And so I did.
The place, stripped to a skeleton staff and now loosely populated by the permanent residents– most of whom were confined to wheelchairs of varying complication– was pretty empty. The days, now shapeless and free of plot, offered little and so I wandered hallway after hallway. Seeming more memory than music, the theme song to MASH drifted from one room I passed,
while another was antiseptic and empty but for Trump/Pence banners taped defiantly to the wall, and then through a doorway, I caught a glimpse of a nurse changing a patient’s tracheotomy tube– so intimate and tender as to be virtually erotic. Downstairs, scattered like islands, I came upon people who sat anchored and voiceless in wheelchairs, each one stationed near a window, watching.
There was a church service later in the morning that took place in the same space that hosted Bingo, Pub Night and all our other events. It was Catholic, which occasioned a few religious props being removed from a box and placed on a cafeteria table, and somehow this act was achingly beautiful.
A strong, elderly woman dressed all in black walked in, made the sign of the cross, and then nodded warmly to all who made eye contact. She went directly to a middle-aged woman who was frozen and strapped into a wheelchair, and touched her with a tenderness that exceeded language. Gently, she pulled a favourite sweater over her head, and then smiling, began to brush her hair—a mother’s imperishable, radiant love, holier than a saint.
An impossibly old woman was reclined, almost prone, in a wheelchair. Blankets and knitted things covered virtually every inch of her body, and her skin was so very thin, her body so frail, that it seemed as if a soft gust might be enough to push her through the veil. A couple of hospital staff tended to her, telling her that her brother would be there any moment now. Her eyes flickered open at his mention, and as if surfacing through water she said, “Oh, I hope so,” and then she fell back down and in to sleep.
Ten minutes later a tall, elderly man, clearly ill himself, entered and sat stoically beside her. With a bible open on his lap he mumble-prayed along with the priest. He never touched her, nor did he say anything to her while she slept through the service, but it was clear that he was her brother. He was her tie to this world, the one now disintegrating around her into a living mist. Drifting in and out, all of time swirling around her, what version of her brother might she have hoped to summon, what memory returning in dream, what ghost to see her home?
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.
]]>Sitting on the sidewalk between the mailbox and garbage can was a man selling pens. He wore a red ‘Fly Emirates’ hat, had a distended tongue that protruded through his mouth, a tracheotomy tube sticking out of his throat and loosely bandaged hands. He was so low to the ground and positioned in such a way that it was difficult to tell if he had legs or not, and he gave the appearance of some wax creation melting into the grey concrete.
A chopper sounded unseen in the sky above, likely landing on the roof of the Children’s Hospital right around the corner. Somebody, all sorts of people even, were in the midst of the worst, most unimaginable day of their lives.
A handsome business man with an immaculately trimmed beard strode by as if on a catwalk. Standing about 6’3, he was resplendent in a perfectly fitted suit that he’d accented with a pair of beautiful Italian shoes and a pocket square. He spoke calmly into his phone as if he was in control and absolutely everything was going exactly as planned.
Walking toward him was a blonde woman who was just as thin as a blade. She was concentrating so hard on looking unattainable she seemed angry, like she was off to eliminate an enemy. Dressed expensively, she was so deeply articulated by fashion that it was hard to imagine anything existing beyond exterior. Behind sunglasses and confident on high heels, as inky as a shadow she smoked–an image to be captured rather than a person to be spoken to.
It seemed that these two people, these two vectors of power and beauty, had been moving their entire lives toward this moment of collision, but they passed without incident or plot, and the man selling pens on the street beneath their indifferent gazes cast such a stark contrast as to feel like a biblical thunderbolt.
Moving his mouth to no effect, he held out a pen to everybody who passed, but nobody stopped or even noticed him. Not a single person. He was beneath their sight line, both figuratively and literally, and may as well have been living in a completely different world.
A woman on crutches was standing near him. You could tell that she wasn’t sick– that she’d just had a minor accident and was still living in one world and not the other. But still, she was angry. She might have been angry about a lot of things. She was limping about very dramatically, exaggerating, exasperated that that the cab stand was 20 meters away. The beggar, wordless and unseen, waved a car over for her, and as one materialized, she limped furiously past, never noticing the blessings of the saint kneeling before her.
]]>You might be astonished, as I was, to discover that there is actually quite a bit about baseball, specifically the Toronto Blue Jays and their playoff run, in it. Here are some of the standout passages:
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Song of Solomon 2:9
Marcus Stroman, my beloved, is like a gazelle or a young stag. Look! Here he comes, leaping across the mountains, bounding over the hills!
Mark 14:51
A young man ran out onto the field after the 5th inning wearing nothing but a linen sheet over his naked body; and they seized him. But he pulled free of the linen sheet and escaped naked.
