He Flew Away Like A Little Bird

While passing through the lobby of my building I ran into my neighbor who lives down the hall. He's a good guy, and one whom I trust enough with my house keys to water my plants when I travel. He's about 56 years old, tall, muscular, shaven-headed, a black belt, and he looks and acts at least 10 year younger. In the 2 years or so that I've known him, we've shared a bunch of alcohol at our respective apartments, and we've grown to like & trust each other. He also has an unfortunate chemical imbalance that sometimes leads him down the road to depression, and of which he refuses to take medication due to the bad side effects, so every once in a while, he disappears, lets the demons run their course, then comes out shiny, happy and slugging a couple of weeks later. As I hadn't seen him around lately, so I asked him how he was doing. We got to talking in the lobby, and, well the suicidal thing came up. He wasn't threatening it or anything, but was just very matter of factly saying that he's done all that he can do, and if the acting thing doesn't work out for him - well, he's had a good life and there isn't much left to live for, and that he's made his list and is at peace with himself.

I made him walk with me in the pouring rain to the corner store for my errand, and once we returned, I dragged him into my place, cracked open a bottle of wine and we talked and listened to music. I can't say I understood where he was coming from, but at the same time, I have to give him a lot of bon-mots for patiently sitting through my "the world is beautiful / smell the ocean from 3 blocks away in the springtime" crap that I'm prone prattle on about. At the end of it, I plied him with chocolate and cheap red wine, and we came to an understanding. (Well my understanding is that he isn't going to off himself anytime soon - and that's enough for me). So my neighbor and I got to talking about faith, life, the universe, God, The Fates, Karma, The Ether, you name it. The question came down to "Is this all there is?". My answer to that was, "If this is all there is, be thankful for living where you are, and your health, and not waking up in Darfur blah blah blah", but as I can be tenacious, and have the skill to repeat myself ad nauseum, I had said all that I wanted to say, or did I? My neighbor firmly doesn't believe in anything, and if he thought his time on earth had run its course, then it was his non-god given right to pull the plug and end it as his choosing. We chewed on that one for a while, and surprisingly enough, it came back to the faith thing. To my complete surprise, I prattled on and on about this, and have been kicking it around ever since.

So I started thinking about faith.

Five years ago, it was the week before Christmas, and I was sitting in the living room of my rented 2 bedroom apartment in Pitt Meadows BC. I was broke, unemployed, morally and spiritually bankrupt, miles away from my friends and family, staring at the wall, completely alone, and completely empty. My Dad had just passed away a few hours beforehand, and there was nothing else in me to give. I was completely drained.

I thought about my Dad, and the times near the end. He would close the door to his room, and bring out his book called "Prayers for the sick and the dying" and without him knowing, I'd press my ear against his door, and listen to him pray. There I was, in the throws of moral, financial, and spiritual bankruptcy, and on the other side of the door, not 5 feet away, my Dad was praying and hoping, well, night after night this would go on. I don't know what he was praying for, and there I was, spying on his most vulnerable moments. Did I feel dirty? Helpless? Emasculated? You bet.

Over the years, I've often wondered what I considered a futile endeavor; Was it my Dad praying for a miraculous recovery? Was Dad praying to meet my Mom again? Was he praying for me and my brother and sister? Maybe he was praying for all the above. I'll never know. All I could hear was his voice quietly murmuring the prayers, but just enough to know what he was doing as I shamefully listened in. It wasn't enough that me and the doctors stripped him of all his remaining dignity, I had to make it complete by not trusting him enough to be alone in his room - like someone would treat a toddler. I should though reinforce that at that point, things were turning south health-wise, and it it was just the two of us, for better or for worse. Unless you'd have been in my place, you couldn't possibly have understood it.

