hair started heading toward a table.

“Dude, I’m telling you – she wants me.”  He grinned again and began to make his way to the bar.  The taller one sighed and followed his friend.

The observer sat completely still.  Waiting.

“Hey ladies.  What’s happening?”   The bald guy smiled at them.

The women ignored him, continuing their now-brittle discussion.

The bald guy frowned.  Looked back at his friend.

“Hey.   You don’t have to be so rude” he said.

The dark-haired woman turned slightly in her seat.  Half looked at him.  “Sorry.  We’re not interested.”  Turned back to her friend.

The observer’s eyes glittered.  Anticipating.

“I didn’t ask if you were interested, did I?” said the bald guy, a little louder.  “I’m just making conversation.”

Nothing.

“You know what?  You’re both a couple of bitches”.  The man’s face was now pink.

The tall guy grabbed his arm.  “C’mon Jerry.  Let’s go sit down.”

Jerry shook his hand off.  “No man.  I don’t think there’s any need for this.  I don’t take shit from bitches.  Ever.  It isn’t right.”

The observer sat back, watching.  He could feel the saliva gathering in the back of his mouth.  His arm and leg muscles tensed.   His vision narrowed.

The man’s voice got even louder.  “But I guess bitches gotta be bitches.”  His face turned ugly with rage.  “Right, bitches?”

The bartender walked up.  “Sir, I think you’re going to have to leave.”

Jerry glared at him, fuming.  “Oh I’ll leave.  Just as soon as I get an apology from these bitches.”  Turned back to the women.   “How about it, bitches?  Hey?”

The women had stopped talking.  They weren’t looking at him.  They just sat there, rigid.

The friend spoke.  “Jerry, come on.  Let’s go.  There’s another bar down the street.”

Jerry whipped around.  Glared at his friend.  “Pete, fuck off.”  Turned back to the women.  “I asked you bitches for a fucking apology.  What’s it going to be?”

The observer stood up, scraping his chair loudly on the floor.  All of them looked at him.

He slowly sauntered to the bar, empty wine glass in his hand.  Stood between Jerry and the woman.  “I’d like another glass of wine, please.”

“Hey asshole.  You’re in my way.  We were talking.”

The observer put his hands down to his sides.  Turned and stared at the bald man.  Said nothing.

Jerry looked at him.  Huffy and upset.

The observer felt the growl, deep in his chest.  Clamped down on it.  Continued to stare at the bald man.   Every muscle was pulsing.  Ready.

A few seconds elapsed, as they stared at each other.  The bartender backed away.  Reached into his pocket.  Probably to get his cell phone.  Jerry’s eyes began to dart back and forth.  Confused.  He dropped his glance.

The observer looked at his friend.  Nodded.  The friend gave a slight nod back.

“C’mon Jerry.  Let’s go.”

Face entirely red, Jerry shrugged.  Both of them turned away.

The observer watched them leave the bar.  Felt his muscles and face relax.  He could feel his heart slowing down.

The bartender gave the observer his glass of wine.   “This one’s on the house.”

The observer nodded.   Grabbed the wine.  Turned back to go to his table.   The dark haired woman touched his arm.

“Thank you.”

The observer turned.  Smiled.  “I didn’t do anything.”

 

Escape

Posted: February 23, 2011 in Life
Tags: , , , , ,
20

Imagine a thin little boy. Maybe he’s 60 pounds or so. And, as he hasn’t yet reached adolescence, he is still short.

Now, imagine a large black-haired man, who is roughly six feet tall. He usually walks around without a shirt on, so that you could see his massive belly stretched out over the belt of his pants. This mans weighs in at around 350 pounds.

Now…what if the little boy (being little) is naturally timid? It’s not that he’s fearful of life, exactly. It’s just that he hasn’t quite figured it all out yet. He still thinks that he is relatively safe and that life owes him a roof over his head and food. Most children think this way. It’s normal. It’s the way it should be.

And what if the big thick-waisted man happens to have a problem with anger? And what if this anger problem is augmented by a massive drinking problem?

Conflict.

The little boy (being little) has no where else to go, when the big guy loses his temper. Worse, the little boy (being little) has no idea what conditions need to be in place for the man to blow up. It could be a little thing: like a toy that wasn’t put away, that the man stepped on. It could be a glance that the little boy gave his father.

“Maybe” thinks the little boy “I’m just not good enough. Maybe I just need to try harder.”

At what, he has no idea. Still though – the nest is in an uproar, and it’s the responsibility of this little guy to take care of things. Make things right.

So he tries. He picks up his toys. He works hard at his schoolwork and brings home As and Bs.

Each weekend though, his father still drinks. And the boy watches, now in fear, as the ambience of the household grows dark with the imminent storm. Eventually, every weekend, the man lashes out in rage. Usually the boy finds a place to hide, while his mother, sometimes his grandmother, intervenes. Often, one or the other of them will be hit. Occasionally, the police are called. But they don’t take the man away. They just talk to him. Tell him to settle down.

The boy fails. He has no one to tell him that it’s impossible to win. There’s no counsellor who can point out that it doesn’t matter what he does, or doesn’t do – the man will get drunk and he will get angry. The boy is certain he has a part to play, and that if he just acts differently, maybe dad won’t bellow with rage.

The years go by. The weekend rage turns into daily storms. The man is drinking more.

The boy has grown into his teens. So he’s learned to stay away from home as much as possible. He hides out in the library, reading books.

Such wonderful books! It starts out with the Narnia series, and then moves to some of Mark Twain’s works. Then he discovers the worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien. Lord of the Rings.

The boy, now a teenager, is hooked. Fantasy and Science Fiction have wrapped their arms around him. For those few moments when he can enter those worlds, he can leave this one behind. The one with the anger, and chaos and the drinking. He doesn’t have to think about his behaviour and what’s going to set his father off.

He also discovers religion. Or it discovers him. He’s not sure. He only knows that once again, another world has opened up. One he wasn’t aware of, before. One that accepts him as he is; forgives him for his faults, unlike his dad. One that offers a Father who actually cares about him.

It’s all so wonderful. He has no inkling that any of it can be termed: “escape”.

Eventually the man stops drinking. He has to. His job was forfeit, otherwise.

The anger remains though. One of the things the man is angry about is why his oldest son doesn’t want to be around him. There comes a day when number one son cuts through his rage to tell him why he avoided him. “You were never a father to me”

It’s the one time when alcohol could not trump reality. That statement cuts through the man; stops him cold in his tracks. His rage seems to dwindle away as he stupidly stares at his son. Quizzical. Disappointed, perhaps with himself. The boy doesn’t know what his father thinks about what he said. He stands there, eyes wide, fully expecting to be beaten up for being so mouthy. He is surprised when his father looks down, turns away.

The years went by, and the father remains sober. There’s an awkwardness between them that remains, never to diminish.

The boy, now a man, continues with his escapism, not realizing that life is now better. He enjoys his books, and his religion, and adds to them, movies and TV. Anything that will give him a world different from the one he is in.

Eventually he adds prescription drugs. And wine. And other things.

It takes a while for him to realize some important things that the little boy was never told.

It wasn’t his fault that his dad was angry.

He could make his own decisions, and create his own reality. As much of it as he wanted.

Eventually, he sees what he is doing with the drugs, and the wine. And he stops. He stops drinking to escape, and now drinks for enjoyment only. He never gets drunk.

He still reads books, but now recognizes the difference between reality and the world of the book. He reads for enjoyment.

