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.

Spirituality

I know I exist.  Descartes said, “Cogito ergo sum” .  I think therefore I am.

But working with psychosis as I have, and addiction, I see that people can be alone and create an ‘imaginary world’. 

What then is religion? 

What does it mean to have a friend in Jesus?

To know God.

I really don’t have the capacity to create life. There’s a long list of things I can’t do but mostly I am here with no real understanding of how I happened on this planet spinning around the sun in a questionable suburb of a vast galaxy.

The story of Jesus is that he came to say that God is love, that he was the son of god and we were the children of God.  The government crucified him for teaching love.  

That alone is a good moral story. The government hasn’t seemed to be any less likely to day to kill God or his children.  Abortion and euthanasia are the governments latest endeavours en mass. Not their own people. Indeed immortality is their own aim and the perpetuation of the wealth and privilege of their own in government seems paramount. 

So if Jesus came today, virgin birth, or spaceship, he’d likely get the electric chair to maintain the ‘status quo’.  

In meditation I breathe in and I breathe out. This is a true fundamental.  The rhythmic pumping of my blood is another.  

The idea of a central light and I as a spark or a ‘word and I a sound within the word appeals as well. 

Reading the Holy Gospel and Science texts overlap.  It’s all too often that modern scientific knowledge was first intuited by ancient philosophers and theologians. A study of time today says little different than what St. Augustine said nearly 2 millennia ago.

I exist.  But what is my purpose. What is my meaning. What is the meaning of this life.

I have this day.  The past and future may well be ‘constructs’.  Owen Barfield discussed ‘saving the appearances’ and Piaget wrote about how the mind developed abstraction.  Confabulation is another consideration.

 Each aspect of the Jesus story is worthy of consideration in and of itself as a teaching tale.

The virgin birth is a favourite to be poopahed by the city person ignorant of the capacity of reproduction to occur without the earthly male.  I love the mother and child. I love the mother and child depictions from around the world of Christ Jesus and Mother Mary. I am reminded of how safe I felt when my mother held me as a child. There’s a universal here.  

Anxiety is said to be a measure of one’s distance from God.  God as the maternal aspect.  Jesus as the one who called God ABBA, papa, the loving God, not the ruling patriarchal God.  

What is love.  

There are those who worship Darwin and Freud but won’t countenance Moses or Jesus. 

If I contemplate Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit, the three persons in one, the family God, the Alpha Omega, perhaps I can find insight into my own being. Jesus is a child God.  The message of Christianity is equality.  Not a warlord or a ruler but rather an outcast.  The message of forgiveness is there too.  Sacrifice and service too.  

Spirituality is at the core of all religions.  Spirituality is God man. Religion is man made.  The more deeply one contemplates the relationship of God and man and man and man the more meaning and direction is found.