Leviticus 27:20
And after the pitch, which was surely out of the strike zone, was called a strike by the umpire, Josh Donaldson, the great rain maker of the Toronto Blue Jays,
turned to him, “Satan’s servant, if you do not listen to me but continue to be hostile toward me, then in my anger I will be hostile to you, and I myself will punish you for your sins seven times over. You will eat the flesh of your sons and the flesh of your daughters.”
Samuel 23:12
But Edwin took his stand in the midst of the diamond, and Lo, the ball soared deep into the night, and the LORD worked a great victory.
Leviticus 18: 19
Thou shalt not approach unto a woman to uncover her nakedness on game day, nor eat too much honey.
Samuel 15:3
This is what the Lord Almighty says… ‘Now go and strike the Texas Rangers and devote to destruction all that they have. Do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey and batboy.”
Kings 2:23
Then he went down to Texas from the suburbs of Toronto to see the mighty Jays bring sorrow to the Rangers; and as he was going into the stadium, some youths came from the street and mocked him, and said to him, “BLUE JAYS SUCK! BLUE JAYS SUCK!” So he turned around and looked at them, and pronounced a curse on them in the name of the Lord. And two female bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths.
Revelation 12:7
And there was war in the Roger’s Centre. Joey Bats and his angels fought against Rougned Odor, and the Dragon and his angels fought back.
Isaiah 40:31
But they who are patient at the plate and let pass the false strikes of Ranger serpent Yu Darvish,
the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary.
Song of Solomon 2:3
Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest is Troy Tulowitzki among the young men. I delight to sit in his shade, and his fruit is sweet to my taste.
After the meal, Rachelle went off to run some errand with her sister while I decided to wander about the streets of our old neighbourhood.
Not sure where to go, I just stood on the sidewalk attempting the appearance of somebody who was making an important decision. This must have looked like providence to the woman walking by. She did a double-take, and then looked intently at me me, this man pulling an oxygen tank behind him lost in deep thought. She smiled, wanted me to know a bit about God, and handed me a pamphlet that asked the question, “Will suffering ever end?”
As if in answer to that, a street person immediately joined me on the corner. I would guess that she was in her 20’s, but she might have been younger. Through her wounded shell, you could see the beauty inside, how if just a few things had been different in her life, this capacity for joy would have blossomed.
She didn’t seem to want much more than company, as she just stood beside me, somehow assuming an immediate and willing position of subordination. It was as if we were now, and always had been, part of the same pack, and I was the Alpha.
Strung out and jittery, she kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other, sometimes moving in small circles in order to scan the horizon in all directions. Between her fingers she kept the small stub of a cigarette. There was little tobacco in it, but she worried it between her fingers like Rosary beads, asking each person who passed if they had a light. I tried to communicate to her that because of the oxygen tank I had with me, I couldn’t be around an open flame as it might cause an explosion, but she didn’t seem to understand.
I had to leave, but I didn’t want to. I felt protective, like she needed me there. I wanted to help her somehow, but the circumstance of my oxygen tank and her need to smoke were dangerous.
“Okay, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
She looked disappointed.
“I can’t talk,” she began, “my words go away and I can’t find them, but I want you to know I’m big.” Her eyes were wide and she stretched out her arms, “I’m more.”
]]>It’s been well over a week now since Ammon Bundy and his militia men took over the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge headquarters in Oregon.
As the harsh winter falls like ash around them, neither the Federal Government nor The Citizens for Constitutional Freedom have shown even a hint of quit.
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The Citizens for Constitutional Freedom Press Conference, January 14th, 2016
Ammon Bundy: Once again, our intelligence gathering services have had to bring us some very bad news.
On the heels of the death of our great teacher and brother, David Bowie, another true patriot and giant amongst men has been taken from us. Our comrade, Alan Rickman, star of stage and screen, has fallen.
Ryan Bundy: This is bullcrap, man!! Bullcrap!!
Ammon Bundy: Easy brother, easy.
Ryan Bundy: By the hammer of Grabthar, we shall be avenged!!
Ammon Bundy: Rickman died as he lived, with his boots on.
While carrying out an assault on a government facility in Northern California, Rickman was struck down by a hail of gunfire from CIA operatives posing as paramedics. It was a cowardly and treacherous act and….What? Well, where did you hear that? Really? Really? Did TMZ report that, too? Well, geez. Cancer, hunh? Do they think it was planted in his body by the government. Inconclusive, eh? Okay. Okay. Give me a moment. Just bear with me! This is a very stressful time, okay? Don’t forget, I’m fighting tyranny here, for you and your children, so just cut me some slack! I’m doing God’s will, not yours, okay!?
(Conference is interrupted for five minutes)
Ammon Bundy: Okay, thanks for your patience. Sometimes constitutional freedom take a little bit of time.