The hardest part was dropping religion. He still believes in God. He just doesn’t believe in the construct that religion put around Him. He holds his faith close to his heart, and doesn’t promote it to anyone. He believes in a Father who loves him. To believe anything less would be hurtful to himself. He knows this.

He wonders though.

How many other people are living lives of pure escape?

The Cats of Creative Invention

Posted: February 21, 2011 in ADHD, Life
Tags: , , ,
7

Curious kitty

 

“I’m just calling to tell you that you’ve got the job”

The female voice on the other end of the line waited for the exhalation of joy.  She didn’t wait long.

The recipient could barely contain himself.   “I did?  Awesome!”

Awesome?  Kids use that word, not grown men.  “I mean, that’s great.  Amazing.”

She laughed.  “Yes, I did a blind evaluation of the submissions, by asking my assistant to number them without telling me who submit what.  I didn’t want to inadvertently favour anyone.  Yours was definitely the one that stood out.”

He nodded, momentarily unaware that she couldn’t see his body language.  Then he shook his head with a smile.  “I see.”

“Right” she said.  “I mean, I recognized some of the ideas you proposed as coming from you.  Still – you seemed to have the best grasp of what’s needed for the position.”

He was never any good at accepting praise.  Getting the job and the additional praise was almost too much to handle.

“Well thank you.  I appreciate this…..all of it.  I can’t wait to start.”

Enthusiasm.  That’s what the voice was waiting for.

“Great!  So you’ll start in two weeks time.  Does that work for you? I mean I spoke with your current boss, and that’s the date he wanted.  Give you time to hand off your duties to a subordinate.”

“It works for me.  And thanks again!”  He grinned, as they ended the call.

It was a promotion.  He was no longer a supervisor; he was now a manager.   In the large bureaucracy, this was a significant step up.  What’s more – it was a brand new position, and as such there were no employees in his group.  Just him.  He was, effectively, a manager of new ideas for the Information Technology organization.   Basically, he was in charge of accepting new ideas, and then linking the right groups together to work on them.  With the downturn in the economy, many organizations needed to find ways to automate their work, so that they could provide more service while using less capital.  He was tasked with making that happen.

The great news kept him smiling – right up until the flow of work came in.   In his excitement, he had forgotten about the historical effects of his ADD.

One by one, the ideas sauntered in, on unobtrusive cat’s paws, sniffing around the room, checking underneath the cupboards, and then settling at his feet, meowing plaintively for attention and food.   It wasn’t long until opportunity’s door opened wider, and suddenly there was a flood of ideas, each clamouring for attention.

His ADD mind struggled with the competing thoughts.  Almost all of the ideas were bright and shiny and deserving of attention.  He could feel his neck tightening in anticipation of the work involved in vetting them all.  His boss pointed out one major one and merely added to the weight.

The weekend showed up at his door, hands in its pockets, and he sighed with relief.   At his home on Friday night, he battled the tension; he breathed out and tried to fill his chest with air.  The cascade of ideas was still there, waiting patiently for Monday morning.  Some of the ideas even tried to sneak into his mind while he was trying to enjoy the time off.  He slammed the door on them each time.   Monday would come soon enough.  This was the weekend, and he adamantly refused to deal with any of them.

Monday morning blew the trumpet directly in his ear.  He thought he recognized the tune:  “March of the Bureaucrats”.   He sat at his desk, tired, grumpy and a little frightened.  The now hordes of thoughts crowded his feet, all meowing; a triumphant caterwaul of noise.   He thought of a caption for his Facebook page:  The orderly garden of the mind suffers violence when the cats of creative invention come to play.

Certain that he was going mad, he closed his eyes, there at the desk.  Then, he breathed in.  Then out.  Then in again.  Then out.   He kept this up, each time concentrating on his breath, and working to increase the length of time each inhale and exhale took.  It was a meditation technique taught to him months ago by someone he loved.  He knew it would work.  It had to.

He felt the tension leave his neck and shoulders.   The idea-felines were still crowding him, but their incessant roar had mellowed somewhat.   He opened up a new document and started typing some of them in.   He noticed that as each idea made it to the page, the roar lessened, just a bit.   And so the day progressed.

His boss spoke with him later in the day.   When she told him of one of her suggestions – that at some point he might want to get into project management – he felt the tension return.  This time he confronted it.

“I don’t tell this to many people” he said.  “But you need to know.”

“What’s that?” she said.

He knew that there was always the possibility that what he would tell her would rattle her.  He had already figured out that the worst thing that could happen would be that he got bumped back to his old position.  And he knew that this wasn’t a bad thing.  Not at al.

“I’ve recently been diagnosed as having ADD”, he began.

“Oh really? ” she asked.  “I guess it must have been a surprise, finding that out as an adult”

“Yes” he said.  “It did explain a heck of a lot though.   I always wondered why so many people were able to do seemingly simple things while I struggled.”   He paused, thinking.  “Anyway, when you grow up with it, you just learn to cope, and to find workarounds to handle all of the millions of thoughts that compete for attention.   So projects and project management has never been my strong suit at all. ”  He laughed.  “I guess I’m just not a fan.”

She laughed too.  Music to his ears. “Well, I don’t know if I can help you do what you need to do, but maybe we can meet often, at a scheduled time, or whenever you need to meet.”

He felt relief.  “That would be great.  Actually, I have access to your calendar so for now, maybe I’ll just schedule myself in whenever the time is right.”

“Sounds good to me” she said.

It sounded good to him too.  And after exchanging a few more administrative details, they ended the call.

There was lots of work to do, and he knew his ADD mind wanted it all done right now.   He had to remind himself that it was only day two of his assignment.

He walked out of the offices that day, much lighter than when he walked in.

For a Monday – it wasn’t too bad at all.

The Art of the Impossible

Posted: February 9, 2011 in Life
Tags: , , ,
12

The first time he tried, there was only frustration. Awareness tickled him, promising exhilarating possibilities, teasing him as he tried and tried, only to fail.

Months later, he tried again. And this time, his feet actually left the ground. A grin escaped him, as others around him watched in disbelief. It lasted only a few seconds before he became gravity-bound once again. Though he tried and tried, he wasn’t able to do a repeat performance. The momentary freedom proved the point: the potential existed, and it was real.

A few months went by, and then once again, it happened. He was in the place of possibility once again. This time, he *willed* himself into the air. The wind in that place was blowing strong, and he just simply…..lifted into it.

He didn’t go far. After all, his success was tied to the wind, and it was fickle at best. Yet, a few yards was all it took. He was delighted and amazed. He told his story to only one other person, certain that most others would think him a little crazy.

The other person shared his joy. One reason for that was because it happened to her as well.

The next time it happened, he was ready. This time, there was no wind. He realized he didn’t need it. He stood there, waiting.

And then it happened.

He…..rose. Almost straight up.

His rise was fast, and he felt his stomach drop.

He watched the buildings below get smaller as he lifted himself into the air. He looked and he saw others trying to rise as well. His ability provoked them. He smiled in absolute wonder.

And then, after going no where, he came down.

The next time it happened, there wasn’t any doubt. He lifted into the air, and this time, he flew. This time he had places to go, and he went. He willed himself to fly faster, and he could feel it in his back, as he pushed forward faster and faster. Others were with him, and together they flew in exhilaration and joy.

Each time this happened, he woke up, in bed, in wonder and thought. One dream about flying is good. Another is coincidence.

Multiple dreams about flying? He didn’t know what it was. “A blessing, I suppose” he thought.

A few weeks later, he wasn’t dreaming. He was in a large auditorium, and he was wide awake, when it happened. He had that feeling once again. Imminent possibility. A knowledge, an ability about something utterly impossible.