I urged him to write letters, or make notes, to let me know people from his past whom I can contact, or just make peace with some things that he had never done. I'll never forget the time that he was still well enough to walk around, and the foyer of our apartment building had a library and a fireplace in it. There were bookshelves, comfy chairs and bay windows. At the time he was marginally well enough to be on his own, and I was confident to leave him for a much need few hours of rest & relaxation. (Which basically meant going out and having a beer in the pub that was across the street, reading the paper, and staring out the window at a cold, grey December afternoon in a desperate attempt to get my head together), only to return for another sleepless evening of watching over him, staying awake all night (as his worst episodes came between 2 - 6:00 Am) and being captive in a house of cancer and despair. At my urging, he had agreed to write letters to his friends, as sort of a goodbye. So I returned 2 hours later only to have the elevator doors open and see Dad asleep in the same chair, with the notebook open on his lap, and he was pale, grey, and drawn. I glanced down at the notepad, and it was addressed to an old friend of his which I never knew, and said something along the lines of "I'm doing my best, but in case I don't survive this..." He had gotten halfway though the first page and then fallen asleep. He was drawn, incredibly tired, bony, thin, and my heart broke. I stood there for a few seconds, and wondered how many people had walked by and noticed him before I got back from my selfish break. Through my exhaustion, my tears broke, and I stood silently weeping before I could compose myself, and wake him up, and put my arm around him feeling his spine jutting out from underneath his sweater, and walk him the 40 feet down the hall to our apartment. After I fed him something, I put him to bed and just sat and stared at the wall wondering what we had done to deserve all of this madness.

When Dad was really sick, the Concert for New York (Post 9/11) was going on. It aired a few weeks before Dad really turned the downward corner, and one of the things that really touched me was Springsteen's "My City of Ruin", it spoke to me. "Come on Rise Up!" Was a challenge to those who have lost everything, almost like a battle cry, to take one last stand, and rise from the ashes. My calls of "Dad! Snap out of this! Get healthy! You can beat this!" Turned into "Ok, you're not going to beat this, so write letters. Make peace with yourself. Please, just talk to me!". I used to listen to it late at night while keeping my vigil just outside his door late at night when he was about to have his terrible episodes where he couldn't breath and get all confused, and I would have to be ready to either call an ambulance, or depending on how long they would take, to throw him in the car and blast to the hospital at 3:00 AM.

We never really talked, him and I. I took care of him certainly, but we didn't ever actually have the talk. He would just smile that little boy grin and tell me that everything was ok. The day after he died, I went to the hospital to sign some paperwork, and the family service counselor told me that he had long chats with her, and told her how much he appreciated me - even down to the favorite meal that I cooked.

Regarding the above question about faith? I still have no answers and I doubt I ever will. But, here is something that is a prime example of it- or it's manifestations: In the hours after Dad passed, I called a few of my friends, and about an hour after I returned home from the hospital with all of Dad's things in a little carry-on bag, my friend Melanie showed up at my place, I buzzed her in, and she greeted me at the door with a huge hug, a bottle of scotch, and didn't say a word. She poured me a stiff one, led me to the couch, sat me down then just cleaned my kitchen. That's all she did. I don't remember much about that day - but I remember that vividly. You see, as what might be imagined, my cleaning standards were certainly not up to hers, especially in the last few weeks where there was just exhaustion and madness in my house. So there I sat; she put on some music, then cleaned my whole kitchen. she did the dishes, washed the cupboard, and cleaned and washed out the fridge. An hour or so after that, Randy and Sab showed up, and they just sat around letting me be quiet & take comfort from them.

Speaking about faith, I found this lovely, touching story here.

Holy Shit. It's Christmas

It's quiet. Too quiet. Actually, I've planned it this way.

Work has been kicking my ass six ways from Sunday, and my previously stated love / hate relationship with it might be turning the corner, and be asking at least for a trial separation or maybe even a divorce. The jury is still out on that one, but currently me and the job are sleeping in separate bedrooms. I'm giving serious thought to an exit strategy, and after Berlin in a couple of months, I should have a better idea of my next adventure.

I have this entire week off for the first time in about 5 years. I have big plans on how to spend my time too, but none of which is remotely fun or interesting to anyone (including me) but suffice it to say it involves taxes, cleaning some closets, donating a pant-load of stuff to goodwill, writing a business plan, and catching up on some well deserved sleep.

Sadly, my boring-ass-life has gotten even more boring. I usually try and come up with something at least half-way interesting, but this year? I've got nothing.

