New Year Poem

I wanted to be a one kiss poem,

but I never inspired enough passion.

I am a survivor of love and life.

I'll be here when you are done enjoying your moments.

I'll be here when you are ready to settle down.

Creation

The day I understood creation I shit on the floor of my basement apartment and slipped in my own piss trying to avoid arrest.

This is a true story.

I didn't just understand creation that day. I experienced it.

All of time and space congealed into a resonance that was undeniable.

I don't know if it was true, but it felt like it was.

Truth is tricky like that. Sometimes lies feel true, and sometimes the truth feels like a lie.

That day I didn't just feel or think.

I knew.

I saw past everyone and everything and knew what lay beyond perception and consciousness and the surface of everyday interactions.

The mushrooms helped.

It still informs my present. I still feel connected to that moment despite the hazy reality of faded memory and the reality of lost friends. Through this lens my lost friends are still here. Nathan and  Clint sit in my consciousness and in the reality of the universe.

In this moment I believe the Buddhists. Reality is pure consciousness. Maybe that's not true. But, pure consciousness is all we can understand and experience.

That day I experienced it all. I was happy and sad and awed and humbled. I saw beyond the veil to all of time and space. And, I tried to go to sleep by rushing past a cop, while avoiding my own feces and slipped on some pee and ended up in the local hospital tied to a bed for my own safety.

Waking to my 'real' conscious world was as big of a mind fuck as any of the rest. I hold that to me as well. The conscious mind is a tricky and magnificent beast. It is capable of so much and so little at the same time.

We find ourselves in the in-betweens.

We are only us and we and I and me in the gaps.

But those cracks are too often glossed over or covered up.

I implore you to let the light come in. (Thanks Leonard).
I implore you to let the cracks do their work.

I'm embarrassed by my body and the nudity and the shit and the piss.

I'm eternally grateful for the hint of divinity that day. 

Of love and kitties

Accepting kitties means accepting the messiness of life into our homes. They are cute and destructive and time consuming and cuddly and not rational decisions at all. 

Kitties are not of our modern world. They are not a good cost-benefit choice. Weber would not approve. 

Kitties are more ancient and more wondrous. Kitties are the primal force of nature brought into a domestic world of calm and controlled experience. 

Kitties remind us that life is messy and that messiness is a necessary glory. 

I wasn't a cat or dog person growing up. 

I'm allergic to both. 

I like dogs plenty. They are helpful and enthusiastic and always want to do the right thing. 

Frankly, they remind me too much of me. 

I love cats. They are the version of me I day dream about. They are exactly who they are no matter what the situation. They are exactly the thing that I can't quantify as a social scientist. 

I've put down my share of kitties too. My first was the Mighty Kahn, who was given to me by my sister. Kahn was a hunter, a killer, a fucking savage. I'd say she was loving but that would be a lie. Kahn allowed you to be in her presence. She was always the top of the social pyramid. Her grace was a privilege. 

I lost Beaker too. He was my favourite. We aren't supposed to have favourites amongst the living but that is obviously untrue. I have favourite family members, and students and children for that matter (although the latter changes rapidly). Beaker chose us. He showed up one day and came in our house and became part of our family. 

I also lost Squeak and Squish and Widgeon. I love them all and I miss them all as well. But Kahn and Beaker are my favourites still. My new kitties may give them a run for their place, but I doubt they can take it. 

First loves are hard to shake. I was smart enough to keep all of mine. 

That means putting them down is even harder. There isn't a natural life course to having a cat or a dog. They attach to you quickly and completely and add something to your existence you didn't realize wasn't there. 

And in the end you kill them. It sounds harsh. And it is for us. For our pets it is usually an act of courage and compassion. You are taking a situation they cannot fathom out of their control and making it part of yours. They are sick and dying and in pain and you are forced to betray their love for their own good. 

I wished our pets died without help more often. But that would mean they died alone. Despite the pain and heartache and self-doubt and questioning I am glad I've been there at the end. 

The last bit of life is messy too, but only for our hearts and souls. It is a quick needle prick and heartbeat check and an acknowledgment they are gone. 

Kitties are a reminder to ourselves that social bonds are most important and that social bonds are always broken in the flesh and remembered through our family stories. 

And any family story that doesn't include a story of love and heartache of a good pet is a story missing chapters. 

