Broken

I'm a fan of the broken.

I'm a lover of those who try to find themselves. 

Each path is a voyage of futures disrupted. 

Each choice is an assumed disgrace. 

But, in the explorations I see power, beauty, and knowledge. 

In these examinations we might find our lives. 

I'm a fan of the bent. 

I'm a lover of those who try to know themselves. 

Each journey is a reminder of possibilities. 

Each realization is an attempts grace. 

Because in the difference I see wisdom, resilience and love.

In these explorations we understand the self. 

I'm here

I'm here to take your hand and bring you along.

I'm here. 

I'm here to guide your next step. 

I'm here.

I'm here to stand in for the one who should be.

I'm here,

To be to be someone other than who I should be. 

I'm here, 

To fill in gaps badly. 

Don't know

I don't know your face. 

I don't know your face, except as an object of affections. 

I don't know your life. 

I don't know your life, except as unrealized desires. 

I don't know your story. 

I don't know your story, except as the lessons I refuse to learn. 

I don't know you. 

I never will. 

And yet, I still fumble the story of who you are. 

Searching

I search for futures,

to make sense of the past.

I ask for help, 

with what could have been. 

I struggle with help.

I struggle with understanding. 

I ask for forgiveness,

only from myself. 

I search for past regrets,

to make sense of today. 

I, try

I live in-between regret.

I love in-between rejection.

I learn in-between remorse. 

My Boys

My boys just turned seven. 

I'm slightly cautious calling them my boys, for two reasons. One, I don't know where they will fall on the spectrum of gender - especially in a world once again open to possibilities the modern world tried to suppress. Two, I don't own them. They are not 'mine'. 

But I don't know what else to say. 

Like everyone else, I'm trapped by social conditioning and expectations. Plus, more than a little of me wants things to be easy. I mean no disrespect. I know I shouldn't wallow in all my privileges. But life is difficult for everyone - even a straight, cis-gendered white man like me has been kicked around by existence. It would be easier if my boys were boys. It would be easier if they were straight. I don't mean better, and I wish the world was not the way it is. 

I don't know what else to say, except it won't matter to me. 

I love Sid and Hector with all my heart. I wake up thinking about their happiness and I go to bed hoping they are happy. I know I fuck this up during the day, but tomorrow I will try again. 

I love my family more than I can reasonably express. And, that means, they cause me the most stress, anxiety and discomfort I can experience. The equation of love plus connection times years together does not equal a commensurable state with what I wanted from life. The equation is hard to balance. The math on life is uncomfortable. 

Life is hard to figure out. 

I need to express everything I am and wanted to be, without letting the failures weigh down on my boys. I need my failures to be lessons and not obstacles. I want obstacles to be of their own making and their own desires. This, like all balances, is hard to exclaim. 

Balance is the enemy of growth, which means it is the enemy of understanding. I want my boys to grow and to understand. This means life is is a constant back and forth, a to and fro, and fuck you and fuck me. 

Life is hard to navigate. 

I think travel is a better metaphor than math, I'm not reaching the end of an equation, I am turning towards the truth. It is a truth that isn't static, or a truth that isn't absolute. But, it is singular, even for my twins. 

Hector's truth is his own

Sid's truth is his own. 

The truth of each of them means something for the truth of both of them as well. 

Life is hard to realize. It all makes sense for moments, and then doesn't make sense at all.

Perhaps a more concrete example makes sense of this all. Every night my kids go to bed together. Sometimes they are awake and playful and silly. They wrestle and tickle and make the ordeal go on and on and on. Sometimes one of them is exhausted and wants nothing to do with anyone else. They cry and kick and scream to be left alone .On rare occasions they all collapse as one. They cuddle with Mom and Dad and each other and fall into peaceful rest. 

There is only one thing that each of these nights has in common. When Mom and Dad go to check on them after an hour or more they are always together. They may be on top of each other like a pile of puppies, or cuddled like dolls. But, they always reach each other. 

They always find one another in the dark. 

This is the most important gift we can give them. One day Grandma and Papa will be gone. One day Mom and Dad will be gone. One day, everyone they love will be gone. I need to lay the foundations for their experience that makes this fact never quite true. I need to be with them always, just like their Mom will. 

I don't give two fucks about the pronouns they choose. I don't care about sexuality and gender, except in the most selfish way I want things to be simple. I want their paths to be flat and easy to navigate. If they aren't, I will be with them until I can't be with them anymore. 

And, if I've done my job right, I'll be there still. 

I love you Sid. I love you Hector. You are the centre of my whole world and I hope I will always be yours. 

Love, Dad. 

The Tale of Joan Gerow

This is a misleading title. 

I don't really know the tale of Joan Gerow, despite being her grandson. 

My Grandma is a mystery. She is a family legend. Most families have these legends. And, like most families, I suspect the legend is more about misunderstanding and questions never asked. . 

In the end, I suspect she might just be a Grandma, like a thousand others out there.  

