It feels light, daddy!
And this is how all his days begins. Everything light. Innocent and unencumbered, he arrives happily into the day, the world immediately swirling all around him. He drops a leaf into a flower pot filled with rain water and marvels as it vanishes and then reappears, bobbing on the surface.
He rubs his body against the prickly, green of a hedge, calls to a cat watching from across the street. The moss on the trees we pass, like something of the night lingering into day, and Jones trailing his hand over it.
Look daddy, this tree has hair!
And then a robin pecking at the wet earth before us. I tell Jones it’s a good sign, that it’s spring and everything is waking up. Jones wants us to take tiny steps, like the robin, and so we do. On our tiptoes, we stutter-step along. The bird then takes flight and Jones pursues him, running ahead and flapping his arms like a bird, and it seems probable that he, too, will break loose from gravity and take to the sky, a vivid bolt of lighting illuminating all beneath.
Each day just waiting to be written.
My hand on the knob of the front door. Jone’s body pushing against it, his legs restless, twitching, like a bull waiting to be released. I open the door and the world is cool and bright and thin, and the first thing Jones sees is an abandoned door lying face down on the ground. He is lifting it, like Hercules, “Come, Daddy, Come!!”
We enter into worlds unseen. Down cobwebbed staircases by candlelight we travel with Superman, a friendly werewolf and sticks. Spiders join us in the forest beyond the waters. And then we are back before our house, slamming the door down on the zombie armies in their moaning pursuit. I catch my breath, look up the street toward daycare. Right at eye level, not three inches away from my face, two sparrows rocket by. One after the other. Like two kids chasing one another on bikes. When was the last time you had that feeling? To be traveling at full and effortless velocity, your body stretched to the perfection of its desire, of its necessity? And Jones, glowing beneath me, now identifying the chalk faces on a brick wall—this world always unfolding in the smallest, most beautiful ways.
When you approach from the back you will see workmen and scaffolding. You will see concrete, lines of vehicles and pylons. You will see obstacles. You will see a place you do not want to be. And at the top of the driveway leading to the entrance, there is a small bench beneath an overhang. It’s utilitarian, a place for patients to sit as they wait for transport. There is no view to be had, just cars and cement and shadow, and sitting there you feel like you’re in a parking garage. On the ground beside the bench, sesame seeds are scattered. A patient almost certainly makes a slow procession to this place each day. Feeling fragile and less than he remembered, his bare legs exposed beneath his hospital gown, he would cast seeds to the tiny birds who would come to feed. Amidst all this mess, this construction and revision, this tangle of concrete and flesh, he would sustain them. This mercy, his daily gift. And he would watch the birds hop and cheep, marvelling at their perfect eyes and darting movements, their little, old man legs and mysterious feathers, and how with one small breath they were up and away, lifting into the blue skies just beyond.
]]>***********************************************
Notice what you feel:
I am walking back from daycare and I have my eyes closed. It is the morning, still fresh, and I am noticing the fine, barely perceptible sparks of rain that fall on my face. It feels like something mysterious and alive, something benevolent. I am noticing my breathing, how I labour with it and have to consciously inhale through the prongs in my nose. I feel the oxygen tank on my back, how it pulls against my body, my muscles tightening, growing tense. I open my eyes, now concerned that I may be veering blindly toward someone on the sidewalk, and I see my street, a ribbon separating the red, brick homes on either side, and the impossible leaves all around them, jewels spilling from a treasure chest, wet and almost shining.
Notice movement:
I am in motion. All of me, everything contained within and without, and all the world around swirling like mists. Everything in constant motion, even the rocks, everything in the process of degrading and reforming, everything sightlessly churning. I push Jones down the street in his stroller and an airplane passes loudly overhead, contrails streaming behind. Jones yells and points, his pupils expanding in the wonder of recognition. A cat slinks out of a bush and looks at us, considers things, and then begins a cautious journey across the street, each step the brushstroke of a great artist. We pass by a woman walking two dogs who pause to rummage through the rubble of some broken jack-o-lanterns on a lawn. They look up at us like the shadows we are, and then we arrive at daycare and a bird, unseen, chirps smally from a tree before emerging and rising beyond us in flight.