Thank you kitties. 

Thank you Dad. 

Thank you past and present and all the joy we've had. 

Bad Poetry Attempt.....on a......What day is this?

I don't understand.

I don't understand the fleshy bits.

I don't understand the weight and the moisture and consequences.

I don't understand.

Repost - On loving hockey and being a new Dad

(This is an old Pass it to Bulis post which has been scrubbed from the Web. I'm reposting on my own blog, with permission).

Loves, New and Old

I love hockey and my newborn twins.

So far, I love hockey more.

To be fair, it came first.

My little ones are about a week old, and I’m beginning to know them I think. I realize most of the personalities I see are projection. I’m building a story from a small sample and the assumption of family traits. If I try hard enough, I’ll make them true.

I love the little guys, but it is still in their idea my love is found.

Some people say they fell in love with their spouse, or babies, the first time they saw them. These people are different than me. I imagine they are revising history, or have a shallow comprehension of love. Love doesn’t come and go. Love of anything, real love, binds you inseparably. That why they say, ‘for better or for worse’. The fact of love doesn’t change when its circumstances do. Importantly, love takes time. Love takes understanding. Love takes patience. And love doesn’t require passion.

I am passionate about protecting and raising my little men.

But I love hockey.

I’m passionate about hockey sometimes, too. But I’ve been in love too long to expect it to change. The Canucks will continue to hurt my heart. My favourite players will keep retiring. And my mediocre talents will fade into drunken late night embellishments and dust covered gear buried deep in my garage.

There is hope for the little ones, though. My passion will ebb with every feeding, diaper change, new tooth and scraped knee. I’ll soon have more than the idea of you to hold. Here is where your inevitable victory for my affections lies. I will always love the idea of you.

I long ago realized the idea of hockey is flawed. It is all arbitrary alliance and imagined loyalty. It is play exaggerated and structured beyond absurdity. Sometimes the instances are perfect, but there are cracks in the centre.

You, little ones, will make plenty of mistakes and I’ll love you for each folly.

But the idea of you is perfect.

Love is Funny

I love only a few people.

They are who you'd expect.

My spouse, my kids, my family, my best friend...etc.

But love itself is funny.

It takes near misses to remind us sometimes.

Only when I'm floating. Only when I'm adrift. Only when I'm down the rabbit-hole of lost loves and missed connections do I realize it was here all along.

Sometimes I realize the power of reality only in fantasy.

Once I thought the world would always make sense.

And then I grew up.

And then everything became complicated.

Except love.

Love is simple. You choose and you keep choosing in the face of alternatives.

I love only a few people.

And you know who you are......cause I've told you.

Another One Shot Poem.

I keep searching for that moment.

I had it once.

I thought I had it always.

It wasn't you.

It was something else.

It wasn't us.

I had it once.

I thought I had us always.

Random Thoughts

Sometimes I drink to cry.

I see the world with clarity and sadness through wine-soaked spectacles.

Sometimes I drink to cry.

Toxic masculinity means it is hard to feel and express my pain and sadness in the full light of daytime sobriety.

I need another small drink and another small drink to make it okay.

Only then do I let it out.

My Grampa, My Gramma, My Grampa, My Friend, My Friend, My Kitty, My Friend, My Dad, MY Kitty, My Friend, My Friend finally can be mourned.

I see the world with an open heart and an open mind at night, by myself, surrounded by media of my choosing.

I envelope myself in heartfelt expressions of love and sadness. 

In the daylight these are scared away.

Now, they live.

Sometimes I drink to cry.

Sometimes I drink to write and  cry and say goodbye.

A Few Thoughts for My Friend Janny-Pat

Dammit Janet, I love you.

It's an old movie line, but also a truth.

I love you Janny-Pat. Now, and before, and always.

I met you during the embers of my youth. I wasn't fully formed, but I was excited and excitable and you pointed me in the right direction.

Every memory I have of our time together is a stepping stone. I built upon your intelligence and kindness and love each year.

I owe you a debt that cannot be repaid. I owe you much of where I am today.

That sounds cliche, or tired or an overabundance of praise.

It is not.

You took me from childish things to adult understanding. You let me know what the world was and could be. I can never thank you enough.

You are gone from my present, but rooted in my forever.

I love you Janny-Pat.