He felt it in his back. A sensation that was too unreal to be believed. Yet there was a kernel of belief, a sense that if he tried, he could do it.

So he tried. With all of his might, he attempted to lift.

He didn’t move. But that didn’t stop the belief.

He believed he could; and that it was only a matter of time.

He also believed that if he told anyone, they would think he was crazy.

Passion and Hope

Posted: January 15, 2011 in dating, Life
Tags: , , , ,
16

He was interested in her sister Angelica, really.

She was interesting.  Vibrant, laughing all the time.  Angelica always had something outrageous to say.  And he, being the quiet introvert, was attracted to her.  And they were in the same class together.

He was trying to figure out his approach when one day she whispered in his ear, during class.  “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I’ve got a boyfriend.”  Her excited whisper was actually quite loud, and he was sure they’d be caught.  Fortunately, they were at the back of the room, and the long-haired teacher seemed more interested in the sound of his own voice.

“Oh”, he said.

“Yeah, and he’s got this black Camaro that really rumbles loud, too.”  She blathered on, oblivious to the damage he was feeling.  “And it’s got a spoiler on the back, and oh boy does it ever go fast.”   She sat back in her chair, bum slightly forward and her legs splayed beneath the desk.  She glanced over at him.  “You know him.  It’s Rick.”

Rick. Yeah, he knew Rick all right.  Kind of a wild guy.  Didn’t talk much.  Smoked.  Definitely the black sheep of the church group.  Rick seemed a little tense all the time.  Like he was going to explode.  Only he never did.

“Well” she said.  “Whaddya think?”

He thought for a moment.  “He’s ok.  I guess.”

She frowned.  “OK?  He’s more than that!  He’s got a job.”  She leaned into him.  “We have to sneak away to be together.  My parents have no idea we’re dating.”

He shuffled in his chair and looked over at her.  “Are you sure he’s a Christian?”

She shook her head.  “Of course he’s a Christian!  He comes to Young Peoples’ with us, doesn’t he?”

He didn’t know what to say. He knew Christians didn’t smoke.  He didn’t want to argue with her.  He decided to say nothing.

And she looked over at him again, this time with a slight calculation in her glance.   She opened her textbook and said nothing more.  He let out a breath.

***

Angelica’s sister Mercedes was one year younger.  She wasn’t nearly as outgoing, and she wore dark rimmed glasses.   Her dirty blonde hair was wild, unruly.  The only thing he noticed during Young People’s bible meetings was her laugh.  It was musical and infectious.  And she burped her laughter out at inappropriate times, often startling him.  He always grinned though – he couldn’t help it.

One bright sunny afternoon, she took the initiative.  They had been walking and holding hands, but still, his painful shyness shackled him.  So she stopped on the corner, and looked up at him.  With a sigh of exasperation she pulled his head down and planted a first kiss on him.  His heart pounded in amazement, and he felt his face go red.  It felt surreal.

And oh so great.

From that moment on, they were inseparable.

One afternoon after classes, he went to the amphitheatre, to practice the piano.  She joined him, and sat on the piano bench next to him, facing away from the piano.  And as he played, she leaned over, breaking his line of sight to the music and leaned in to kiss him.  He thought she was worse than his cat and that thought kept him grinning through the kiss.

He pulled away, smiling.  “Stop.  I have to get this done.”

“OK” she said.   And as he started playing, she again interrupted his line of sight, and leaned in for another kiss.

So he gave up and spent the rest of the time making out with her, there in the empty amphitheatre.

***

As young, passionate loves go, they eventually split up.  She wasn’t allowed to date anyone, and so the Christian ethic “honour thy father and mother” came into play.  Mercedes was nothing if not devoted, so she reluctantly broke things off with him.  He was young and kind of stupid, and this was his first real romance with anyone, so it took him a while to understand that things were over.

By the time they broke up, Angelica had also broken up with her boyfriend.  She had suffered a possible pregnancy scare and this had sobered her intensely.  It had also scared her boyfriend.

He was still holding out hope that Mercedes would rebel against her parents and go out with him again, when one day Angelica decided to talk with him.   She said to him “let’s go for a walk, OK?”

It was sunny out, and warm, and he was miserable, so he said “OK”

As they walked along the dusty street, she started talking.  “You know, you guys aren’t going to get back together, right?  It’s not going to happen.”

He looked down, thinking.  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.    But….”

“It’s hard, I know.  I’ve just gone through the same thing.”

“I guess.”

“Look.  You’re good looking and sweet.  There’s no reason to feel so bad.  There are all kinds of girls out there who want to go out with you.”

He looked at her, shocked.   “There are?”

“Yeah”, she said.  “There are.”

He couldn’t believe it.  Didn’t believe it.  “Oh yeah?  Like who?”

“Girls!” she said.   “Just girls.   OK?”

“How do you know?  Did they tell you?”

She ground her teeth.   “Look.  Forget I said anything OK?”

“I don’t understand.”

She rounded on him, her face red.  “Can’t you just take my word for it?  God!  You’re amazing.”

His eyes were wide, as he looked her.

She shook her head and began walking again.  He caught up to her.

“Look” he said.  “I don’t understand….”

“Can we just stop talking about it?  OK?”  she barked at him.

“OK”

And it wasn’t until a few years later, when he replayed all of this in his mind, that he finally understood.

***

Over the years, he never forgot the passion of that first romance with Mercedes.   Eventually he married someone, and she married someone else, and they remained friends.   They both remained church-going people, albeit in different denominations.  Both remained zealous though.  And their families occasionally got together for church outings.

He was sure she knew he carried a fondness for her, though neither of them ever said anything.

One day, a few years after he divorced his wife, he learned that her husband died.

And a few years after that, he swallowed his trepidation, and asked her out.  And to his surprise, she accepted.

They met at a coffee shop near his home, and they ended up talking for hours.     They compared notes about their families, and he explained why he no longer went to church, while she talked about nothing except her church.

At one point, after their third coffee, she sat back and looked at him.   “Man” she said.  “Back in high school, we were crazy about each other, weren’t we?”

He smiled at her.  “Yeah, we really were.”

And they sat there, just smiling.

Eventually it was time to go, and so they walked out of the coffee shop toward her car.

“You know – it was really good to see you again” he said.

“I think so too.  Maybe we can get together again.   What do you think?”

He looked down at her.  “I’d like that a lot.”

And then it happened.

After all of those years of occasionally thinking about her, he finally did it.

He kissed her.  And she kissed him back.

She turned around, and got into her car.  And then she drove away.

His thoughts were in turmoil, racing at a million miles an hour.

It wasn’t until later that night that he finally realized it.

Sometimes, the dreams and anticipation do not match the reality.

Sometimes, a time of passion is meant for that time only.

Sometimes, you just can’t go back.

Lighthouses and Dark Waters

Posted: December 29, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , , , , ,
35

 

There would be dark moments, and each one seemed logical.  As far as he knew, everyone had moments like these.  Everyone.  So what if others managed those moments better than he did?  It just meant he had to try a little harder, that’s all.

Like the time he stood at the entrance of a shopping mall, frowning.  He watched the shoppers all scurrying to get their shopping done.  They seemed frantic, out of control.  There was little joy in their hungry demand for merchandise – or at least, that’s what he saw, perceived.  He felt a rage bubbling up deep inside.  He wanted to bellow at them in anger.  Tell them to stop and remember the reason for Christmas.  He was beyond frustrated.  Shaking his head, he turned around and left the mall.  He would do his shopping another day.  And from that point onward, for a period of five years, he decided he would not celebrate Christmas.  He wouldn’t put up lights or a tree.  He no longer believed in it.   His mind told him this was reasonable.  He couldn’t reconcile his distaste for commercialism with the celebration.  Not at all. He believed fully in his own cynicism.