I spent Christmas Eve with some dear friends of mine, had a nice dinner, watched a fair to middling movie, and was home by 11:00. This morning, I had breakfast out at Terry & Sab's place with the parents, the in-laws, and the angelic demons passing as children. (Ok this morning they were especially angelic) and after getting greeted with hugs, kisses and handshakes, I spent the time hooking up their hi-def TV to their hi-def DVD, then hooking up their hi-def cable box. But they are my family, and I love seeing them at every opportunity. So that sort of made the whole day ok.

I got home in the afternoon in the middle of a huge snow storm (which was nice, seeing what day it was), and spent the rest of the day noodling around, cooking, and doing my best to make a dent the bottle of scotch Terry had gotten me for our annual gift swap a few days earlier. That's one of the things I love about our relationship; you see, every year a group of about 8 of us all get together and draw names from a hat. As I couldn't attend for the lottery, I had her draw my pick via proxy. As luck would have it, she drew mine, and she drew hers for me. She called me and asked me what I wanted, and I said a bottle of cheap scotch. I asked her what she wanted, and she said she wanted some pictures of her kids that me and Gino had taken earlier in the year.

We both pretended to be surprised & delighted, and in actuality, the end result worked out for everyone.

Merry Christmas Everyone.

Requiem

Genius is an oft-overused word, and is more often than not is shamefully bestowed on those far less worthy. However, there are a few people in our galaxy who deserve and have earned that title, and he died yesterday, on Christmas Eve.

I don't remember when my relationship with him actually began, it was a long, long time ago though. I heard a record playing of him, and I was hooked.

He solidified my relationship with an old girlfriend's parents when we had nothing in common but a love of jazz music, and eventually we both came around. He was all I listened to (and still do) every Saturday and Sunday morning when I'd drink my coffee and sit quietly before starting the day. When I was living in his hometown of Montreal, he got me through a very tumultuous year asI didn't know anyone, didn't speak French, and was desperately homesick. I'd come home to my empty apartment and put on "Jim" and look at the snow falling over the outdoor hockey rink from across my street. I was homesick, and listening to his his playing brought a little bit of home with me, and made things all the more better. When I finally met a girl, she would come over for dinner, and amidst the flirting, there was "Yours is my heart alone" playing in the background. When I was sick with the flu I'd lie on the couch, and listen to "I'm in the mood for Love", all 16:50 of it.

I'm not even remotely qualified to try and discuss his astounding abilities. To this day, after hundreds and literally thousands of listenings, I still don't know what the hell he was doing. I knew he was playing a piano, but other than that, it was like he was speaking some strange, otherworldly language, or that in the worlds of Salieri from Amadeus, that "he was speaking with the voice of God". I couldn't tell you how he was doing it or where it was coming from, but viscerally, I got it.

He provided the perfect atmosphere when I needed to think, he gave the perfect feel to every Saturday night when I was cooking something at home, he continually made me believe that there is greatness to be aspired to while he was burning his way through "Green Dolphin Street" as I was mopping my floors every Sunday morning.

He played with Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Charlie Parker, Ray Brown, Miles Davis, Art Tatum, Joe Pass, Nat King Cole, and about any other giant of jazz you can recall over the past 50 years. He was also a kind, gentle, gracious, well-spoken man who gave back to the children, had schools named after him, and never left his home country of Canada. I often said to anyone who would listen, that if I ever had a Boy, I'd call him Oscar. I meant it too.

There is a really, really good obituary about him here, courtesy of the Independent Online.

Oscar, after suffering the losses of so many of his close friends in a short period of time, wrote this piece called "Requiem" in their memory. In this day of posting songs, videos and such, the issue is that there isn't one specific instance that I could show to encapsulate this man's true greatness and virtuosity. It's impossible to pick something that doesn't, in fact. You can't say that about many others.

I think though, one of the most moving things is at the very end of this tribute to his all his friends that have departed, is the look on his face in the final seconds right as the music fades away.

