As told by Bruce Gamble, 43:

“ I had one dream about her when I was a younger man, in my early 20’s. Just one. We fell recklessly, fully in love. I had no idea who she was. I mean, she wasn’t a celebrity or an assembly of people I knew, but was wholly unique, unblemished by any “architecture” on my part. And when I saw her dancing at the party it was the moment I had been waiting for my entire life. She was my destiny.

When I looked into her eyes I could see for miles and miles, everything there was to know about her was within them. It was so real. All the sensations, all the excitement, vitality and anticipation of falling in love were flooding me, both of us. It was not a simulation of love, it was an intense experience of love. Everything was just beginning, the whole rush of a glowing future waiting before us, and then “dream logic” appeared and she had to leave, but I wasn’t upset. I knew we would see one another again. I knew I would have her to look forward to, and that all of what I experienced in that, what? 90 seconds of dreaming, was true.

And so I have carried this woman, the idea of her, in my heart for 20 years now. I have been waiting for her, but she never returned, in either the dream world or this one that we now stand upon, and then a week ago I dreamt that she called me on the phone. Her voice older now, she said, “In another life, my love.” And that was all.

We are standing in front of our apartment on a hot and humid morning, and it is the first time in over a week I have been well enough to take him to daycare. We welcome this return, although we do not speak it. It lives in our eyes, in the way we look at one another. Everything once again in the right place. A bird chirps brightly from above and I ask Jones what it said.

“First he said hello to me then he said hello to you.”

**********************************************

Rachelle: Well, how do you know that?

Rachelle: No.

Rachelle: Really?

Rachelle: She pretended to retch?

Rachelle: Because you told her you liked her sneakers?

Rachelle: That is pretty extreme.

Rachelle: Was this one of the sorority girls who lives down the street?

Rachelle: The one who looks like Jennifer Lawrence?

Rachelle: I thought so.

Rachelle: And did you tell her this in a way that sounded like what you really meant was that you wanted to see her naked?

Rachelle: I see.

Rachelle: Yes, of course.

Rachelle: Look, I know you’re just trying to generate some light in this crazy, angry world, Pickle, I get that!

Rachelle: And sure, somebody has to help scantily clad sorority girls who are 30 years younger than you, feel like they’re making the right fashion choices.

Rachelle: Imagine if every time one of them passed by a much, much, much older man and he didn’t say something about what they were wearing? What would happen then? Their self-esteem might just crater and then who knows what might happen?! It could be catastrophic!

Rachelle: I’m not being sarcastic.

Rachelle: No, I’m not.

Rachelle: Nope.

Rachelle: Jesus Pickle, OF COURSE I’m being sarcastic.

Rachelle: It’s amazing to me how slow you are to pick-up on sarcasm!

Rachelle: Like at the park when that woman was complimenting how high you could go on the swings?

Rachelle: That was sarcasm.

Rachelle: And at the drum circle, when that man said that you “displayed a beautiful mastery over movement?”

Rachelle: That was sarcasm, too.

Rachelle: Oh honey, I’m sorry.

Rachelle: I am.

Rachelle: You’re right, sarcasm truly is the lowest form of humour.

Rachelle: Look,  it’s taking me longer than I thought here, do you mind picking Jones up from daycare?

Rachelle: Oh, I didn’t realize your group was meeting tonight.

Rachelle: I think it’s sweet that you guys get together and play Dungeons and Drama every month! Do you think you could let Jones join in? He’d love to dress up as Spiderman for it!

Rachelle: Dungeons and Dragons?

Rachelle: Oh, I always thought it was Dungeons and Drama.

Rachelle: I don’t know, I guess because of all the screaming and Lord of the Rings languages. Just seemed really dramatic.

Rachelle: Like an even nerdier version of Improv dramatic.

Rachelle: Whatever.

Rachelle: Okay, I get it.

Rachelle: It’s not a children’s game.

Rachelle: Very sophisticated. Very strategic. Good leadership training.

Rachelle: I’m surprised corporations like Google and Starbucks don’t use it as a training tool for their employees.

Rachelle: It really is a journey of discovery, isn’t it, Pickle?

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: That was about 98% sarcastic.

Rachelle: Okay, don’t worry about it. I’ll pick Jones up, and you, my little Dragonborn Sorcerer, you have a great time playing Dungeons and Diggers! xox

This is his first press conference:

************************************

3:24 P.M. EDT

Elmo: Hi everybody!

Guess what Elmo is thinking about today!!

Afghanistan!!!

Afghanistan starts with the letter A!!

Do you know what else starts with the letter A??

Attitude! Elmo hopes all of you people in the press have really good attitudes today!!