The depths of darkness weren’t always as radical.  Sometimes, he sensed a slow slide into them, grateful that there seemed a limit.  Always, his mind found logical reasons for them.   He was bored with his job, so it seemed only right that he should interpret some of the darkness as depression over the job.

At other times – rare occasions – he couldn’t quite see a safe boundary.   Like the time he was driving home and felt a strong impulse to drive the car off of the road and into a tree.  He managed to curb the thought, but it scared him so much that he wisely sought out counselling.  This time, he was entirely convinced this destructive impulse stemmed from his faltering marriage.  They stayed together because of religion.  The bonds of dogma – specifically the stricture against divorce – felt more like emotional slavery.  So of course it was logical that he should feel such despair.  The thing that bothered him about it was that he hadn’t told anyone about it before having the impulse.  He knew, from everything he read, that this was dangerous.  People who talk about this sort of thing rarely do it – they talk because they want help.  He knew he wasn’t crying out for assistance.

So he sought out therapy, and in so doing, discovered much about himself that he never knew before.

Like the fact that, though he was so agreeable to people in general, and so pleasant to be around, in fact he was masking a great deal.  Hiding in plain sight.  He genuinely thought he enjoyed being around people, even though he knew there was a limit and he had on occasion just needed to be away from them.

This included his wife.  There were many days when he worked late into the night when he didn’t need to.  Long enough to miss the last train back to his home in the next town.  So many nights he called his wife and told her he needed to stay in a hotel in town.

“But why you?  Why can’t some of your employees take on some of the work?  Why do you have to work so late all the time?”

“I just do”, he said.   “It’s my job, and no one else can do it.”

He was lying through his teeth, and he didn’t care.  The idea of going home to her was so abhorrent that he felt physically repulsed by the thought.  He didn’t hate her; he just couldn’t be around her.  The constant questions ate him like slow burning acid.   “Do you love me?  Why don’t we do things together?  Why?  Why? Why?”

It was so weird.  There were times when he felt like he was on top of the world, and everything would be fine.  He was right with his God so what could hold him back?

And there were other times when he was adamant that it was all shit.  There was nothing that could be salvaged.

It was in those dark times when he knew he had to get away.  So he would take impromptu vacations.  He would book a cottage on a lake during the summer, and he would take off.  He determined to go there, rent a boat, and go row out in the lake to somewhere where he could have solitude, away from the maddening horde.  He did all that, and then was surprised when he got there, and realized he still wasn’t at peace.  He was almost shocked by that realization.  And disappointed.  He had brought the darkness with him.

It never occurred to him that the “maddening horde” might be his own thoughts.

One of those amazing light times happened when his marriage was finally over and he moved out.   He got the call from his new landlord, who said “your credit check passed.  You can move in on Monday.”

The day he got the keys and moved in, he looked around at his new oasis and wept in joy. He knew finally he had done the right thing with his marriage.  All of his life he had been the chameleon, changing emotional colour to make everyone, including his bride-to-be, happy.  He listened for clues to their desires, and then did his level best to match them.

It never occurred to him that he was damaging himself in the process.  He truly thought he had no real desires of his own.   Occasionally a slightly selfish thought would occur, which he discounted as un-Christian.  So he would mostly ignore them, and secretly chastised himself for having them.

One such thought happened six months before his marriage, when he suggested to his fiancé that they postpone the wedding for a little bit.

She, an eighteen-year-old girl, immediately (and correctly) interpreted this as rejection.   She burst into tears, and all of her insecurities rose to the surface.  She accused him:  “you don’t love me; you don’t want to get married.   No one loves me”.

He felt like the lowest rat.  Even though she was right about his feelings, the religious-shaped chameleon exerted itself.  He changed colour and assured her he did love her and wanted to get married.

So, despite some deep warning feelings in his gut, he bit the Christian bullet and got married.

It took him many years before he discovered the value and necessity of being true to one’s self.

He blamed almost all of his dark moments on this one rather major bad decision.  This farce of a marriage.  And those moments were exacerbated by his continual attempts to love her as she deserved to be loved.  A piece of his heart held back though.  It took him a long time to acknowledge it.  To be fair, she too had a lot of issues to deal with; reasons she latched onto him.  He was her emotional life raft.

But this story isn’t about her.  It’s about him.

It was only a few years after they had exited the marriage that he realized those intermittent dark occasions had nothing to do with her, or with his bad decision.  It had nothing to do with commercialism at Christmas.

Sometimes the darkness crowded him at almost predictable times.  So many times when he was flying high, he remembered saying to himself “I wonder when the dark time will come again”.  Because he knew it would.  That this high wasn’t sustainable.

There are times when he enjoys being around people and he becomes the life of the party.  He can joke and make people laugh, and they shine and open up to him.  He has learned not to be the chameleon anymore, and this is something that has liberated him; allowed him to be the person he truly is.  He has dropped the chains of religious dogma as well.  This helps, too.

There are other times though, dark times, when he can’t wait to get away from people.  Times when he feels ugly, when he truly wonders how anyone can stand to be around him.

He knows there’s hope though.  He’s counting on it, and is seeking it out.

And he knows there are others rowing their boats in the same waters as he is.

Which is why he’s talking about it, I suppose.

Paradigm

Posted: December 12, 2010 in Life
Tags: ,
10

There’s time.  There’s trouble. There’s news. And politics. Lots of angst. Depressing consumerism.  Overwhelming anger, coupled with stress.

Money.

And yet……..

There’s a time.

It comes late at night or early early in the morning, when possibilities whisper in your ear.  It tells you that nothing is impossible.  It resonates deep in your soul, hinting at the truth of your existence.  It warns you that all that is seen is not the limit of what you can do.  Or see. Or imagine.

The music in your ears, your heart and soul lets you remember how the Bible says that “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him”.    Fundamentalist Christians have traditionally interpreted this as heaven, which – in their considered opinion- only can be experienced after the heart has stopped.  Only when the grave is open; only when they stumbled and trip into the dirt.

That was not the intent.  It was never the intent.  The intent is now.  The meaning is immediate.  You know this.   At that time of the early early morning, there really is no doubt.  Your faith is unshakeable.

You’ve been blind, up until now.  You’ve been going through the motions.  Doing the daily thing.  Smiling the insincere but earnest smile.   Trying to fit.  You didn’t want to rock the boat.  You wanted to play the game, as you saw everyone else playing it.   You wanted everything to be smooth.  No ruffles, nothing to disturb the family/friend/work dynamic.

You didn’t want to stand out.

The possibilities though.  They whisper that that is exactly what you should do.

You should stand out.

Be different.

Rock the boat.

Mess shit up.

Not for messiness’ own sake.  Not just because you can.

But because it’s right.  It’s more than expedient.

Possibilities sing, and you find they’re impossible to ignore..

They announce a revelation.  The epiphany of a change of purpose, of a different direction to your existence, of meaning. of direction. Of joy.

They negate the lie, that you need to keep your nose to the grindstone.  They tell you, that you don’t need to wallow in the usual mundane.  In the day for a dollar.  In the miserly exchange of time for poverty of purpose.  In the hopelessness of the ticking clock.

They tell you to stop shuffling your feet.  To slough off the chains of self-imposed isolating sadness.  To rise up.  To soar on gossamer wings of roaring purpose.