We Could Dream This Night Away

I should have written this in late August when it was indeed, the harvest moon. But, staying true to form it's now December. The 23rd in fact; The 23rd at nighttime, So that sort of makes it a holiday well, the penultimate holiday I suppose if you want to get all legal about it.

Earlier tonight, my neighbor came over, and we talked and kvetched, & had some Christmas cheer. After he left, I proceeded to cook my penultimate Christmas Eve Dinner, which consisted of a marinated butterflied pork chop (with some fresh chopped garlic, soy sauce, fresh ground black pepper etc.), some baby potatoes in olive oil & some spices, and some asparagus grilled with a splash of lemon.

While I was feverishly destroying my kitchen, this song was rocketing through my head. I remember it vividly. You see, years ago, while driving through Kamloops en route to Edmonton with my Dad, this song was on the radio. Dad was dozing in the passenger seat, and I listened to this song and looked out at the brown foothills as the sun went down, and I drank in long blue & grey shadows on the rivers and lakes as we drove past.

The Pig Man

The other night, I was over at Randy & Drew's place for dinner. I played soccer with Baby Jack, and was otherwise enjoying our little evening until I looked through Randy's kitchen window at the house next door. Randy's kitchen window faces the kitchen window of the other house (which, I'm told has a very nice Spanish family who plays with Jack, nods at their neighbors and such). But what we saw on last Tuesday night has shaken me to my very core. They were working on a creature which was draped in a white sheet, had 3 distinct claws and according to Randy, it had been there for days.

Drew came home, looked at it and said that without a doubt, it was a pig all getting all dressed up for Christmas dinner, per the Spanish family tradition. However, I beg to differ as pigs are ungulates, (meaning cloven-hoofed), and as you can plainly see - there are no cloven-hoofed feet in the picture, basically, there is no way at all that these 3 fleshy alien looking fingers, which we spied through Randy's kitchen window, are pig's feet. I took a low light shot from my shitty cell phone, , then made Randy take a bunch from his higher res digi camera. His flash went off, the people in the house across the way spun towards the windows to see who was invading / discovering that they were indeed alien biologists, and so we hid out of view, pressing ourselves to the wall, giggling like a pair of high school girl who had just narrowly avoided being caught egging the Principle's car.

I asked Randy to take a picture the next morning of the Pig Man in full daylight, but when he came to the window - the Pig Man was gone. The end of it is; there is no explaination for what you are about to see. All that is available is a blurry, very low light, pixillated photograph of what looks like an otherworldly fleshy claw protruding from underneath a sheet, impaled with a steel surgical rod to hold it in place.

My friends - I present to you The Pig Man. (All you Bigfoot & UFO researchers should take heart - I believe you. I always have. You Magnificent Bastards).

Comfort Food

It's been two good weekends in a row. I had a visit from an old friend, and we had a good time catching up. Yesterday, I went to work and painted the office and it looks great. This had to be done as we are hosting an open house next Thursday for the holidays Christmas Party circuit, and well, it really wasn't conducive to having company over in the state it was in.

I also shopped for various sundries, and last night, made a bucket-load off my (quickly becoming more than marginally edible) beef stew. Having loaded up my freezer with stew, I'm now in the midst of making my awesome vegetable soup. It is more like vegetable stew actually. It's amazing what you can do with some fresh veggies, a little chicken stock, some white wine, assorted spices, and a schtickle of love tossed in. So, there will be enough hearty food in my freezer to last several weeks and well into the Christmas season. What really completes the soup thing? Segal's sesame seed Montreal style bagels cooked in a toaster oven with melted, grated cheddar cheese added in at the last 30 seconds. Tres Magnifique.

Speaking of all things comforting, last weekend my good friend Sab and I took his youngest daughter Shanie-Pie (A.K.A: The Beast / The Bouncer / The Kracken / The Brute), and jumped on the ferry and found our way up to the Sunshine Coast to see Sab's In-laws. They are old friends of mine who sort of adopted me lo, all those years ago, and whom I haven't seen in close to two years. I had the bright idea to blast up there, hang out, drink too much, eat some of Myra's home cooking, and basically have a 24 hour holiday, (Much like years ago when I was invited over for to their place for Christmas dinner, and wound up staying for 4 days).