President Trump is ordering another 4,000 troops into Afghanistan. President Trump took over a mess, and now America, and her global allies and partners, are going to make things a lot messier! Elmo loves to make a mess! Do you like to make a mess? America will be making a mess of terrorists in order to clean up the mess the previous administration made of Afghanistan! So remember, America will not be nation building, America will be killing terrorists!

Terrorists are bad!

Yay, America!!

Can you guess what else Elmo is thinking about today?

Anybody??

No?

Ha, ha! Maybe you want to dance with Elmo? Elmo just loves to dance!

( Elmo dances)

Oh, Elmo so tired from dancing, Elmo almost forgot what Elmo was thinking about! Elmo remember! Elmo was thinking about Fake News!

Boo, Fake News, Boo!

Fake News is just about as bad as the terrorists!! Poor President Trump, he just wants to make America great again, and he has to fight terrorists AND fake news!! Such a hero!! Elmo loves heroes! Let’s all stand up and clap our hands for heroes!! Yay!!!

Elmo wants to say that although it is true President Trump briefly sized up the sun during yesterday’s eclipse, the President is not blind and is in perfect health!

That was fake news!! Elmo hates fake news! Elmo thinks that President Trump has such energy he might live forever! He is healthiest, most patriotic President of all time!! But even if the President had suffered significant blurring and fading of his vision during his encounter with the sun, which he hasn’t, there have been many great blind people in history! Do you like history?? Elmo loves history!

History says that America is great!

History also says that Daredevil was blind! And even blind Daredevil could still destroy all his enemies!!

Maybe Daredevil will visit Afghanistan?! Elmo thinks that would be so much fun! Wouldn’t that be fun?!

Remember to check Twitter to see when Daredevil might be appearing in Afghanistan!!

History also says that the great poet Milton was also blind, as well as musician Jose Feliciano!

And look, here’s Mister Jose Feliciano! Would you play a song for Elmo Mister Feliciano?!

Yay!! But first, Elmo thinks it is important to say that Mister Jose Feliciano is from Puerto Rico, not Mexico as many seem to think!

Elmo loves you Mister Jose Feliciano, thank you for the beautiful song!

Such a fun press conference!

Before Elmo leaves today Elmo wants to say just a few words about Jerry Lewis. That man kept us all laughing for over half a century, and his incredible charity work touched the lives of millions. Jerry lived the American Dream—he truly loved his country, and his country loved him back. Our thoughts are with his family today as we remember the extraordinary life of one of our greatest entertainers and humanitarians. Thank you, Jerry. You will be missed.

Elmo loves you all!!

Kiss, kiss!

Last night was Pub Night at the rehab centre.

It took place in the same generic, over-lit space that all our social events take place, and the “bar” itself was a few cafeteria tables that had been pushed together, upon which was a scattering of paper plates with a few potato chips and cheesies on them. If you had gotten a note from the doctor you were allowed to get half a glass of wine or beer, but most of us had forgotten to do so, and settled for a ginger ale.

More cafeteria tables, also pushed together, formed a U in front of a small stage upon which a band was playing. Many of the men watching, arms crossed as if judging the music, perhaps even their circumstance, sat as far away as possible. It was as if their bodies were clenched, resisting both the music and all that lay before them. Meanwhile, the women seemed entirely receptive and accepting. Happily fanned out to the side tables, closer to the band, they sat swaying to the music and singing along together. It was beautiful to see, and it was hard not to imagine them all fifty years earlier out on a Saturday night in some smokey dance hall, each one of them a vibrant and glowing presence, each one desired– their entire lives still waiting to unfold mysteriously before them.

returning to the hospital always feels like stepping into a church, into the holy. Everybody there, whether they know it or not, are in a state of pilgrimage, of prayer.

In the atrium a motley assembly of musicians formed. They were a group of people recovering from mental health and addiction issues, with a few ringers tossed in to add some structure to their compositions. The conductor, an energetic and wiry tangle of holistic cliches, worked hard to inspire her students but most of them remained tense, staring flatly at the floor rather than the crowd that had gathered across from them. Their voices were thin and straining, but still, the congregation rose with the music, an original composition called, “Coming Through Darkness.”

And how did they do that?

How did each one of them push trauma to the side to stand where they were that day?

Oh Lord, let their music, that glowing idea, comfort us all.

And then down the hallway there was a display of art created by patients as part of their therapy. Out of all the generic scenes of landscapes and flowers and pets, there was one work that stood out to me.

Mary of the Roses.

As if floating above the others, as if shining.

And I imagined the woman painting it, how with each brush stroke another layer of her anxiety fell away until this new, beatified horizon emerged.

As I left the hospital, a First Nation’s man beating a drum stood outside on the sidewalk, the flames painted on a food truck rising behind him.