I always will 

Bad Poetry Night

Tick Tock

Clock time scatters us all

Tick Tock

It all seems so meaningless.

It is.

Then,

One day without notice,

It isn't.

Tick Tock.

Our clock keeps spinning.

Until it doesn't.

One Shot Poem attempt number who cares cause these are mostly kinda terrible.

I wish I was present.

I wish I was present for the pain.

I wish I was present for the relief.

I wish I was present for the sadness.

I wish I was present for love.

Mostly, I'm dealing with the pain, relief, sadness and love that came before.

Maybe that's a coping mechanism.

Maybe that's just life.

Maybe I am making excuses for all of us.

Maybe I can do better.

Maybe you can too.

Our eternal boy is lost

In my imagination Nathan will always be a boy.

I will forever picture him at nineteen, boyish and slender, with curly dark wild hair and an infectious excitement about him standing in the door of the basement suite we shared, smoking and raving to the universe and anyone else who might listen about what could happen. He was a preacher of experienced and unstudied existentialism and longing.

He was both naive in his beliefs and worldly in his experiences.

This is my eternal image of Nathan Arrowsmith.

It might be unfair. But such is the stuff of memories.

Nathan was a beautiful, kind, inquisitive, inclusive and mischievous boy.

I dare you to find a picture of Nate that didn't look like a boy keeping a secret from the camera. He was a perfect exuberant storm of charming and childish trouble.

Nathan was also a sad, broken, tired and scared man.

In the end he couldn't reconcile this difference.

Maybe it wasn't difference at all.

I was drawn to Nathan because he couldn't hide who he was. I think he hid it better from others but I don't inspire the kind of passions that cause people to lie. People don't want to impress me or intimidate me. I think Nathan's quick wit and banter fooled some into thinking he was okay.

He wasn't, although I always trusted he could be.

That trust was broken.

But, Nathan will always be our beautiful boy.

He wanted the same thing all boys want. He wanted to be loved and accepted. This is the central story of Nathan's life. That and the alcoholism. Obviously these facts inform one another.

If you didn't know Nathan you might have thought he was a hard drinking, hard working man who was unlucky in love.

If you did know Nathan you know he was a boy searching for a center. He was ever trying to pick up the pieces of a broken life.

I don't know the entire history. Nathan's past was filtered through his own love of storytelling and exaggeration. But, I know he was searching. The past wasn't what it could have been. This isn't accusation or judgment. This is fact.

Nathan struggled with his past.

Because of that he struggled with his present.

He lost that struggle recently.

I wish he hadn't. I wish he understood he had many families. I wish he had realized he was not alone.

We miss you Nate.

Most of us are kinda pissed at you too. That's unfair, but we love you and we can't let you know that anymore.

Our beautiful boy is gone.

I wish I had one more night of bullshit and beer and love to share with you.

I want you to be at peace.

I hope you've found love, acceptance and family in forever.

A barely coherent, yet kinda true thought

In adolescence I imagined I wanted to be all things to all people.

In adulthood I thought I should be all things to some people.

In maturity I realized I can only be some things to all people.

In wisdom I understood I should be some things to the right people.

And then I remembered I need to be the right things to the right people at the right time.

(Thanks Aristotle - you're still boring though)

Maybe.searching for the universal in particular is always problematic.

Maybe the particular is always in our grasp.

Maybe the particular is always what we need.

Maybe.

Or maybe I'm dead fuck wrong again.

Who knows

Touch is too often lost.

Touch is too easily missed.

We stand and wait and want and let it go by.

Touch was there to say thanks.

But I hate good-byes.

And I missed my chance.

Another One Shot Poem Attempt

Tears tumble from the outside corners of my eyes.

I'm not committed to giving up.

The insides glisten but do not fall.

I can't keep them in much longer.

My rage and bravado have turned to sentiment.

I am in the middle.

I am happy to let go.

Sadness and Beauty (For Glen)

Every sadness illuminates the beauty of life.

Glen was beautiful.

In my heart, in my perception, in my memory, he still is. Glen was someone whose influence on my life outstripped his time in my life.

Glen passed away awhile ago. I still know none of the details. My intellect wants to know. My wisdom understands the mechanism is pointless.

Glen was beautiful, and now he is gone.

But, of course, he isn't.