]]>The only thing it said was, “Stop.”
Intrigued, I called the number to investigate and see who had left the mysterious message and what it might mean, but was immediately sent to a voicemail box that gave no indication of who, or what, might reside at the receiving end. Not wanting to give up on this communication, I texted back. These are the messages that ensued:
*********************************************************
Unknown Texting Entity: Stop
Me: Stop??? Stop what???
(One day passes)
Me: Can’t stop.
Me: Won’t stop.
Me: Maybe in the name of love. Maybe I will stop in the name of love.
(Another day passes)
Me: No. Changed my mind. Will NOT stop in the name of love.
(Two days pass)
Me: Is this the Instant Pot?
Me: You can see into the future, can’t you, Instant Pot?
Me: Is it true? Is it death by water for me? The Tarot reader said it was, but I’m not sure I believe her. I think she might have been unreliable. She was weird, smelled exactly like a Harveys. Very suspicious.
( One day passes)
Me: And I’m never even in the water.
( One day passes)
Me: My wife told me that the Instant Pot cannot send texts, so sorry. I guess you’re not the Instant Pot.
( One day passes)
Unknown texting entity: Just stop.
Me: STOP WHAT???? YOU’RE KILLING ME HERE!!! JUST KNOCK OFF THE MEAN GIRL BULLSHIT AND TELL ME WHAT IT IS I HAVE TO STOP DOING!!!
Me: Sorry. I don’t normally lose my temper like that.
Me: I haven’t been sleeping well.
Me: Lots on my mind.
( Two days pass)
Me: You’re a demon, aren’t you?
Me: I always knew a demon would pick me to seed.
Me: I knew this would happen. Ever since I read The Amityville Horror when I was eleven.
Me: That’s when I created a portal for you to enter into my life, wasn’t it?
Me: Fuck it!
( One day passes)
Me: Well demon, as you can see into my soul, you know that I’ve wanted to stop for a long time.
Me: The problem is I can’t stop.
Me: That’s why I haven’t been sleeping well.
Me: I. Just. Can’t. Stop.
Me: It’s all I fucking think about.
Unknown Texting Entity: Paske, gen anpil moun ki rebèl, plen diskou sans ak desepsyon, espesyalman sa yo ki nan gwoup la sikonskripsyon. Yo dwe bese, paske yo ap deranje tout kay ki nan kay yo lè yo anseye bagay yo pa ta dwe anseye-e ke pou dedomajman pou malonèt.
Me: Is this you, Jen?
Me: Are you fucking with me?
Me: If so, this is NOT funny.
Me: So not funny.
Me: I just had to take two Lorazepams, you fucker.
(One day passes)
Me: Okay, this is Michael’s wife Rachelle writing now. Listen, if you actually are a demon, why did you start off communicating in english and then switch to whatever you switched to, when you saw my husband start to panic? Why not just continue with english? Seems like a rookie mistake to me.
Me: I think you’re a false prophet!
Me: Demon! It’s Michael here again! The above, the blasphemy about you being a false prophet? That was written by my wife, not me! I would NEVER say that about you!!
Me: Rachelle here, demon. Could you make yourself useful and tell me where Jones put the car keys? And if you’re the reason why the remote is always disappearing, you’d better knock it off. Don’t think I won’t holy water the shit out of this whole place. I will. And I have a Bissel steam cleaner that can suck you right out of the sofa.
It’s a real ghostbuster, so just consider yourself on notice.
]]>A true family leader.