To put aside your self-imposed restrictions.  To wipe away the tears of helplessness and understand that….

You are not alone.  That there is a universe of choice.  And that each promises deep deep immersion into waters of brimming hope.

Hope.

Promise.

Anticipation.

I’m not always aware of these truths.

But when those times come, at the early early mornings….

It’s really hard not to let slip a kind of joyful grin.

Or a smile.

And to make joyful promises to myself.

 

Writing That Novel

Posted: October 31, 2010 in ADHD, Life, writing
Tags: , , , , ,
60

There is something a little satisfying about meeting a group of people who have something in common with you.  I realized the joy of that when I attended an ADD support group recently.

Having been formerly diagnosed as having Attention Deficit Disorder a few weeks ago, I’ve made up my mind to do something about it.  Contrary to popular belief, the answer is *not* drugs.  Or rather not *just* drugs.  No, the psychiatrist who gave me the diagnosis said “wolf, you need to get to the point where you have more control over your impulses and focus.”

He grabbed a pen and pretended he was writing something.  “Basically, when you do anything at all, you’ll want to be in the moment.  When you pick up the pen like this, you’ll want to be aware of how it feels in your hand.  What part of your fingers are touching it?  Is it rough or smooth?  And when you put it to the paper, you’ll want to be aware of the pressure your hand has to exert to write anything at all.”

I nodded, even as I acknowledged that, with the exception of the rent cheque each month, I NEVER write anything.  And that got me thinking about what day it was and whether the rent was due soon.

The doc brought me back on track.  “So…you won’t be able to do that right out of the gate.  So you’ll need meds initially to get you to that point.  But, the goal is to come to the place where you won’t need the meds anymore.”

I nodded.  This sounded just about, oh I don’t know, pretty much perfect to me.

“You told me you long suspected you had ADD.  What have you done about it so far?”

I looked at him.  “Well, I’ve attended a couple of workshops and….”  I thought for a moment.  “Oh yes!  I joined a support group.”

“You did?  What is it?”

“It’s a group that meets at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health every couple of weeks.”

“Oh yes.  I’m aware of that group.  Good.  Keep going.  And see your family doctor for the meds.”

With that, I thanked him and left.

The other night I met with the support group, and a few of us “newbies” split off into a separate group, where we were encouraged to tell our stories.   When it got around to me, I had so many different things to say, and I wanted to say them all at once, that I got stuck.

“Sorry – there’s about a million thoughts going on right now.”

They all nodded knowingly.  Every last one of them.  They knew.   They knew exactly what it was all about.

Awesome.

Earlier, we had discussed Executive Function – that process in everyone’s brain that allows you to consider several things, categorize them, and put them on various shelves in your mind, so that you can pick them up at will and work with each one individually, until completion.   The classic ADDer doesn’t have a fully functioning system.  We take all of those things and we want to process them all at the same time.   Executive function allows you to start and stop actions, anticipate stuff and adapt to changing situations.   The lack of it can really mess you up.

Here’s the thing:  when you grow up in this state, you have no idea anything’s wrong.  You watch other people complete projects fairly easily, and you think that maybe you’re just not smart enough (because you know you’re *lousy* at doing projects).  I used to truly truly HATE it when the teacher assigned projects to us.

Then, later on you realize that you really do “get” a lot of concepts, and often you’re leaps and bounds beyond others.  So you know you’re not stupid.  So you conclude maybe you’re just too lazy.  Input from others (teachers, parents, friends) seems to confirm this self-analysis.

You discover you have a penchant for seeing “the big picture” in any situation.  You realize that you’re well suited to managing conflicts, mostly because you can simultaneously see various viewpoints at once.  You understand how they got there – and you understand almost instantaneously.  Seems like a wonderful trait to have.  And by God you’ll accept that one, since you’re such a miserable failure at other things.

You often do hilarious things too.  Like turning on the tap to fill up the sink so you can do the dishes, then sitting down at the computer to work on something, only to realize twenty minutes later (if you’re lucky) that you left the tap running.  This unfortunate circumstance is confirmed as you walked out into the hallway, straight into a mini-lake.

Or you come home from buying groceries, some of which are frozen foods.   You put them down to get the key out of the door.  You realize there’s a program on TV that you wanted to see, so you put the keys down and go turn the TV on.  Then you remember an email that you wanted to send, so you go into your office and bang it out.   Then something else, then something else and then it’s time for bed so you brush your teeth and hit the sack.

The next morning you come out the kitchen and you see the now-smelly “frozen food” that you left out the day before.

This is my life, folks.

There are a lot of positives about the ADD life:  there’s an incredible creativity that comes with the “gift”.  A lot of actors and comedians get into the entertainment business because of this knack they have.  I’ve done improv comedy and I have to tell you:  that was one of the highlights of my adult existence.  It takes you back to the time when you were a kid, and anything was possible.  “What if I was an old man, with a young trophy wife who wanted me dead?  Or what if I was a pimp, with a stripper girlfriend and a four year old child?”

You get to play all these parts (the stripper/pimp thing was played out in real life on a crowded bus one day, to an unsuspecting audience.), and you have so much FUN.

The downside:  you take on projects and never complete them.  Not without some prompting.  Also – you can barely stand linear conversations.  You get so *bored*.  So easily bored.  It’s one reason I hate telephones.

There’s one personal project I’ve had on the back burner for quite some time.  There’s a book I want to write.  I have several concepts that I really want to share in it.  When I say “quite some time” – we’re talking a few years here.  And I’ve started it several times.  Each time I got distracted and lost momentum.

A good friend of mine mentioned a once a year event, called NaNoWriMo.  That’s a kind of awkward acronym for “National Novel Writing Month”.  It’s a trans-continental event that takes place mostly on the net.  The shared goal of writers everywhere is this:  we have to write 50,000 words in thirty days.  Entirely do-able – and this is evident by the fact that so many writers manage to do it every year.  It’s been in existence for I think twelve years, and each year there’s an exponentially larger list of participants.

The other night I attended the local Toronto NaNoWriMo kick-off party.  We had a ball!   There’s going to be an all-night event where some of the participants get together at a large house, specifically to write as much as possible during the night.  I frankly can’t wait for that one.

There’s another event, where we get on the subway at one end of the system, and we ride it for as long as possible, just writing away.

This is the aspiring writer’s ADD dream:  to have input and a goad to get this particular goal accomplished.

I am *so* grateful to my friend Katy for having introduced this to me.   She’s done NaNoWriMo herself, with great success.

I will too.  Part of the method for getting this done involves making myself accountable to others.  Telling as many people as possible about it.  Potential embarrassment is a killer motivator.

So….this begins tomorrow.  November 1.

You likely won’t see much of me during the month.   I get emails when you leave comments on my blog though.

So here’s the deal:  if you’re so inclined, please drop me a comment here at the bottom of this blog, now and then.  Ask me how I’m doing.

I promise to answer.  And I will tell you the truth.

Oh man.  This is going to be good.

Pretzel Man

Posted: October 28, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , , , ,
23

pretzel.jpg

My luck with massages has been inconsistent.

The first time was when my then-wife and I went on holiday to Montreal.  She was going back to the hotel room for a nap and I was too wired to sleep.  So, having seen a sign in the elevator advertising their massage service, I said “you know what?  I’m going to have a massage.”

She shrugged her shoulders.  “OK”

And so off I went.

Not knowing a thing about massage, I expected it would be a relaxing experience.   “I’ll probably end up falling asleep and missing the whole thing” I thought.