Glen has friends and family and children.

I don't know his children well. I know their mother more. Although Glen and Debbie were parted from each other, they are together in my imagination. They came into my life when I was becoming who I am. In our lives punctuated by rapid change and long equilibriums, this was a period of profound growth.

It was a difficult time for me. 

Transitions are always dangerous.

I was lonely and afraid and acted more confident than I was. Their example of calm and peaceful love I carry still. They were apart when Glen passed, which meant it wasn't always calm and peaceful. But, I know Glen was a wonderful and present father. Their divorce didn't define them. Parenting was more important.

Glen's beauty was defined by his relationships.

I've rarely met anyone so happy and comfortable being a Dad. I know few men who are as comfortable in themselves, without resorting to masculine stereotypes and clichés.

Maybe this was all a lie. Glen clearly had secrets. In the end his secrets were more like demons than the relatively benign monsters we all make friends with.

But, to me, this was a truth. Glen's loving countenance is always how I remember him. I remember Debbie and Glen as the adults in our group. He was quiet and solid and there to help you move, as a man should be. She was sweet and caustically funny and there to help you in every other way she could. She also reminded us that people had real responsibilities - children - when we fought over which pub to go to on a Tuesday night, as we pushed our adolescent years into the third decade of life.

Together they formed a stepping stone in my journey. Without them, I am not sure who I (and we) are today. In a twist of fate I am well used to, neither are part of my life today.

Except, both are with me still.

Thank you, and I'm sorry. 

My Job

I'm sorry.

I wish I could be with you always. 

I can't. 

Maybe I don't wish it. 

It is an important lesson. 

And, without intent to cop-out of my job, I always will be with you. You are half me. I mean that literally. I don't mean that in the horse-shit made up meaning of emphasizing a point kind of way. I am literally half of you: biologically, culturally, sociologically, spiritually, mathematically (some of those aren't true).

But still, my job is hard. 

It is my job to die. 

And it breaks my heart more than yours. My job is to know you more than anyone else in the world, and then take that away from you.

It is my job to die. 

My job is to see you born, see you become a conscious toddler, figure out the word 'NO!!!!"', figure out 'sorry', 'yes' and 'I love you'. It is my job to see you join our social family.

It is my job to protect you, and then let you be hurt, while still protecting you.

It is my job to die.

One day, you'll be grown men with flaws and gifts and perspective. It will be my job to shatter your world. It will be my job to end the illusion of a world without end. Grandparents come and go, although you never met all of yours. They are small lessons.

My lesson is large.

It is my job to die.

It is my job to walk a path you cannot avoid. It is my job to face certain uncertainty with grace, dignity and love. My Dad did it before me, my Mom will do it one day. It is a job only a parent can appreciate.

I've seen parents follow their children into the unknown. They end at the moment of their child's passing. They never remain amongst us living. Life is always half over for them. Dying first is my gift.

It is my job to die.

I would do it intentionally, unintentionally, accidentally, on purpose, with reason, with faith, without reason, without faith.

I love you, and always will. I am sorry for what I must do. I am sorry I must cause you pain and loss and sadness. I wish it was my job to make you happy and satisfied and calm forever. It isn't. My job revolves around your peace and well-being.

It is my job to die.

To those who know you more than you know yourself

I was young(ish) and running. I was fighting against my instincts and my biology and trying to get into running shape.

Later, I remember talking to my Mom over the phone and her saying "you sound wheezy".

I was pissed.

She didn't know who I was anymore.

I was a college educated grad student. I was a young man with dreams bigger than our small town and our family.

She couldn't know what was happening inside me half a continent away, over a phone call check-in.

But, of course she did.

She is my Mom.

Also, her understanding is a product of second-order observation. I discovered this idea later in grad school and suddenly the world made more sense. We can't know ourselves as well as those who really know us because we only see the world in front of us.

Moms see more. They see us, and the people we interact with and the results of our interactions. We only see part of that story. We experience first-order observations. Second-order observations of ourselves are the things of Moms and Dads and friends.

It's incredibly annoying.

It's also the best gift they can give you.

When your Mom, or wife, or partner or best friend says "You seem tired, or stressed or sick or happy....." go ahead and believe them. They see you in a way you don't see yourself.