As such, I often find it necessary to call family meetings so that my wife Rachelle, and our nearly three year-old son, Jones, can discuss important issues as they arise. These are the minutes from a recent meeting:
*************************************************************************
Michael: Okay, Meeting #36 is now in order. On Friday we’ve been invited to Claire’s for dinner. However, it’s not a simple matter. There are options, so please listen carefully. We can go in the afternoon, with Jones, and have a swim then an early dinner, getting back in time for Jones’ bedtime, or we can go over later, without Jones, and have an adult meal. Concerns? Preferences? Please speak freely, this is a safe space.
Rachelle: Do you know where the corkscrew is?
Michael: Since when did we start buying wine that needed a corkscrew?
Jones: I WANT TO WATCH THE SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: Jones, we are having a family meeting right now. You can watch a video later.
Jones: NO!!!
Rachelle: Found it! It was in your desk drawer. Amidst several corks.
Michael: Well, that’s odd.
Rachelle: Not if you’re a secret drinker, it’s not.
Michael: That’s a pretty big glass you’re pouring yourself.
Jones: SCARY SKULLS!! SCARY SKULLS! SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: No Jones! We’re having a meeting here, and there will be no videos until we’ve come to a decision about dinner on Friday! Also, you get stigmata from watching too many videos. It’s very bad for your eyes, and you want to be able to see everything, just like the Falcon that soars in the sky above, right?
Jones: WANT TO SEE SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: Sweet Jesus child, okay, okay, okay.
Rachelle: The optometrist said that by feeding him an excessive diet of videos in order to avoid responsible parenting and gain his approval you were putting him at risk for astigmatism, not stigmata. Stigmata is the spontaneous manifestation of marks on the body that correspond to Jesus’ crucifixion wounds,
while astigmatism is an eye problem.
Michael: Are you sure?
Rachelle: Yes.
Michael: Patricia Arquette. She was in a movie called Stigmata, wasn’t she? Now I remember! She was a hot hair dresser in that one.
Rachelle: Yes.
Michael: Remember the bath scene? She was having a bath and then some invisible demon seizes her and she’s trashing about like mad, kicking and flailing her arms, yet somehow, somehow you still don’t see anything? So unrealistic.
Rachelle: Yes, I thought the exact same thing. Stigmata, a movie about a sex bomb with demonic possession, was unrealistic because you never got to see the lead actress entirely naked.
Michael: Okay, let’s get back on track here. We have to figure out how we’re going to approach Friday.
Jones: Can I have strawberries, mommy? I want strawberries.
Rachelle: After dinner, sweetie.
Michael: What is for dinner anyway?
Rachelle: It was your turn to get it.
Michael: Oh. Right. Yeah, I was going to make a special rice and carrot thing in the Instant Pot.
Rachelle: We will all look forward to it, and by the way, I spoke with Claire and we’re going to go over around three, have a swim and a light snack, and then return home in time for Jones’ bedtime at 7:30.
Michael: Oh.
Michael: All in favour?
Michael: Okay, motion passes.
Michael: I think I read somewhere that the Instant Pot was dangerous, like a bomb, so maybe we can have Swiss Chalet instead. They’re offering crispy chicken as a featured item now. The Family Pak comes with pickles and dinner rolls. It’s a pretty solid deal.
]]>He was so excited.
He ran from enclosure to enclosure, his universe animating with such velocity and intensity that he simply could not contain himself. Pointing his finger with eyes that could not be more open, he would identify and offer commentary on every marvel he saw.
“Look! An Alligator!!”
He looked back at us utterly astonished, his mind expanding in ways we couldn’t even imagine. “Come mommy, come daddy,” he encouraged, his feet flapping on the ground as he ran ahead to the next wonder.
There were perhaps a hundred alligators, maybe more, and each one was an impossible occurrence as they materialized before Jones. And when we came upon the albino ones, each one so immaculately white as to look make believe, he almost exploded.
“WOW!! GHOST ALLIGATORS!!!