Remembrance Day

This morning is a hard start.  Hard start refers to an engine that won’t turn over.  It refuses to spark.  I’ve slept in.  First time in months.  Usually I’m in this robotic routine that gets me up and out of the house to work approximately on time.  Thousands of days of work. Thousands of before dawn days.  Today the sun is shining.
I got up and moved to a chair to meditate. My mind wasn’t on God, or Peace or Bliss. I wasn’t ‘mindful’.  I wasn’t even able to focus on prayers.  My soul had attention deficit disorder.  The monkey mind staggering through its various concerns.  Nothing compelling. Just distracting. No energy apparently to focus.  I lack the passion for God. I want my bed instead.
I am the monk who went back to bed.  
I napped on the couch.  Eventually,  the dog, impatient,  climbed all over  me.  I'm a dog mat.  He  licked my face.   Alright, already.
I got up again.  I let mutt out.  It's a crisp day.  He peed,sniffed,looked about and came back in when I called.
I have the day off. A tabala rosa day.  Remembrance Day. November 11.
Remembrance Day.  My father was RCAF.  World War II Royal Canadian Air Force.  Thanks to the sacrifice of the soldiers I’ve lived  a life of relative peace dealing only with self righteous smug and power abusing bureaucrats rather than facing the more judgemental nature of bullets and bombs.  All I have to complain about is the silly grade school officiousness of the stupid and arrogant.  Elsewhere, outside of Canada, children are being killed by random suicide bombers with bad hair and bad attitudes. Mothers and fathers are keening.
I remember my father at the cenotaph.  I was with Laura then.  The RCMP were resplendent in red serge.  Dad was proud to be among his fellow soldiers. He was a west coast bomber in WWII.  He said they  thanked him for bombing a submarine.
“I think it was a whale”, he said. The fog of war.  The humility of my father.
I’m thankful for the privilege of the years working with Veterans Affairs. I saw the old men and women,   heard their stories of being young.   They told me they knew no better than to do as they were told.  They followed orders and nearly died rescuing friends.   It was a hellish time.  They were heroes.  They held their heads high.  They knew the meaning of friendship.  They had solid values. Their houses were built on strong foundations.
Now the veterans I see are more often from forgotten wars of other countries where petty tyrants fought their neighbours, all of it more like medieval jousts with people as peasants.    They saw no glory in their service. Their countries have forgotten them. Regimes have changed.  They escaped.  They live here now.  In Canada.
Here the silly and stupid  forfeit the very rights my father fought for.  The leaders made promises. They've reneged on them now.  They hide behind  the fashion political correctness. They're all up the skirts of girls using them as puppets.
“We’ve aborted more of our own people than the Nazi killed in the war,” she said.  The nihilism of the atheism of our secular age is so in contrast to the robustness of the last generation.   I look around and see the  Germany or Russia of  1930’s.  Except we have shopping malls.  The cathedrals and temples go empty but the parking lots are full.
Dad believed in the working man.  He didn’t know his creed was ‘meritocracy’.  Reward those who work for the common good.  He actually liked the politicians of his day.  Mother celebrated the city leadership.  There was a pride in achievement.  They worried about the greed of their neighbour and were furious about the encroaching taxes. Overall they enjoyed life.  They were  family.
 I was a part of family, still am, even though I fall apart.   It's just the way I'm wired or maybe it comes with my work.   The existential angst.  The scream on a wood cut bridge.  I have some sort of spiritual seizure disorder. I see myself flailing about when everyone else seems a happy cabbage in the happy cabbage patch.
Right now I've attached my discontent to growing old. I could as easily stick it on a political party or a winter season, a lover or just about any fact of life.
Who is that hairy white bearded straggly haired wrinkled thing I see in the mirror.
I don’t think my father wondered at the mirror. His was a more accepting bent.  He complained about the aches and pains of labour but he wasn’t concerned with mirrors. His wasn't a selfie generation.  The facade was critical.  Their generation had the lawns and picket fences. Ours has plastic surgery.  No one is without pretention.  Even the priests like their gold laced robes.
I’ve saved a lot of lives.  I’ve been present and trained for a lot of crisis, emergency and mystery. I’ve repeatedly, thousands of times now ,convinced people not to die, either by cutting out something, physically tying off something, stopping the actual bleeding or starting up the lungs again by thumping on a dozen chests or more.  Sometimes I just took away a bottle of pills, or  hid the knifes. I've been forever convincing people it’s worth it to live.  I've fought morbidity and mortality daily sometimes hourly for 35 years.   I do hope I'm right.