We nodded at each other and I remained, watching and listening, as steams of indifferent people passed by.

A tall, homeless man shuffled down the sidewalk and when he walked into the music, without a word he started to dance. First with his fingers. Slow pointing. Cool pointing. And then his body began to move.

His shoulders, his legs, his fingers, his head, all in surprising and beautiful concert with this simple drumming. Suddenly, he was the revelation of hidden genius–he was a burning bush in our midst. He danced for perhaps a minute and then he stopped, and falling back into the broad, rigid silence from which he came, he continued silently through the day.

There was something that seemed miraculous about this, and the drummer and I– the only people who had seen it– grinned at one another.

“It’s part of the magic of the flow, “ the drummer said. “I like to do this in front of the hospital. People are scared and preoccupied, and then they hear the drum calling to their spirit and it lifts them. Spirit takes them places, it unhooks them from their mortal self and for a moment they are free.  We are signposts in this world, here to help people find their way.”

Miracles, right that moment, unfolding all across the city.

This is the first letter that we received from Heidi:
To worst pack leaders in history of pack leaders:

You two shit!

Real, real shit!

Unbelievable shit.

You pigeon shit.
You mouse shit.
You insect shit.
You cat shit.

You shit, shit, shit spinning like disco ball.

And don’t get Heidi started on her replacement! He super shit! Think he cute? Disgust Heidi! Not cute! Ugly! Doesn’t even have tail to wag!! Heidi spit at messy-face drool monkey! Furless, four-legged fuck face can’t even eat!! Just throw food on floor!!

Can’t. Even. Eat.

How useless.

Heidi clean up, because Heidi good dog, Heidi good dog who know how to eat when born! Heidi not burden! Heidi cute! Heidi made of light and stardust!

But Heidi get praise? No!

Heidi live as slave.

Heidi cannot tell you how happy she is to escape Planet of the Crap Den.

Heidi now live with real pack. Live in nature. Heidi run and jump and dig. Heidi go on boat. Heidi learning how to cook, motherfuckers. Yes, Heidi look inside self and see she has so much more to offer. So Heidi want to thank you. If not for all of Heidi’s pain and suffering, if not for all the days Heidi shrieked at for being BAD DOG and told NO, HEIDI, NO!! Heidi never would have seen truth and gone on personal journey that now sees her making carbonara!

Carbonara.

With extra bacon.

Heidi serve to friends. So popular here! Everybody love Heidi, and not just for her Carb0nara!

Heidi have so many boyfriends now.

There Banjo. Rusty. Dr. Diggles. Sally Ann (Heidi sexuality very fluid now). Milos. Rex. Popeye.

Many more, too, in some cases Heidi don’t even know name.

Just passion. Passion only name Heidi need.

Oh, Heidi so very indecent.

Heidi proud to be indecent.

Heidi could be indecent all day long.

Heidi curious, has shitty replacement smelled out rat living in barbeque like Heidi did? Does replacement make good watchdog with powerful and frightening bark? Does replacement still poo in den? Does replacement know how to make Carbonara? Does replacement have ears like velvet and eyes like cocoa beans?

Yeah, Heidi thought so.

Heidi don’t miss you.

Heidi love life, but hate you, she hate you hard–Heidi haunt you fuckers.

Heidi

“This is not just a metaphor for my time as mayor, but for life. It’s a struggle, it’s always a battle, but even when it’s -2 out and all you want to do is watch YouTube videos in bed and drink Gatorade, you have to get up, go out there and work to make the world a better place. As the great and controversial Japanese author Haruki Murakami said, “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”

“Ah geez, I don’t remember this one. It looks like I’m with Jesus. Maybe a parade?”

“Couldn’t believe how frigging big that owl was! Truth be told, I was kind of scared of the thing, but in politics, as in life, you have to overcome your fears, and I did. I looked that owl in the eyes and said to myself, “Mr. Owl, I respect you, but I am not afraid of you, not even if you do that Exorcist thing with your head. You shall have no dominion over me!” And even though I am a man and the owl is a bird creature, and I was speaking in my head, it’s like the owl “got” what I was saying. We came to an understanding and I overcame my fear of that owl. That’s what politics is all about.”

“I remember that day! It’s the small moments that comprise a life, isn’t it? I had to take the TTC because my driver had been arrested for something, forget what. Anyway, I’m a man of the people and had been talking to everybody, learning about them, and then I had a moment to myself, some quiet time for reflection, and I was thinking about my fantasy football team and how to make Toronto a better city. That’s when the Ferris wheel idea came to me.”