I truly didn’t think I had any expectations as to what the masseuse would look like, but I have to tell you:  I was totally unprepared for what showed up.

An older gentleman of suspicious girth greeted me at the door.

Well, grunted, more like.

He had hair growing out of his nostrils and ears.  All grey.

None on his head, of course.  Hey, all of that orifice hair had to come from somewhere, right?

And I noticed that his freakishly muscular arms hung much lower than normal folks’ arms.  Well past his humongous belly.  A belly that jiggled this way and that as he moved around.

It was a fascinating belly, really. It moved about a half second after he did, every time.  And it scared the hell out of me.

There was no doubt.  This was the legendary Missing Link.

I briefly thought about fleeing.  But I realized I was being ridiculous.  And besides – I figured, “in for a penny, in for a pound.”  I was here.  Might as well make the best of it.

“Take clothes off” he growled.

“Um, ok” I muttered.

“Hmph” he replied.

So I did.  And then I crawled up onto the table.

“Face down!” he ordered.

So I faced down.

“Leaving underpants on.”

(I didn’t know if that was an observation or a question.  So I treated it like a rhetorical question and said nothing)

(Oh, and I left them on.)

He started in on me.  Quick and painfully.  He pushed and pulled and prodded and pressed in hard.  He found muscles that weren’t there before.  And they all cried “uncle”

Relaxing?

Yeah, I suppose if you’re a masochist.  In which case it was as relaxing as hell.  I felt like that guy at the top of this post – a human pretzel.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Part of me – the part that had compartmentalized itself away from the pain and the welling tears – laughed.  This was so far removed from what I thought massage would be about that it was just hilarious.

When he was done, and after I paid for the torture session, I slowly hobbled back to our room.

“What happened to you? asked my wife.

“Massage”

“Well you don’t look anymore relaxed.”

I stared at her.   “No.  No, I suppose not” I said.

******

There have been many massages since then.  Most of them were good.

You learn a few things along the way.  A “relaxing massage” isn’t worth much if the goal is to get rid of aching muscles.  For that, you need a deep tissue massage, provided by a qualified therapist.  Anything less than that and you’re going to get tickled – and that’s just irritating.

I don’t mean you need to go through torture either.

Some massages were provided by people who just didn’t know how to do it, and I found those were a waste of money.

I woke up this morning with my shoulder in spasm.  Try as I might – there was no amount of stretching that would get the kink out.  So, after attending a seminar in town, I walked past a hotel and noticed the word “Spa” in the window.  Being an intuitive sort, I surmised this meant they provided services such as facials, manicures, pedicures, mud wraps and oh yes oh yes – MASSAGE.  I went inside.

“How much for an hour” I asked the cheerful receptionist.

In her cheerful way, she replied “oh it’s only $140.00” blinky-blink.

I looked at her.

She looked back at me, all smiles.

My muscles spasm nudged me in annoyance.

“I’ll take it” I said.

“Of course sir”

She gave me a medical form to fill out and then showed me the way to the locker room.

“Here’s your key.  There’s a robe in the locker and some sandals.  Put those on, and go down to the waiting area, and your massage therapist will greet you there”, she said, still smiling.

I did all of that.

A gay gentleman greeted me and took the medical form.  (At least, I think he was gay.  He smiled at me too.  Much too much.  Maybe he was just being friendly though.  He might not have been gay, now that I think about it.  He may have been high.)

“How are you today sir?”

“Fine thanks.  My girlfriend insisted I get a massage today”  (I don’t have a girlfriend.  He might not have been gay.   I wasn’t taking any chances)

“That’s great, sir.  Can I get you a glass of water while you wait?”

“Sure.” I said.

“Would you like lemon or lime with that?”

(Really?)

“I’ll take lemon, please”

“It would be my pleasure”

(Sure it would)

He gave it to me.  I relaxed as much as possible in my robe.

This was nice.

The treatment so far was so far above what I was used to, that I thought there was no way I was going to leave that place with aching muscles.

This tiny woman showed up, smiling.

“Pleased to meet you, Wolf.  My name is Glenna” she said, putting her hand forward.

I shook it.  “Same here, Glenna.”

“Shall we go in?

“After you” I said.

After outlining the massage plan, she left me to disrobe and crawl beneath the blanket and sheet.   The music was soft and relaxing.  I could smell aromatherapy scents.

I heard a slight hesitant knock at the door.   “Can I come in?”

“I’m all set” I replied.

She said “I know we agreed that you wanted a deep massage.  Just let me know if I need to go deeper or lighter OK?”

“OK” I said.

She pressed all the way down my back through the sheet.  Hard.

“I’m going to go deeper” she said.  “This is just to get the muscles loosened up”

Right.  OK.

Then she pulled the sheet back, oiled up my back and her hands and she started in on me.

Flashback.

Mean, old guy with too-long arms, grinding away at my back.

This tiny therapist was doing exactly the same.  Only this time, I had experience as a reference.

Instead of tensing up this time, I relaxed as much as possible.

She found every single out-of-place muscle.  And each time she did, she stayed on that spot, pushing her dagger-like elbow right into it.  I knew this was necessary in order for the offending muscle to loosen.

Still, it hurt like hell.

I did not grimace.

I did not yell.  And in fact I barely grunted.   All there was, was a huff of breath when she hit those spots, elbows a-blazing.

Then she got to my shoulders.  She kneaded and ground the muscles around my shoulders like so much hamburger.  She grabbed my shoulders like they were trying to get away from her.  She pinched them hard each time.

My face went all shades of red.  I could feel it.  I briefly clenched my fists, but then loosened them.

When she moved down my back I sighed in relief.

But then she came back up and hit those spots again.

This tiny woman was beating the holy living hell out of me.   And I was saying nothing.  I was paying for the privilege.

The music played on.

“Should I go deeper?” she asked, so sweetly.

“NO!!”   I heard the panic in my voice.  “I mean, no.  This is fine”

(It wasn’t.  But there were appearances to maintain, so I wasn’t going to ask her to go lighter)

Finally, after an hour of this, she was done.  As was I.

I paid, and thanked her and left.

And when I got home, I started noticing multiple bruises on my shoulders and neck.

War wounds.

I believe I counted about five bruises.

Which roughly works out to $28.00 per bruise.

In todays’ economy, that’s not too bad.

I guess.

Stuck

Posted: October 22, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , , ,
35

He browsed a lot.  Which is why they called him the Browser.

The Browser liked to look at properties online.  Big, expensive places – mansions with swimming pools.  He even browsed Tiger Williams’ mansion, and lamented the fact that Tiger would probably lose it in the divorce.

He loved browsing for cars too, and found one that he really liked.  He knew that, living in the big city, with the great public transit system, he didn’t need a car.  Not really.  But still, there was that convertible two-seater Mazda that just blew his mind.  It was only around $25K and it had low mileage.  Granted, it was a four year old car, and the warranty was probably done but still, it was a very attractive piece of machinery.

The Browser thought about a lot of things.  His mind was in constant turmoil, turning over this idea and that one.  He had a lot of dreams but, because he thought about so much, all the time, he rarely actually took the time to start and finish one.   He blamed all of this on being in debt.

The Browser had a long history.  He grew up in relative poverty, always hungry.  And he later got a good paying job, and got married.  And then the marriage turned to an absolute disaster.  A hell on earth, from which (at the time) he felt there was no reprise.  His religion didn’t allow him to divorce, and so it took a number of years of emotional torture until he finally realized that divorce happens in the heart long before it happens in a court room.  It was at that point he felt morally justified in dotting the final legal “i”.

