Dear God

Here we are again God.  I know you’re here. It’s your dream. I’m a co dreamer at best. If I’m the great great kahoona or the systems guy I’d have more conscious control over the way things work and go.  I could say , okay I’ll have a billion dollars today and poof it would be there. That’s not worked so well for me.

So we seem in this together.  

Your locus according to the ancients is inside.  The heart or centre of the centre. The Yogi says “I am the bubble make me the see”.

I want to know you.  I want to feel you. I want to be lead by you. I want to be guided by you. I want that ‘fucking” ‘wee small voice to be a bit louder’. I’m deaf. I’ve hearing aids. Where’s the God aid.

Okay there’s Gilbert. He’s definitely a reminder. Pulls the wee small heart strings for sure.

But what am I to do today.  I’ve patients and work and there’s a whole routine in place for leaving the home showered and shaved.I’ll go through this. I’ll get into the car. That routine is losing it’s appeal. Maybe the fear of mad men and mad women in other cars and the cost of repairs and the whole insurance claim business , well, it makes walking more appealing.

Please Lord relieve the pain and the wear and tear phenomena on the joints.  Restore the youth and lubrication to those parts that need them most. 

Help me be less of an asshole.

I’m not enjoying my company at times. Mostly I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Words like ‘meaning’, ‘purpose’ and ‘reason’ all seem to plague my very existence. Always have.

I’ve also fought a lot.  I don’t seem to be that offensive but it’s been a life of defensive actions against bullies and those with ‘position authority’.

The reformer is the enemy of those who benefit from the status quo.  I’ve been a reformer. Breathing seems to offend those others.

So there’s you and me and ‘thoseothers’.  My feelings towards others are mixed.  I’m more wary. I was raised to be loving and trusting but the so called ‘authorities’ , well they killed God, didn’t they. Yet they remain pompous and superior. Government institutions collectively ‘Nazi’ or worse “Communist’ but conveniently forgetting they were the ones who ‘killed Jesus’.  The local Herod and the branch supervisor Pontius Pilate.  Haven’t admitted mistakes. 

The local clown apologizing for Canadians hasn’t yet apologized for ‘his part’ in the killing of Jesus.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

The idea of ‘linear time’ isn’t particularly quantum physics era. Even circular time doesn’t cut it. I live in a ‘stellate’ time world. Everything Emirates from now. Now is the moment of the ‘greatest story’.  The Jesus story is happening here and now.  

I like to play Jesus in the cast or Peter. But the fact is I’m Herod and I’m Pontius Pilate too.  I’m my own ‘original sin’.  The Golden Bough talks about the ultimate sacrifice. Instead of the female virgin, Jesus the male virgin, was offered up as a sacrifice to ensure the crops returned or the sun returned.  

“He did it!”  “It wasn’t me!”  “He did it”. We all can exclaim together. Sacrificial kings.  The king’s fault.  

Hedonism or Shedonims. The search for pleasure.  

I’d have joy. I’d have that transcendent experience of ‘God with us!” The knowledge of ‘its going to be okay’.   I know life isn’t ‘boring’ so there’s trials and challenges and testicles are ripped off by alien robots in one’s sleep or great viruses invade through the toe nails and turn the liver into sludge, just a little spice to make life less boring. I do appreciate your sense of humor.  

I’m screaming like the ‘Scream’ on most days going on to the next thing.  What’s the next surprise.  No money in the bank account.  Another tax notice. No carburetor. Someone stole the truck.  These are all things I’ve muddled through. I’m ‘traumatized’ in the new ‘lingo’ for all the life of ‘experience’ with folk dying in my hands and beside me and things simply not ‘going my way.’

It’s you and me and we seem to do a lot of you. But that’s my baby perspective. Whose in charge. Certainly not me.  Unless my unconscious is fucking Steven king.  I’m faced with another female surprise. She’s upset and I don’t know what her issue is. She’s drunk on emotion and superstition and I don’t know what I did wrong. I wasn’t paying attention and the truck hit the wall. I’m never paying attention ‘enough’.