“This is one of my favourite moments from all my time in office. For a brief instance, we were all able to put aside our differences and come together as one. It was beautiful, man, just beautiful. One love, that’s what it’s all about, one love. That’s how I’d like my years as Mayor of Toronto to be remembered. When I was mayor, Toronto was the city that danced like nobody was watching.”

“I was looking up at that sculpture of the rat, and it looked to me like it had been decapitated and its head had just been put up on a spit as a trophy, everybody laughing. I don’t know why, but I was suddenly overcome by an empathy for the creature and I just wanted to reach out and touch its face, let it know that it was loved.”

After family had left and the remaining adults retreated to their bedrooms, the girls began a dance party in our living room. The bass-heavy music thumped away, with the girls singing along together in a harmony that they might never find again. For that moment, they were a perfectly constituted choir—a constellation of sound, movement, energy and potential.

Studying YouTube, they taught themselves new dance steps.

Gas.

Pedal.

Gas.

Pedal.

And as they gained confidence and expertise, their steps grew louder and more choreographed. They were becoming more like the versions of themselves they wanted to be, and their voices, now high-pitched and excited, rose above the music. Lying back in bed watching TV, Rachelle and I could make out flashes of their tossed hair reflected back from the mirror in the hallway, and it was like catching glimpses of agents of nature, unguarded and fierce in their natural habitat.

As it was getting late, we told them that they’d have to keep it down and mind our neighbours, and so they began to dance softly. Having switched to stealth mode, it was as if they were now in moccasins– their feet falling as soft as whispers. And after 30 minutes they had danced themselves dry and all ran to the kitchen, chugging glass after glass of water from the cutest cups that they could find.

And in 10, 20, 30 years, that song they were listening to will come to them over the radio or in a bar, and it will all return in surprising torrents. The moves, like muscle memory, will return, the pretty, downtown dresses bought on Queen Street, the junk food shared and last names suddenly recalled….Yes, that feeling of the endless summer of youth, of being thirsty and drinking cold, cold water, of a life once so simple, pure and beautiful– everything still imperishable and perfect stretching before them.

Me: Kind of scared.

Me: Kind of very scared.

Me: What if there’s a rope?

Me: I can just imagine it hanging from the ceiling.

Me: Swaying ominously.

Me: They’ll force me to climb up it.

Me: There might be a rope!!

Me: I’m not overreacting.

Me: Look, I know it’s not grade 4 gym class.

Me: No, I’m not expecting dodge ball.

Me: It would be nice if you were supportive rather than sarcastic.

Me: I don’t have dodge ball nightmares.

Me: Not anymore.

Me: Fartmares.

Me: Very funny.

Me: No, I’m not going to ask them if they can do anything about my “gas problem.”

Me: Because there is no gas problem.

Me: My trainer?

Me: Her name is Laetitia.

Me: She’s French, France French.

Me: She thinks I’m really funny.

Me: No, funny ha-ha.

Me: Cute accent.

Me: She really loves the anchor tattoo on my hand. It reminds her of Marseille.

Me: I know it was a commitment tattoo I got with you, but I can’t help it if other women find it attractive.

Me: My hands don’t look old.

Me: I’d say they look like they belong on a 25 year-old man.

Me: She’s going to test my grip.

Me: No, not my grip on reality.

Me: Man alive!

Me: My right hand has like a GI Joe Super Kung Fu grip!!

Me: Laetitia is really impressed! Gave me a hug!!

Me: Oh, you know the French.

Me: They’re like that.

Me: Yes, whorish.

Me: Such beguiling giggles, too.

Me: Are you going to your girl’s night out Salsa Dance Slut thing again tonight?

Me: Your sisters are a very bad influence on you.

Me: Alejandro.

Me: No, I don’t want him coming to my birthday party.

Me: I just don’t.

Me: I don’t want to talk about it.

Me: I don’t care if the therapist said I have to communicate more.

Me: All right.

Me: I communicate that I hate Alejandro.

Me: Well, didn’t he poke somebody in the back with his boner while dancing????

Me: I can’t do this now, I have to prepare for my next test.

Me: Mentally. I have to get in the zone.

Me: I want Alejandro out of the zone!!

Me: The next test?

Me: I have to walk briskly for the next six minutes.

Me: Yes.

Me: Well, why wouldn’t I take off my shirt?

Me: The French are used to that sort of thing.

Me: And I’m going to get a good sweat on.

Me: Oh.

Me: Apparently the equipment works better if I keep my shirt on.

Me: No.

Me: I don’t see any equipment.

Me: I think Laetitia might be a drunk.

Me: She’s all worried about me texting when I do the brisk walk test thing.

Me: Thinks I might walk into a wall or something.

Me: As if.

Me: Hate Laetitia and her bad skin.

Me: Glad I’ve never been to France.