While Jones was marvelling over them I turned to the Komodo Dragon across the way. It looked as if it was made of chainmail. It noticed me looking at it, and while remaining immobile, it trained a lizard eye on me and stared right back.
We looked at one another for a spell, and I thought of the current running through it, of that electricity that at any moment could spark into unimaginable ferocity, as swift and inevitable as a natural disaster.
And then there were the giant pythons. Dead-eyed, coiled and intestinal, they lay still in the heat, as if creatures that had given up their external form in order to live their pure essence. Jones gasped before them, “SCARY!!” he shouted in a voice that wasn’t scared at all. To him it’s still just a word, something that describes a kind of exhilaration. What does he know of mortal fear? He’s never lost faith or confidence, waited for a doctor’s report, or seen something he loves diminish before his eyes and then vanish.
No, he remains a vessel of light, and as if to accent this there was unanticipated birdsong all around and above us. It turns out that in this park the alligators serve as a kind of protectorate, sheltering all the birds arriving there for mating season from predators. And so amidst these ancient reptiles there were all manner of birds, thin as twigs and bright as targets, living easily amongst them.
I had imagined that the park would be full of children like Jones running about, but mostly it was full of seniors, all armed with cameras with giant lenses, all hoping to capture that moment of first life when the fledglings peck through their eggshells and into this world of light and shadow.
]]>It was an autumn cool morning, the dew still hanging off leaves. The air was light and clean and felt as if it came from very far away, and Jones’ eyes were so wide and bright they were like gravity– everything bending and speeding toward him.
A plane flew overhead and he froze on the sidewalk, pointing at the sky. He was blown-away and kept looking over at me to make sure I was seeing this miracle, too, this burning bush. I did not know how to explain the sky, or tell the story of how humans achieved flight, and so I just said, “Plane!”
He blinked into the sun and sky, continuing to look up through the green infinity of leaves, waiting for whatever else might streak across the sky. Squirrels, like shadows, jumped from branch to branch, and as this early light hit the red brick of the houses across the street, an old, prosperous looking man stepped out of his front door and got into his sports car. He’d traveled great distances to get to this beautiful autumn day, and he might have been wondering how many more of these good days he had left. He started the car and pulled out of the driveway, at which point three birds suddenly burst from a tree. Jones was amazed again. “Tree!”, he shouted, but his eyes were following the birds, each one of them off to unknowable adventures.
Jones stopped to examine every bush on our little journey, every forgotten thing on the sidewalk. He was so happy and slow up the street, so mindful. He wanted to meet it all– the college-aged woman struggling slowly along on her morning run, the two dogs being taken for a walk, the discarded table left broken on a tuft of grass, and the truck, the dazzling truck that rolled heavily by like some sort of glittering robot. All of it, each and every precious thing. And then we came upon some flowers and he stopped again, pointing at them, “Mommy!” he declared, “Mommy!”
And yes, yes, of course mommy was a flower. Nothing in this universe yet separate from anything else, and everything proof of magic.
]]>Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund:
*******************************************************************
Heidi like to party.
It true.
No big deal, just how Heidi unwind and have good time! Sometimes booze or drug act as social lubricant so Heidi can have sex with anonymous dogs.
Very exciting! Very, very hot!! Heidi love that, fun times!
Heidi always in control, though. Heidi could stop partying anytime she want. Heidi not on drug and alcohol leash, Heidi have dextroamphetamine on leash! Heidi always in charge! But then one night Heidi partying and Heidi begin to dig hole. Dig, dig, dig!! Heidi could not stop digging! Heidi crazy with digging! Would not notice if cheeseburger fell on Heidi’s head! In some sort of dig trance! And then suddenly Heidi come to and realize she have no idea why digging! Heidi not even know where she was!
Later, video of Heidi digging hit YouTube. Heidi not look right. Collar hanging all loose and stained, tail wagging strange and jerky. Heidi feel shame, Heidi bad dog that night.