When I die I could meet a whole lot of angry people in paradise hating me for keeping them in their jobs and marriages, paying taxes and supporting the latest liberal regime.  In that personal nightmare of mine it doesn't matter how you got 'there' .  There are no conditions. You just have to get out of 'here'. The babies are the greatest winners in that afterlife. In that dream I'm the greatest evil there is. Satan selling life in this materialist secular Platonic shadow world when over the hill in the promised land, with no conditions. Unconditional love for all. Kill yourself and you still get a harp. Everyone has a personal cloud. There is no hell.  No hell. No purgatory. No loss or grief. But rather you awake in wonder and hate that 'fucking psychiatrist' who kept you chained to misery all those years.  And here I thought I was a saviour when really I was nothing more than a prison guard making sure everyone filled their allotted sentence, my own fear of death, holding others here.
Mostly these days I use all my training in motivation, analysis, hypnosis and pharmaceuticals to convince people to let go of the needle. I counteract the slavery of the pin prick.  It's all in the ritual. The blood letting, the injecting, the heating, the transaction, the sleep, the passion to avoid the pain.  The myth of Sissyphus. And then again the vultures come to pluck at the eyes of another Graecian hero.  They’re as fixated on their self made myths as my dog is fixated on his yellow tennis ball.  Their lives are reduced. Obsessions.  Compulsions.  Addictions. Slaves to the drug dealers.  I ride in on my white pony, more a jack ass, a harley davidson actually. I wrestle the man from the dealers. The dealers are actually kind of  glad to give him up now that they've taken his house, his home, his wife, his kids, his job, his dog, his health. There's so little money and will to live that our struggle for this remnant is ritual itself. They're interested in a new loser. They want a celebrity or a banker, maybe a doctor, or a lawyer, a younger heiress. That's who they'd rather devote their time to. So they let this one go.  I good samaritan him back to wholeness and hope he doesn't look back knowing he'll turn to salt if he does.
And I must reassure myself that I should live each day.  Each day I must reaffirm life. Sometimes many times in the day I must do this.  All day long my office is an argument for defeat.  It’s about suicide or addiction or leaving a marriage or a relationship or getting into another abusive marriage or relationship or not working or working in an abusive relationship with a satyrical boss or becoming a terrorist, or slashing.  Losing direction or faith and not knowing where the detour occurred. I come into the abyss and join the darkness to find you thn hope we  find our way back together.  You bitch and complain all the way and when you get into the light and have the strength to stand on your feet you will curse me forever for taking you out of your rabbit hole. There will be enemies of mine who will join you. Those are the ones whose finances I've affected by criticizing their hypocrisy.   I believe I'm  helping rebuild in a world bent on destruction.  I'm  helping lose  the needle back in the hay stack.  I'm suggesting we look for love and work instead.
What is the meaning? What is the reason?  
Death is stalking me.
I’ve been in the shadow of the valley.
I’ve held the dying in my arms. Now I am the dying. We always were. But didn't think of it that way. A daily dance.  A song of songs.  A cruel or kind embrace.
I’ve known the last words.
I’ve been the last face.
I’ve had little reason for doubt in those times.
There is a certainty in reality. I’m among ideologues, talking heads who can’t find their ass with both hands.  I’m unduly judgemental. I know their fear is like fingernails on glass. There’s a whine and screech I hear. I see it in their bodies. Their hypertension and the organ failures speak to the war they’re waging. It’s hard for everyone to go on.  I don't imagine others can know the sheer volume of experience, the screech of emotions as they talk and shout so many things, yet really think they're being 'discrete'.  The ones in uniforms are the loudest. They have the shortest fuses.  They judge themselves as they judge others. Harshly.
Even the rich and privileged come to their ends, face death.  The money men and women lack the equanimity of philosophers or poets.  "You can’t take it with you.", they even say ,unknowingly.   I hear their screams in terror in the anger of their skin. I see the pulsations of troubled arteries. The vessels in their eyes betray them. Their pupils are worth a thousand words.  They lie to themselves.  There is such terror in the death of materialists.  I’m bolstered by my spiritualism. I’m comforted by my faith.  The faithless flounder before life and death.   Lies no longer serve them in that last encounter.
He hung himself.  I knew him well.
I knew him and could not convince him that there was more to life than a needle in his arm.  I failed him as much as I failed the woman when I held her dead baby in my hands.  Oh I know there were others.  It takes a village to raise a child. The baby was dead before I was called to the hospital.  I was only there to witness. I recorded the man's passing as well. Our conversations about the 'culture of addiction' and the need for 'self medication', his 'right to die' and all that other stuff.  Armchair philosophers love to talk. He was a wonderful man.  So young. A mere 50 year old. Old for the dark ages but so young today.  So sad. Such tragedy.  The dealers had long ago stopped giving him money and fast cars. The good time girls had gone.  He was so sick he hardly stole enough for his needs.  He was alone in an SRO when they found him.  Hanging.