Taht’s the exercise of meditation. Stop the dying on one’s watch. Keept the ship afloat . Do the next right thing.

So are you going to be there today, all today God. No breaks. I need you with me all the time. Not just union hours. Not just bureaucratic schedules. I need you like I needed my mom as an infant. I need you constantly always 24/7.  I want a formal notice of your place beside me, above me, below me, surrounding me. I want protection. I want assurety. I want some cause to believe that when I get out of this spiritual fetal position I can trust you or is it going to be another emotional roller coaster with those arrogant bullies throwing their weight around and demanding I suck their dicks and worship them and them threatening me and lying and cheating and generally being fuckwads.  I don’t want to do that game again. I ‘ve been your ‘victim’ in the Kafkaesque nightmare of your institutional jails and bullying.  I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to remember that anymore. I keep being pulled back into that maelstrom and I don’t want to be there.

Can’t we do the beach again. Can’t we do the camping more. Can’t we do the road trip. Can’t I be a thousand miles from head office and sailing on my sailboat or riding my motorcycle. Can’t Gilbert and I just get away.

I’d call your mean side Satan.

Can’t we get away from Satan. 

Can we get back to the Garden. You know naming things.  Without the girl and the snake and the Apple. I made that up didn’t I. I was the disobedient one. I was the curious one.  I wanted knowledge.  I’m the shadow and you are the light. I’m the one who turns his back on you.

I love you God. I fear and worship and love you.  I’m embracing the pain. I’m going forward. I’m wanting you.

Could you give me that million dollars now?

Also the plastic surgery.

I’d like a few months remake. 

Some youth. I’d like some youth and joy.

And meaning. I’m paying the rent and feeing myself and am a cog in the factory. I”m doing my best every day to give people what I was taught to do. At the end of the day people want me to ‘write a prescription’.  After all is said and done people really want and beg me to give them pills.  ‘I’m a human pill dispenser’.  They lie the ‘wisdom’ and ‘experiecne’ and ‘knowledge’ but it’s like the chat the guy gives me at the gun store. If I don’t get the ‘gun ‘ fuck the story and education about hunting. I want the gun. I’m the ‘pill dispensary store’.  If I was a surgeon I’d be the ‘knife’ so what’s with all the education and encouragement and saying that it’s going to be okay.

I see my self at work as the ‘complaints department of life’.  People are depressed with you God and I’m there explaining and encouraging and convincing people not to kill themselves when frankly I’ve thought about it a lot myself.  But who would take care of Gilbert? George the cat needs me. I’ve a plant that requires watering. It’s a thin edge. It’s what gets me through. But so many people won’t even take the entanglement of caring for a plant. They live lives of quiet desperation and want my ‘drugs’ to be ‘like cocaine’ or ‘like fentanyl’.  They want a safe version and I’m there trying to convince them to exercise, make relationships, join, participate, get out of their beds.  Yet I’m not keen to go to work. And everyone wants me to write a ‘chit’ saying they don’t need to work.

They actually threaten and extort letters from me saying that they don’t have to work or that they are ‘entitled’ to ‘special attention’ which they get because my ‘boss’ threatens me daily. I work for a toxic administration that threatens me to do what is wrong and to act like they do and they’re the most demonic creatures of disgusting realities.  

I’m supposed to be working on love and acceptance. That’s yesterday. I want to be alone again in the middle of the ocean for days at end with the dog heading to an unknown shore. But all I have to do is get dressed and go to work again.  

The unknown strangers.  These ‘sick’ people. I see them I meet with them.  Yet over my shoulder I have a cowardly tyrant who is the stupidest bully I’ve ever known.  The government today is 1930’s stupid.  They’re terrifying in their arrogance and grandiosity and utter ignorance.

I’m supposed to get dressed, shave and shower and go out there instead of killing myself. I am supposed to help others who themselves are facing such nonsense.  I’m supposed to rally them and say it’s okay and carry on.  There’s a fucking war against stupidity and the stupidity is top heavy.  I’m supposed to do this and I’ll get paid and I really would like everyone just ask could we bypass the work bit and give me ten million dollars so I can go shopping. I’d like to have 2 nannies for Gilbert and go shopping.  