Made Heidi stop and think.
Did Heidi have problem?
Heidi consider.
It true memory getting bad.
Always forgetting where bone is.
Sometimes have blackout and no remember how end up covered in mud. So embarrassing. Feel irritable all the time, especially if have to do stupid trick for treat! HEIDI HATEHATEHATEHATE THAT! AND WHEN TWO-LEGGERS MAKE HEIDI WEAR CUTE OUTFIT?!! HEIDI WANT TO DESTROY AND RIP TO SHREDS!! HEIDI WANT RIVERS OF BLOOD TO FLOW!!
Maybe Heidi have anger problem and not party problem. Maybe anger root and party only tree. Heidi take quiz to find out.
Q. How often do you become angry in a normal day?
Not all bark angry bark, but probably 3, 500 time a day.
Q. Do other people comment on your anger?
Heidi told BAD DOG all the time! MAKE HEIDI SO ANGRY COULD BITE BABY FACE OFF!!
Q. Do you believe you are critical of yourself and others?
No, Heidi good dog, very good dog. Two-leggers moron. Birds morons.
Cats morons. Bugs morons. Squirrels morons. So many, many morons!
Q. Do you tend to blame others for your bad luck or unhappiness?
Heidi have to say yes, it very true observation!!
Q. Do you frequently find yourself starting or participating in arguments?
Stupid question! Heidi stand up for what right! Twitter bring out troll-stupids and Heidi have to set them on fire!! You no want to get in flame war with Heidi!
Q. Have you damaged property during an angry outburst?
Yes.
Q. Have you ever physically harmed another person during an angry outburst?
Of course, Heidi great warrior! Heidi Dachshund! Whole point is to kill, it why Heidi go for neck!!
Q. Have you ever been charged with a violent crime?
Heidi no answer this question. Pass.
Q. Do you keep any weapons at home?
Heidi is weapon, motherfucker.
Heidi deadly weapon.
She bring you close with her velvet ears and coco bean eyes, then game over!
As of this writing, I am on day 7 of a 6 week stint at a pulmonary rehabilitation facility.
Last night was an event known as “Coffee House.” It took place in a generic, over-lit cafeteria style room that was made all the more depressing by the tiny gestures of decorative cheer added by the well-intentioned staff.
An inspirational message taped to the wall.
A balloon tied to a folding chair.
Somewhere a Dollar Store streamer that wouldn’t stay in place, hanging limp as if injured.
All of us gathered there were quiet, standing around as awkward and vulnerable as children at a school dance. Those who were most profoundly ill, those for whom recovery was out of reach and who lived permanently in the residence, had been pushed up near a three-piece band that was getting ready to perform. These people sat in complicated, tongue-controlled wheelchairs, and at a casual glance appeared fused into the metal of their containers– their mouths open, faces rigid and untranslatable. The rest of us, those attached to oxygen tanks and those not, just looked lost and a little sad, like we’d long given up hope of being asked to dance. You felt what was missing rather than what was there—and it seemed as if in each breath we exhaled a shallow puff of loss, all then gathering together like a weather system to form a heavy, oppressive cloud that enveloped us.
It was heartbreaking.
The band, a kind of folk outfit that was comprised of a woman who looked like a community organizer on tambourine, a bongo player in a Toronto Blue Jays cap, and an electric keyboardist who tried to project energy by wearing a Hawaiian shirt, began to play. At first the music seemed like it was designed to be little more than sound, just a “something” to help fill the emptiness of the situation, but then the woman began to sing I’ll Fly Away. Her voice was beautiful and true, and everybody in the coffee house fell into it.
When the shadows of this life have gone
I’ll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly
I’ll fly away
And that voice, that song, it seemed to come out of us, too. And for a few moments we were all living beyond our mortal cages, we were all soaring– everything effortless, everything weightless, everything beautiful.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MNM0OO_iVI