Too long have women's tales been secret and hidden. The triumphs and pains and sacrifices of women's lives have been the norm. 

My Grandma fits that pattern. 

Joan (Shermer) Gerow was born outside London, England and became a young woman in the thirties in one of the most cosmopolitan of places. I suspect she saw more and experienced more than she ever let us know. I only saw glimpses of this when I was older and it surprised my younger self. A lot of things surprised my younger self, but nothing shocked me more than women labelled Mom or Grandma or Sister being for more than I imagined or was allowed to understand. 

My Grandma grew up near London in a time of prosperity and cosmopolitan adventure. I wish I had some idea of who she was back then. But, like so many, the war changed her memories forever.  

My Grandma became a part of WWII. I can't say exactly what she became, except she said she was in "communications". In my imagination she was a part of "Bletchley Park" and was a code breaker. In reality, she was likely a cog in a machine that use women as glorified secretaries and assistants. 

The truth may never be known. That is the funny thing. That is the thing we rest our family legend upon. Grandma never really told us what she did. We knew she could translate Morse code for my big sister when Jen went away to Sea Cadets many decades after the war. We knew she recognized former heads of MI5 on the cover of books when we shopped for presents during one holiday season when all her grandchildren were grown. But, we had no idea what she really did. 

Like my Grandpa, she doesn't talk about it. 

I reality, I know she wasn't a spy. I knew someone whose Mom was a spy in WWII - and until the day her Mother died the British secret service would show up and tell her what was still classified and what wasn't. 

My Grandma didn't have those experiences. My Grandma, I suspect, was one of many, many women who did what their country asked for them, without recognition and without celebration. She is another cog in the machine of the Patriarchy. 

This isn't meant to belittle her. It is, in fact, a celebration of life lived and which is still lived. 

My Grandma turned 99 this week. She is alone in a home, cut off from family and friends due to Covid-19. She is still a mystery to me. But, she is a mystery I understand a little more each year. 

My Grandma took one of a very few paths available to her, so that her children may have more. She married my Grandpa as a war bride and came to Canada to expand the possibilities she didn't have. She was still constrained by so many things I did not understand as a child. But, her choices and sacrifices have made my life possible. 

Thank you Grandma. I am sorry I didn't see it earlier. You were stoic and calm and an unwavering presence when I suspect you would have appreciated a "Thank you Grandma, I love you" even more. Or maybe your British upbringing wouldn't have allowed it.

Well, I'm not British, and my upbringing is slowly being peeled away, so I will say it now: 

Thank you Grandma. I love you. 

Thank You Herman

Herman Remodo died yesterday.

I didn't know Herman well. He was from my small home town. I certainly knew him, but he was a bit younger than me. When you leave your home town and rarely return this makes a difference. 

I knew his brother Gerry Remodo better. But, to say that, makes it sound like I was close with Gerry. I wasn't. 

I wasn't close with Gerry or Herman. 

And yet, I grieve. 

In this case, I am not grieving for a lost youth or what could have been. I'm not casting my mind back to possibilities of love and friendship and what I let pass me by. 

I grieve for all of us. 

I grieve for the whole world. 

That sounds grandiose, but there are people you only appreciate once they are gone. You think their candle has gone out, until you realize they lit a thousand more. 

Herman Remodo lit, at least, at thousand candles. 

As I said, I didn't know Herman well. We shared some time and space together, but being younger meant our circles only overlapped a little. But, when I think of Herman I can only smile. I don't mean to diminish his loss, but he always felt like a permanent smile.

I cannot imagine thinking of Herm and being angry or upset or anything else negative. He was (and is) a fixture of pure light in my imagined community of home. I feel the same about Gerry. We haven't talked in years and years, but Gerry evokes calm smiles and light hearts and nothing else for me.

I am so very sad I can't do the same right now. 

Gerry's heart is broken. It is crushed and heavy and he is trying to understand how to scoop it back up. 

I don't have any answers, except to say thank you. 

Herm and you are some of my best memories of Port Hardy. Your smiles and obvious loves for your friends fills me with nostalgia and warmth. 

I wish I knew a way to make you feel better, but I don't. 

I can only say Herm lives on in my heart and my family too. 

Thank you for sharing him with the world. 

Tell Your Truth

That is all that you have. 

That is all that we have. 

That is all I have.

Tell our truth.

The truth is I am with you. I am sorry. I am proud. I am glad and sad and happy to be wherever that you are. 

The truth is complicated. 

You are everything I wanted and everything I needed and about half of what  I should have figured out 

Your truth is important. 

But it isn't everything. 

It is one thing.

And one thing only - captured in the sea of other things. 

Tell your truth. 

Tell it as often and as loudly as you can.

quickly....before it changes. 

Bad Poetry - Pandemic version

Where does the beauty lie?

Where does the genius reside?

Is it together, in a well appointed Malibu mansion?

Is that why beautiful people fill my images and my imagination?