It was this that finally forced him to look at the entire structural dogma to which he had dedicated his life.   And it was this that allowed him the freedom to exit from it, no longer to be shackled to the expectations of religion or religious people.   He kept his love for God, and jettisoned the baggage that religion wanted to add to it.

And then, he lived again in relative poverty, since so much of his paycheque now went to his non-working ex-wife.  By financial necessity, he lived in a small apartment on the second floor of an old downtown building, and lived in quiet desperation as he noticed the apartments around him eventually becoming occupied by druggies and drug dealers. 

His ex-wife eventually remarried, and agreed to let him off the hook for alimony.  This was an exhibition of wonderful generosity on her part since legal precedence in Canada dictated that remarriage did not generally absolve the ex-husband of alimony.  This action on her part was what allowed him to move out of the now drug-infested building he lived in. 

So he moved to the Big City, into a wonderfully large and sun-bright apartment.  He revelled in it, utterly amazed by the change in his circumstances.

The Browser had a lot to be thankful for:  his paycheque was his own (except for what he owed); he had a good paying job with decent retirement benefits; he had access to everything he needed, and in fact, he needed for nothing.  Materially anyway.  

Yet, he was unsettled.   Unhappy at times.   

The Browser’s dreams were big:  he wanted to travel, and to write books, and to get back into various arts.  And to visit loved ones on the far coast of the country.   He truly believed that spending eight hours a day doing anything other than what he dreamt, was eight wasted hours.  He grew to resent the loss of that time.   His dissatisfaction was gut-wrenchingly deep at times.  So much so that he could hardly stand it.  If only he had enough money, he could completely change his circumstances.  He could pay off his debts, move to where his loved ones were, start travelling full time and do everything else that he really wanted to do.

He tried not to think about his increasing disappointment.  He knew it would drive him mad.  Still, every so often, a dark thought about his situation would force its way into his awareness, and, because he agreed so much with it, he would spiral into a miasma of unsettled angst.

Early one evening, he went to the store to pick up some salad and milk.  He decided to pop by the lottery booth and check his numbers from the previous day’s lottery.

The proprietor took his ticket and nodded to him.   The Browser stood there waiting, and totally lost in thought, as usual.

“Sir?”

The Browser’s thought broke off and he looked up into the startled face of the Asian gentleman.

“Yes?”

“Sir, you’ll have to take this ticket down the lottery headquarters”

The Browser still didn’t get it.  “Uh, why?”

“Sir, you’ve won it.  The big prize.”

“I did?”

“Yes sir!  Congratulations!”

“Thanks!”    The Browser was suddenly grinning.

His mind was all over the place.

Later that same week, after speaking with a lawyer and an accountant, he took the ticket to lottery headquarters.  There, they took his smiling picture, and he took his prize and left.

And, after sharing some of his wealth with his family, and with a few charities, he did the following:

He quit his job.

He moved.

He changed his name.

He bought the Mazda.

He bought a house.

He bought a ticket to Ireland.

He jumped on a plane and, after clearing customs, he made his way to a hotel in Dublin.

After dumping his suitcase and putting everything away, he sat in a chair in a dark corner of his room.

Eyes glittering, he sat there, looking at the bed, the dresser, the TV set.

Something was still not right.   The room seemed dark.

Or maybe it wasn’t the room.

He was stuck.

Judging A Book Before You Read It

Posted: October 7, 2010 in Life
Tags:
21

I’m not going to say “stop me if you’ve heard this before”.  Mostly because I’ve probably told it in a blog before – likely over on MySpace.    Nevertheless, we’re going to explore it a bit now, so bear with me.

Or, in other words – “tough”

——————————————–

There was a knock at the door.

One of my four sisters was excited.   “I think that’s him, Wolf.”

“Ok let me answer the door.”

“Well don’t say anything.  In fact, let me answer it.”

I glared at her.  “No. I’m your brother.  I’m answering the door.”

Mom looked over the top of her newspaper.  “Let Wolf answer the door”

Thus, it was done.  Decision was made.  No one gainsaid her. 

No one would dare.

I walked over the door and opened it.

A scruffy-looking guy stood there.  He had thick blond hair that covered his ears.  He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.  And, as he looked directly at my nose, he said “um, is Cindy there?”

Immediately I sensed that something was amiss.  “Hi.  I’m Wolf.  Cindy’s my younger sister.”  

For some reason, I felt the need to glare at him.  I didn’t question it, or hesitate.   So we stood there.  Him hunched over with his hands deep in his pockets, and me just standing there.

It was only for a few seconds, but it seemed to be enough.

“Wait here.”

I shut the door and went to my sister.  “Cindy, be careful OK?  I don’t like him.”

“Whatever.”

I swallowed my fear and watched as she left the house.

Fast-forward and years later I found out that he attempted to attack her that night.  She got away OK.

——————————————–

A year after I moved into an apartment (after separating from my wife), my superintendent brought a couple over to view my apartment.  They were hoping to move in upstairs.   She was bright and cheerful.  A truly likeable person.   He, on the other hand was quiet.  And his hands were in his pockets.  And he couldn’t look at anyone in the eye.

I had that same unsettled sense about him.  Only there was nothing I could do about it. Except observe.

A few weeks after they moved in upstairs, I heard them yelling at each other.  It sounded as if stuff was being thrown.  And the screeching was loud. 

Just as I was getting ready to call the police, the yelling stopped.  So I put the phone down.

This happened a few times.  

A few weeks later, my superintendent was paying a visit (we were friends).  He said “did you hear what happened?”

“What?”

“Remember that couple I showed your apartment to?  Well the guy beat up his girlfriend.   Put her in the hospital.”

“What?”

“Yup.  The cops were called and they had a hard time trying to take him away.   It took three cops to drag him out of the place.”

I looked him, and my stomach fell.   I should have called the cops the first time I heard them.

“He must have been hopped up on something.   They struggled with him all the way down the hallway.  Ended up busting through another apartment door.”

I could only imagine.

——————————————-

Most people are big on getting empirical evidence before rendering a judgement.   That’s just logical.

Sometimes you don’t have the information handy to make a decent judgement though.

Sometimes all you have is intuition and instinct.   Cops call it a “gut feeling”.  

Sometimes you just know that you know.

It has taken some time but I’ve learned to trust my instincts, about most things.  You get some of this instinctual knowledge through having living hard experiences.  Sometimes you just have it, and you don’t know where it comes from.  But, through trial and error, you begin to realize you can trust it. 

——————————————

A few years ago, my girlfriend and I were talking about someone we’d met at a party.

She said “you know she doesn’t like you, right?”

“She doesn’t?”  I was honestly puzzled.

“You didn’t see that?   It came through with what she said.  She was totally being passive aggressive with you.  I’m kind of surprised you didn’t pick up on it.”

I shrugged.  “How exactly did you figure that out?”

“It was the words she used.”   My girlfriend had used logic to reach her conclusion.   It was irrefutable, too.  And I had missed it.

She looked at me.  “I hope I didn’t ruin the evening for you by telling you that.”

“No.  Not really.  It doesn’t bother me.”  And it really didn’t.

The flip side of trusting your instincts is that if your intuition warning isn’t buzzing red, you don’t imagine there’s any problem.  And so you get the privilege of thinking the best about everyone.  And on the few occasions where your intuition fails you, about something so unimportant as learning that someone dislikes you, it’s not a big deal.

I like it when the glass is half full.  

It means I get to drink some more.