The inverse is also true if you open your eyes and your mind.  A lot of us Dads don't do that. But Moms almost universally do. Their presence is intoxicated by the reality of their children. They are bracketed by the insistence of their partner's life.

They are the centre of it all. They are an eternal return for each of us.

It may sound a little Freudian, but Moms are replaced by our partners. It's not in a creepy way though. They are simply the people who see us for who we really are. They see us, they see the world as it changes through us. We are often blind to much of this.

Our Moms and partners and closest friends are the corrective lenses for our lives. We only get to decide if we want to listen to what they see.

My Mom was right during that phone call, as my partner is so many times now........although I almost always default to no and claim something else.

In short, thank you Mom. And Happy Mother's Day.

You were almost always right, and someday I'll remember that too.

To my friends I love and don't talk to much

As the title suggests, I love you.

My past is with me always. Even when I shudder at your choices in the moment, I love you then and now and later.

My present emerges from before. My past, you, are always at my shoulder. I loved you then and now and always.

Our differences are in scale, not in scope.

My future only exists with you. You define and categorize who I am. At times you infuriate me. At times I shake my head. At times I must accept I do the same to you.

My always exists with you. You are a foundation, a pillar, a touchstone. You are a piece of the forever me. You are a reminder of who I ought to be.

Please let me be that thing for you as well.

One shot poem attempt

This might be shit, but I'm gonna try:

In the middle you just keep swimming.
Keep putting your head down and trying.
Keeping lifting your head up for breath.

Life is that simple and that hard.

Try.

Don't focus on results.

Results are a madness of time and place and luck.
The here and now are all we have.
The forever is a roll of dice.

I'm not sure this is any good.

Fuck it.
I'm done.

Sure Signs You've Entered Middle-Age

It's hard to know if you're an adult.

And, it's especially hard to know when you've really grown-up.

So, I've put together a few easy indicators to let you know that you are middle-aged and can forget about the ifs and whens.

1) When someone asks your age you have to do math.

2) Per square inch your body hair has increased, but in all the wrong places. (Note: this indicator skews male).

3) Learning stuff, especially new pronouns, sends you into a frothing rage.

4) You wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep because you think you might have forgotten your high school locker combination.
 - Not a problem for me: 59-27-14

5) Sex, like Communism, is a great idea in theory.

6) You see a Dad bod meme and think, "I used to be that ripped".

7) You still use "ripped".

8) You are sure music, films, t.v. and video games were all better when you were a kid.

9) You have forgotten about New Kids on the Block, Police Academy, Joanie Loves Chachi and Dig Dug.

10) Your life is more taken with ruminating, nostalgia and 'what may have been' than what might come to pass.

11) You still think Jordan was better than Lebron, Gretzky was better than Crosby and Messi needs to win a World Cup to really prove his greatness.

12) The mirror is your sworn enemy.

13) A few times per year you hear about a massive cultural event and have no idea what is going on.

14) You worry a lot about fibre.

15) Sitting on the floor is restricted to a board game with your kids, or a half hour situation comedy. A full movie on the floor leaves you as sore as a workout used to.

16) You are so unconcerned with impressing people that you only shower when you start to itch.

17) You can no longer distinguish anyone between 15 and 25 and think of them all as cute little kids.

18) You've had at least one parent die and one serious health scare and you fully understand and are okay with the end game being death. You find this takes a lot of pressure off.

19) You're pretty sure with a break here, or a little luck there, you could have been famous and rich and important.

20) You can no longer watch a Pixar movie without weeping.

21) You absolutely refuse to call Star Wars "Episode IV" Because IT IS GD FUCKING STAR WARS!!!!!!!!!

22) You think Yoda's syntax is fine.

23) You remember when you could stump the Internet.

24) Every decade you think, 40 isn't that old, 50 isn't that old, 60 isn't.......

25) You are pretty sure kids these days are terrible, only because you don't remember all the idiot children you grew up with (and probably were).

26) At least once per month you learn of a massive cultural phenomenon which you've never heard of and are totally baffled by.

27) You tend to repeat yourself.

28) You don't care about ending lists on even round numbers.

What do I want?

"What do I want"?

The great question everyone grapples with. At least, the great question everyone who didn't become the thing they wanted to be as a child grapples with.

I'm not an NHL goalie, so here we are.

What do I want?