Or, is the simulation too real?

Do I exist in the moment?

Is the moment real and the map a lie?

Are beauty and genius troubled constructions of children grasping for once was?

Is life a shadowy remembrance?

Was Plato right?

Or, are the forms all we have to chase?

Is existence always questioning?

Is transcendence always death?

Write Every Da...or, Only In the Midst of a Pandemic

First, and most obviously, I was promised more zombies. 

I should be thankful, I suppose. But, I'm rarely thankful for things I imagined wrongly. 

Second, and more seriously, shit is getting real. I suggested shit got real when the NBA shut down. I suspected shit got real when the NHL closed - especially as a Canadian. But, I knew shit really got real when Disneyland closed its doors. 

The Mouse don't fuck around for no bad flu. When Mickey starts losing money you know shit is serious. 

Shit is real......and it always has been.

This pandemic has provided a nice background tableau for many of us. What matters - your job, which is suspended, or imaginary, or 'done from home''? What matters - your social circle, which is drinking on a patio on the weekend, or a beach trip on Friday night or a party at your house? 

This pandemic has provided a background of what fucking matters. 

You.

Your people - not in the abstract, but in the absolute immediate. 

And....everybody else too. 

You are not alone.

You never were. 

You need to act in the benefit of everyone. You need to embrace us all. 

That is our only chance. 

Fuck difference. 

Fuck petty feuds. 

Fuck this virus built on disconnection and disparity. 

We are one. Let's act as it at once. 

Write (almost) Every Day - Part 4

This isn't news, but life is hard.

I've already failed at the "write every day" thing.

It was never realistic.

I'm busy. I'm middle-aged. My energy isn't boundless, like it once was.

But, I want to write as often as I can.

Today, this week, this time, I am going to write about perspective in media.

I need to stop skimming the surface of our world. It is too easy to fall victim to click-bait headlines and misconstrued summaries. I need to read the whole thing. I need to seek out original sources and original interviews and find the context of the catchy news.

I know this as an academic (using this term loosely).

I know this as an adult.

But, it is so very easy to succumb to headlines and short-cuts and bad takes. It is so easy to not try and understand.

On this day / week / period of writing I want to do better. I will seek the full story. I will look beyond the headline. \

Only then, I will judge. 

Write Every Day - Day 3

I'm reconsidering the need for indoor plumbing.

It's one of those things that is nice and convenient, until it isn't. And when it isn't, it is an unholy nightmare - a shit show, if you will.

I spent nearly 8 hours doing a 'simple' home repair today. It started as a replacement of a shut-off valve and turned into an entire day of cursing, sweating and praying that Google had answers for why the fucking Shark Bite wouldn't come back off.

As with most days of frustration and pain, there were lessons too.

Most of the issues were caused by my lack of knowledge, my lack of planning and my lack of proper equipment. It turns out that balancing on a 3 foot wooden stool to reach the ceiling isn't a great strategy.

But, I tried to remember that I am incredibly lucky. It is my family home. I have to do it, because I own it (ignoring the fact a mortgage company owns way more of it). I can go to three different hardware stores for supplies and advice. I can spend the money and the time to try and get it fixed. These are privileges. They didn't reduce the f-bombs count much, but they are still privileges.

Just to be safe, I'm preparing a latrine and cistern tomorrow.

Write Every Day - Day 2

Obama, like so many before, was the gloss on the shiny lie.

Trump lays bare the reality of what the United States is, what Britain is, what Canada is - the list goes on. Trump lays bare the reality of a world set up and designed to help some at the expense of many.

Obama makes it seem like anything is possible.

That is true.

But, most things are not probable. Success, for too many, is not likely. Obama was makeup to cover that blemish in our world.

Write Every Day - Day 1

I am slipping. 

I've already slipped from youth to adulthood to middle-aged. But now I am slipping into inertia. I don't care much about the age thing. I suppose I wish I had done more, realized more, and tried more when I was young. But, I don't have many regrets. I am happy in middle-age. It fits me. I suspect it fits a lot of us that don't fit the ideals of beauty and desire. 

But, I can't abide the lack of caring I feel too often. I used to care so much. Sure, I cared about the wrong things, and dumb things and hockey way, way, way too much. But I cared. Too often I am unmoved. 

That is the problem. 

I am not in a place of serene non-attachment. I am unmoved by inertia and malaise and a general lack of fucks given. I used to move. I used to try. I am threatening to be beaten by life. Of course, life eventually wears us all down. Life is undefeated. Time will fuck us all over. I don't mean that. I mean I am succumbing to the subtle dance of time and stress and expectations and outcomes.

I am talking about.....

I am talking about....

I am mostly talking nonsense. 

Mostly, I need to remember to move. I need to remember to do. I need to remember to get up and go and do what I need to do to feel the way I want to feel and not wait to feel the right way to move. 

I expect I'll forget this reminder by tomorrow. 

Hopefully, I'll remember to write again then and remind myself.