Carlos and the Overdressed Restaurant Greeter

Posted: October 5, 2010 in Life
18

There has always been an attraction to the city of Toronto, even when I was living in Oshawa – some thirty miles away.   A half hour away, as the crow flies.  Or roughly an hour and a half, as the car crawls.

A major magnet for me has been the movie industry.  Toronto strives mightily to be seen as “Hollywood North”.  And it does this by trying to run every single film that’s on the entertainment scene every weekend.  As well as quite a few of the lesser known independent films.  And of course there’s the annual Toronto International Film Festival.   The place is richer because of the movie industry.  Films that might not make it to Backwater, Ontario will get their début in the big city.

I went to one independent movie this evening, called “Carlos”.  It was about “Carlos the Jackal” – a well-known Venezuelan  terrorist in the late 60’s to late mid-80s.   The film was five and a half hours long, and it boasted two intermissions.  A good thing, because I doubt anyone could manage to stay seated to watch a film for that long, straight through.

Still, it was interesting.  I only knew of The Jackal through what I’d read, and he was always presented as an amoral monster who set bombs and assassinated people right left and centre.  Turns out he only killed those on the right.   I had no idea he operated according to a set of Marxist principles.  Which of course doesn’t make him any more appealing.  It’s just that he wasn’t a nihilist.

During the second intermission I exited the Bell Lightbox Theatre (a brand new film complex) and made my way down to a coffee shop at the street level, there to do a walk-by of their baked goods.  I wasn’t going to actually buy anything.  I didn’t need anything, really.

I didn’t.

Need anything.

But I bought some high-calorie crap anyway.  But not to eat at the theatre.

Although I did.

Anyway….

On the way back from the coffee shop, with two minutes to go until the end of intermission, I noticed a woman standing in the rain outside of a trendy restaurant.  Her job, I think, was to try and entice customers into the establishment.   She smiled at me and I grinned at her.

I walked by, and then turned back.   “Hey, you must be cold, in all of this rain.”

Her face brightened.  “No, I’m dressed for it.  Overdressed really.”  And she glanced down at her oversized winter coat.

“I even have winter boots on, to keep my feet cold.   No way is the tiniest bit of cold air going to get through”

I nodded.  “Doesn’t look like it.”

We started chatting.  She wanted to know if I lived in the area.

“No, I’m just down here to see a film, about a terrorist called ‘Carlos the Jackal'”

“Carlos?”

“Yes.  You don’t know him?”

“Not really, no”

“Yeah.  The film is five and a half hours long”

“Wow.  Really?  Hey my name is Danielle by the way”

“Wolf.  Pleased to meet you”

(Not her real name.  Mine either.)

Turns out she likes films too.   So we talked about that for a while.

Then she said “Wolf, right?  I was going to call you Dave but I knew that wasn’t right”

Right then I realized I couldn’t remember her name, even though she’d just told me.  This happens all the time – and so that’s when the subject of my ADD came up.

Anyway, we learned a lot about each other.  She got to telling me all about her discussions with her mother about the Bible – and I started to smile, realizing that she was attempting to “witness” to me.  For those who don’t know – that’s when a fundamentalist Christian tries to convince you that you need saving.  She was subtle about it, of course.  As animated as she was, she wasn’t about to put the whole subject in my face, as some have done – hell, as I used to do, I think.

I smiled at her.  “My favourite book in the Bible is the Book of Job”.   Once again, she brightened visibly, pleased to “discover” a fellow fundie.   It wasn’t true of course, but I didn’t disabuse of her of that notion.  Not yet, anyway – there wasn’t enough time to get into it.  I realized that intermission at the movie was many minutes long past.

So we agreed to get together again at some point.

There was nothing romantic about the exchange.  Just an exchange of interest, and a realization that we could probably have a long conversation.  I think, in this socially cold city where women tend not to look at men, in case one of them turns out to be a creep; where men don’t look at women for too long, in case they get taken for being a creep, our encounter was a nice change.

The film was OK too.  It held my interest.  I’m not quite sure I’d recommend it to anyone else though.  Unless you’d really like to know about Carlos.  At the end of the film he was still a monster.  And apparently still alive.  Unfortunately.

Don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable with people who are excessively passionate about ideologies and ultra religious ideas.  At this point I have no idea if Danielle is part of that crowd.  It’ll be interesting to find out.

Maybe I’m passionate about my own anti-ideology ideology.  There’s a worrisome thought.

Harvest Moon Howl

Posted: September 23, 2010 in ADHD, humor, Life
Tags: , , , ,
27

Guess what?

I’ve got some new readers!

And guess what else?

They’re my work mates!

And you know what that means:

  1. No more selling heroin in the corporate washroom
  2. No more talking about sleeping under the desk (hey Costanza:  you had a great idea buddy.  Pity it didn’t work out.  For you or for me.)
  3. I can’t tell you about all of those times I plugged the corporate servers into “The Clapper”, causing severe mental anguish to the entire organization.
    • “Help desk?  Can you tell me what happened to all my files?”
    • “What files, sir?”
    • “The files I was working on”
    • “Hang on while I check……………………………..Ok there are no files, sir”
    • “I KNOW THAT!”
    • “So why are you calling, sir?”
    • “I”M CALLING ‘CAUSE I WANT MY FILES BACK”
    • “That’s nice”
    • “Well?”
    • “Well what?”
    • “Are you going to get them back?”
    • “No, I don’t think so, sir.”
    • “WHY NOT?”
    • “Because it wasn’t me who lost them.”
    • “WHAT?”
    • “I didn’t delete them sir.  I had no reason to.  I mean, you know, I like you.  So why would I do that?”
    • “Huh?”
    • “So that means you must have deleted them.”
    • “I–uh—what?  You like me?”
    • “Good bye sir.  And have a nice day”
    • “But…”
    • *click*
  4. And for sure I can’t talk about those times when I went to a whole zoo of cubicle farms, and forwarded everyone’s phone to the next one.

(Really bummed about the heroin thing though.  That was a real money-maker)

Maybe it’s time to develop some sort of “wink wink” code.  So when I say “it’s a sunny day out” you can interpret it as “way too sunny – and I’m much too hung over to appreciate it. In fact, I’m still a bit drunk.”)

In other news……

Some of you have been asking, so I’ve decided to tell you:  saw the doc yesterday and, after a whole series of tests and interviews and after injecting his practice with a whole raft of money,  he advised me that yes indeed – I have ADHD. 

Not a big surprise.  Kind of a relief actually.  I’m no hypochondriac, looking for diseases or conditions.  But when I first read the list of symptoms I couldn’t help yelling “HEY.  THAT’S ME!” (Well I didn’t yell, actually.  I mumbled it.  Kind of softly.  I think.  I don’t know for sure, as my noise-cancelling Shure 535 earphones were plugged into my ear-holes.  I could have been shouting it out at Ozzy Osborne levels.)

(Maybe that’s why they didn’t invite me to the office picnic this summer)

(Also, I seem to be missing my scissors.  In fact, there are no sharp-edged instruments of destruction anywhere near me)

Anyway, the doc told me what I need to start doing.  I asked him “do I need to see you anymore?”

He said “no.  I don’t think so”.  

We shook hands.  He sort of crushed mine.  I tried to keep calm, knowing the pain would end soon.  No tears, not even one.  And I didn’t grimace.

I’m pretty sure my ears popped though.

Glad that’s over with.  I’ve got stuff to do now.  And long-lost plans to resurrect and get going with. 

The future is frigging *bright*.

And in still other news……

Did you see the harvest moon last night?  Awesome, wasn’t it?

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