Last Saturday morning we got our first snow of the year, and being from Alberta, I don't miss it, but I really do appreciate it for the quiet and the beauty, especially in the West Coast in December. We got off the ferry and the snow started BUCKETING down. It didn't stop. Huge, thick snowflakes about as big as golf balls came down. About 8 inches of snow fell in less than 24 hours. It was amazing really, because other than the occasional lonely foghorns from the ships at sea, the town was quiet as a church. We went to the local pub for a quick drink and I wandered down the pier and put my hands in the ice cold ocean, and watched the snow decorate the boats floating at their moorings in the harbour. When we arrived back to John & Myra's, we listened to music, and watched the snow fall while the flickering flames of the fireplace painted the windows in splashes of gold & orange (All the while trying to dodge the otherworldly force of destruction and force of nature known as Shanie).

So back to tonight. My apartment smells healthy and good, it's a Sunday evening, and it's been dark since 5:00. The Winter Solstice occurs December 21, at 12:02 AM, and the days will start getting longer as of then. But for right now? I'm just happy and content to be doing nothing but smelling the soup in my kitchen, listening to Oscar Peterson play Love Ballade, and enjoying the cold and the rain.

November

Here are a few things you may or may not know about November:

• November is the month that contains; All Saint's Day, Remembrance Day, & World Television Day.
• In Latin, November means "Nine". November was also the ninth month in the Roman calendar until a monthless winter period was divided between January and February. The birthstone for November is either topaz or citrine. *
• It's my dear friend Sab's birthday
  
• In Vancouver, November is firmly ensconced in the rainy season. Recently in fact, we got hit by our annual Pineapple Express that dumped as much rain on the city in 2 days, as we normally get in a month - and that's saying something. As of this morning, my tap water is murky. I can't wait for a repeat of water riots of November, 2006. Fun times.
  
• November, as stated before can also be equated to a Finnish Nightmare.
• November was also the month where my Dad who was riddled with cancer began his final slide. It wasn't the end yet though, he managed to hang on a few more weeks until a week before Christmas, but it all became deathly serious (pardon the pun) in the 11th month. It was horrifying and I was exhausted beyond belief, how I managed to make it another 6 weeks is beyond me. The whole thing should be a welcomed blur - but unfortunately it isn't to this day. I don't think it will ever be - and I suppose that's not entirely a bad thing.
  
• It was in November 1987 that a long ago girlfriend and I drove to Vancouver from Edmonton to see U2 on the Joshua Tree Tour. We got tickets through a contact of mine at Universal Music, and drove 12 stinking hours to the west coast in all sorts of miserable weather, and after witnessing one of the shows of a life time, walked out of BC Place, with 40,000 odd people singing the refrain from "40" (Which for the few of you that might not have made the connection, is a paraphrase from the first few lines of Psalm 40), "I will sing, sing a new song" all the way out of the stadium and onto the street in the rainy weather.
  
• November was also the month when I took the biggest chance in my life, and went to Vancouver for a job interview to work for Paramount Pictures. I flew out on my own nickle (All the while desperately trying to escape my pre-ordained life sentence of living in Edmonton with pick-up trucks & gun racks & all the horrors that comes with it), I aced the interview, got the job, packed up my entire life, and moved to Vancouver 3 weeks later, so November is when I came to the West Coast, and set off on the road less traveled.
  
• Lyle Lovett, Mark Twain, and Harpo Marx & Anthony Kiedis were all born in November. *
  
• November was also the month that Freddie Mercury died.
  

After mentioning Anthony Kiedis from the The Red Hot Chili Peppers, I got to thinking about their MONSTER guitar player, John Frusciante, who after a WORLD of problems (severe / massive drug addiction, going broke, losing all of his teeth, selling his guitars, living under a bridge etc) suffice it to say that after years of neglect and literally flirting with death, he wound up finally getting clean. He rejoined the band, sold millions of albums, and as a bonus, takes a solo slot during their live shows to play a cover tune of his choice.

I think this is pretty cool.

(*Courtesy Wikipedia)