So many live their lives in jail or asylums. I don’t know how I could go on with out the wilderness or the sea.  I escape to these empty wild and full reaches where sometimes hardly a bird or an animal interrupts my solitude. The hum of the anthill city is far away. The illusion of the substance of crowds is behind me. I’m hanging on a mast or sitting in a clearing with a rifle watching and waiting.  The solitude washes over me healing like gentian violet.  The sickness leaves for a while.  The suffering is less. God the chimney sweep has taken away a load of soot.
Desire remains.
I miss her scent, her nakedness, the loveliness of her.  I miss the dying between her legs that resurrected and restored my faith as much as any time in the wild.  Before she lost her faith and way.  Before we slid apart.  Sweat is slippery.
He told me of the men on the upturned life raft in the North Atlantic, the freezing numbing cold, others slipping into the dark, then later the sharks.  He remembers the faces of the men..  He didn’t know why held on or why he lived.  Remembrance day is special for him.  He gives thanks and mourns his comrades long lost.  One day he expects to meet with them again.
I don’t know why, he says. I don't know why I never let go.
She thought it was all ‘luck’.  Mine was good. Hers was bad.  She was a victim. I was a victimizer.  I just remember the work.  I don’t like that they deny the work today.  Fatalism.  I prefer ‘karma’ and ‘retribution’.  Yet I really don’t know why I was born to parents who loved me or why I decided to always to work for the benefit of my fellow man while she set out to serve herself and her own and today is lonely.  I explain today it's for the money. That's the reason they understand.  It's only when I explain how to make money they see the reason in my serving. Was it only about the money?  How can they understand that it was little about the money. If you can save a life you can make a million but what's a million to a dying man.  I dream of being alone at sea again crossing oceans facing challenges and adventures, but going where.  It's always here.
I don’t know why I didn’t rest when there was ‘enough’. Like my grandfather and father I worked longer for the times of trouble and saved as they did.  All around me there were parties.  All around me there were ‘easy schemes’ but instead I just got up before dawn and went to work and returned long after dusk.  When I was "taking time off" I was learning other skills.
The government gets votes with redistribution schemes.   Steal from the rich and give to the poor.  More and more I see my counterparts working under the table,  working scams.   The rewards gone out of honest work. The sacrifice and work are no longer  redistributed.  Only the rewards are redistributed. The pay off is in the complaining.   The thugs steal the potatoes of the farmers till all is like Africa where no one ‘saves’ because ‘savings’ are stolen.  Like children.   It’s become that here with the banks and the greed of bankers.  My father told me of the men who hid coins in mattresses because they couldn’t trust the banks of his day.
Only the nouveau rich flaunt their wealth.
I’ve stored my earnings in education and now am aging towards dementia.  All the lessons of survival and success I’ve learned will be fore naught when my mind is lost.  Forget about the banks.  Insaniety erodes all much quicker.
So what is dementia. Not the silly materialist explanation. But Lethe.  What is the forgetting.  The stupid are always happier than the smartest.  There’s blessings in mediocrity that the mediocre cannot know.  Intellectuals are a morbid lot.
God doesn’t want our ideas as much as he loves our dance.
It’s not called the ‘song of creation’ for naught.  The celestial spheres make music.  I may lose my mind but I’ll not lose my inner ear.  I’ll always dream.  To dream that is the rub.
These days my dreams have been happy and adventuresome.  The nightmares still occur but less so.
I did like this coffee.  What a miracle the world of distribution is.  This global product is my miracle. My fridge is sacred. It runs on propane or electricity.  I have this wonder of a gas stove I’ll light again and make another cup. To savour a morning cup of coffee. This is true wealth.  It’s not the myriad of things but rather the ability to enjoy them. To have the presence and peace of mind to languish in the moment and love the celebration of creation. That is the elixir of youth.
What will I do today?  I’ve been reading this brilliant book by a new French Canadian author. I’d surely like to finish it before I see him next.  The dog definitely wants a walk.  There are meetings to go to, church services and gatherings of those who are honouring our soldiers.  It’s Remembrance Day.  I can’t help but remember my father.  I miss him.  We all missed my mom when she went first.  I was such a fool when I was younger.  There was so much I wanted to know.  But he knew I’d learn it soon enough.  There’s somethings one can’t learn with words alone.  Experience has taught me his wisdom.