In our world of late, disorganized capitalism we like to think of this as a personal question, removed from social context or cultural influence.

That, of course, is absurd.

Nothing is removed from society and culture, even if they are removed from each other. I have a family. I have a partner and kids and jobs and commitments that preclude some of my more ridiculous dreams. Reality also precludes some of those dreams, but that is not what I'm talking about.

The better question is: What do I want, given the circumstances of my life and the outcomes that are in the realm of plausible.  Within these confines many of us find possibilities, probabilities and freedom from the tyranny of cultural aspirations.

I want to teach and write.

I also want to be a secret agent, ninja, NHL goalie, John Wick style assassin-poet.

But mostly I want to teach and write.

Both of those things reveal my truth to the world.

In teaching I am in control of a room in a way I normally cannot be. I am a fucking disaster at a cocktail party. I am shit at small talk and can't easily enter or remove myself from trivial discussions. I always go for the deeper meaning. I always try to look behind the curtain.

I am always interested in your truth, even if you are not.

I also like to write about that disconnect. I like to explore the world from the safety of my keyboard. I see the world as deep and interesting and a series of objects to be engaged. But, I only see this from a distance. In the face of complexity and difference and tension I walk away. I don't do well in the moment. I reflect well.

I wish I reflected beautifully.

On occasion I do. Usually I miss. But, I endeavor to bridge the gap between learning, seeking, understanding and teaching. I do that as a job. I want to do that as a living.

I want to teach and write. 

You Be You

Life is a fight between who you are, who you were and who you want to be.

In other words, Dickens had the right idea. Except who you are spends too much time appeasing who you were in the age of twitter, Instagram and online ruminations. Put otherwise, the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is waging a losing battle.

Maybe life is a losing battle. Everyday we hope, we do and we repeat. At the end of very few days are we happy with the result.

Why?

We suck.

Kinda True.

Said better, we project yesterday into tomorrow and the results are terrible. We should care about the future, but we too often care about now soothing our before.

We appease our present selves, in opposition to what our future selves want.

We suck.

We suck time from our future and use it to soothe our past and present.

We ruminate. We regurgitate. We replay.

We plan poorly. We execute worse.

I don't really have a point.

We suck.

Let's try and suck less.

Let's try and be who we want to be, while being who we are and honouring who we were.

Life is a complex game of remembering and forgetting. Let's remember what we need to, forget what hurts too bad and play with possibilities of tomorrow.

Or, let's just drink and forget. Either works in the moment.

But, as I've hinted at, moments are both the answer and a trap.

You be you, today, yesterday and tomorrow.

Please.

New Year, New ???

The combination of booze, timing and nostalgia makes everything seem important.

It's a new year. I'm feeling tipsy and sentimental.

I don't know what to say, or who to say it to, so I'm gonna freestyle.

(My apologies for not being Black Thought).

I love you.

If you are reading this and you know me that is almost certainly true.

If you are reading this and you don't know me that is mostly true in the abstract.

I love the world. I love the people in it.

I love the freaks and geeks and nerds and boring ass working class mother fuckers.

I love you.

I love my Mom.

I love my sisters (even the one who is struggling to be herself away from us).

I love my in-laws. They are my people too.

I love my other family too - Andre, Kate, and the lads. Michelle, Sean and the boys. I love Christian and Charlie and Deb and Jordan and all of the offspring I have and haven't met and people they hold close to their hearts.

I love Tamy (and Devin) and Holly (and what's his name).

I love Kelly and Jackie and Jim and Natasha.

I love everyone I work with each and every day.

I love Mickey (seriously, he is an interesting fucking dude). I love his boy Tanner (or is it Trevor - fuck it, I love him too).

I love Bill.

I love Mike, and Brenten, and Heath and Rob and Sandy (even if she is a fucking traitor) and Darcie.

I love everyone I met in South Africa and Cuba and the handful of other places I've traveled.

I love there and here. I love where I am and what I do.

I love my students, good, bad and indifferent. I love the students figuring out who they are. I love the students working through what they thought they were. I love all the students who give a fuck about knowing themselves.

That is a list too big too shorten but I hope you know. (And I think you do).

I love you all.

Mostly, I love  my Poohead Shawna. I love Sid and Hector and Maclean. They are the centre of everything.

But the rest of you I like a lot too.