I’m going to get dressed and shower.

God I’m going to do the ‘drill’.  I’m going to go about things but while I’m doing that could you focus on making it better. Hey Jude.  Make it better. 

I feel I’m doing my bit.  But where’s the reward. And don’t give me that crucifixion bit. I don’t want another crucifixion. I don’t want more pain. I don’t want more suffering. Even if it turns me to you I want the ‘easier softer way’.  I want to fall into your arms and be held . Let’s drop the father god bit and get the unconditional loving mother god bit.  I’m losing it. I want you God.  Really light show. White light. Firecrackers. Bring it on.  Levitation and telepathy and miracles.  Let’s have a few miracles today. Skip the humdrum and get right to the casting out of demons.  

Angels. Bring on the angels.

Good talk God. Let’s keep doing this. Thanks . Yes. Thanks for everything. you , this , them, especially Gilbert and George.  

My challenge today.

If I ride the motorcycle to work, very exciting, very dangerous, very unnerving, with Gilbert on the back, I can’t stop for a coffee.  When I drive the car I stop for a coffee. But the wind in the hair, Gilbert loving it and the fast lane.  

I could do that.

I may die.

Whenever I ride my motorcycle I think I may die.

I may be maimed.

The road is a war zone.

I’m putting my faith and trust in you.

In the best of all possible worlds with millions of dollars and time I’d pull this trailer east, visit family, get my sail boat and sail the Atlantic, pick up a crew along the way.  I don’t need a crew but it’s all physically more demanding. Pulling down sails in a storm.   I could just head south with the trailer pick up some guns.  Get into the gang zones, find a compound.  Learn more Spanish.  Get a horse. Ride into the sunset with Gilbert sitting on the saddle.  

I’d probably send for Laura. She and George make life better. I really ought to visit the new baby in the family. I’ve got to get to Aberdeen. I’ve been promising folk there for ever I’ll come visit. I’ve not visitted the Métis side of the family in years. I’d like to ride Appaloosa with my cousin. It’s been too long since I rode the range.  I’m just never doing the things I ought to do. Instead I wallow in the mundane,  never get anything done.

I’m full of self pity God. I’m just too easily distracted.

I’d rather get a sex change in Thailand , wear dresses, have a new name, new face, leave this ‘manliness’ behind. The women don’t want anything but mirrors. Manliness is out.  I’ve stopped a half dozen rapes, fought so many men, delivered babies, convinced thousands it’s okay and it’s ‘never enough’. Instead some ‘bureaurcrat’ in an office with a suit and a really bad attitude and power and money, he calls the shots and says we should be like him a kind of castrated chicken of a man, some kind of people kind.

I’d like to smoke a joint and sit back and play guitar and drink wine and whack off.  I’d like to be back on my homestead raising chickens and considering where to raise the pigs.

I’d like to be anything but me. 

At times.

Then sanity kicks back in and I’m rather thankful for the clean laundry. I’m happy with the coffee. I love the vehicles.  It’s a rush screaming down the highway.  

But I miss the sensuality and glamor of the dance floor or meeting the young girl in the woods and fucking all afternoon.  She became a missionary. I was her last ‘worldly event’. She thanked me for the send off. Multiple orgasms.  Two friends missionaries somewhere. I’d love to hook up and hear their story. Theres’ so many stories I’ve not followed up on. The friend jumping out of planes. The CSIS friend spying somewhere.

“I’d like to know that God but instead today I’ll remember to pay the bills. Hope to get a breather between the onslaught to demands and anxiety and desperation.

I have to shower and shave.  

I’d like a monks robe. Saddles.

Men’s clothing unappealing. I miss living in cut off shorts or a sarong and the deck of my boat, months of simplicity.  

Thank you God . It’s been a good life. Really a good adventure. A romp. A tryst.  I’m just not sure what’s next. Could you guide me. Lead me. Show me the way.  Please Lord be with me today.  

Thank you.