Our intelligence department has just confirmed that Alan Rickman died under very mysterious circumstances late last night. Naturally, many of my men– myself included–have been shaken to the core by this devastating news. I’m not going to lie to you, it’s not my style, but there were more than a few tears shed last night. Three more of our men, devastated by grief, just like when Ziggy Stardust took his final bow, left the encampment and returned home this morning, and as always we wish them Godspeed.
Ryan Bundy: May our comrades ride as swiftly and surely to their families as Alan Rickman to Kate Winslet, in his portrayal of noble Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility!
Ammon Bundy: As always, we will continue the battle, to be the tip of the spear, just as Professor Severus Snape would have wanted. If he were here right now, he would cast a spell on the government and we would all be enjoying the land that is rightfully ours to profit from.
It is hard to imagine, but it was only a few short weeks ago that my family and I sat around enjoying Rickman’s brilliant work in that modern Christmas classic, Love Actually. Yeah, I can see more than a few smiles in the press gallery, there. Rickman spoke to us all, even godless, liberal media, and he had the truly unique ability to tap into the soul of the white, middle-aged man and speak directly to us.
Ryan Bundy: Lord, I related, I related so hard, for who amongst our clan hasn’t made the mistake of giving our wives a Joni Mitchell CD for Christmas!?
Ammon Bundy: Hallelujah, brother, don’t I know it!
Alan Rickman told the difficult truths. His portrayal of complex antagonists is what made me want to get into the business of fighting for the Constitution and taking over government buildings. I had always hoped to find an adversary as strong and charismatic as Rickman– a Hans Gruber to my John McClane.
We will miss him truly, madly and deeply. May a flight of angels carry you home, brave soldier.
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According to various reports, he is currently wandering around the remote BC island of Alert Bay, howling at the moon as if he’d just had his massive, mythical heart broken.
The news stations that deliver such stories do so with a smirk, as if it was on par with a Dachshund Super Bowl, a little bit of fun to indulge in at the end of a tough new cycle. Santa Claus stories packaged for children.
And yes, of course, unhinged obsessives touched with a kind of religious fervour and pranksters, make up the undying core of Bigfoot promoters. The sober mainstream asserts that Bigfoot does not exist because there is no proof or evidence that he does, and to believe anything else is to indulge in fantasy.
However, I would argue that this is a position of arrogance. We are inconceivably small in this universe. It’s impossible for us to process how small this pale blue dot is in the vast darkness of infinity.
There is more that is unknown than known in this world and beyond, and more that is invisible than visible. Our tools for perceiving the universe (sight, sound, smell) are pitiful. As humans, everything we know and sense, is created and processed by the mystical chemistry of our brain. It is literally true that the universe exists inside of our head, and it is worth keeping in mind that a different universe exists inside the brain of a spider. As a species, we apply our technology to expand our tools of perception so that we might better understand some of the things that lie beyond our natural ability. In short, we see very, very little.
Imagine you were a lobster living on the bottom of the oceans floors.
If you could be imbued with a consciousness like a human, there is simply no way that you could conceive of living on the same world as a creature like a human being. Physically, you could hardly be more dissimilar.
Your skeletal structure exists on the outside not the inside, you shuffle along in the bottomless dark of the cold seas. Humans, bipedal giants. You cannot imagine a world beyond water. You cannot imagine air, this transitional plain, or that there is a world yet beyond that, a terrestrial land where humans live in palaces, farming and managing your species and then devouring them as a delicacy. Such a thing would seem ludicrous and completely beyond your imagination, but we know that it is true. Perhaps, in the great expanse of time, distance and dimension, a similar analogy can be made, only with us as existing as the lobster and something else as humans.
In searching for Bigfoot we seek his proof on our terms, not his.
He must exist as we understand things to exist, not as he may exist. He must be visible to our eyes. But what if like radiation, or the wind, he’s not visible to to us? What if he’s not quite of this world we live in, just as we, are not quite of the world the lobster lives in?
The older I get, the weirder the universe becomes, and the more ridiculous it seems that we profess anything with certainty. The people who believe in Bigfoot are no more flawed in their methodology than those who claim his existence an impossibility, and so I am content to imagine his howls at night, a reminder of the limitless mystery both inside of us, and beyond.
While he currently holds a job as a Toronto City Councillor, he also works as an onsite volunteer at the Humane Society where his duties including dog walking, bottle feeding (kittens and some birds) and much, much more. However, this is not enough for the man and he has just started a weekly Advice Column for the media giant BuzzFeed:
ASK THE EX-MAYOR
Dear Ex-Mayor:
I am a HUGE Game of Thrones fan!!! Do you really think Jon Snow is dead? I don’t want him to be dead. He can’t be dead. Please don’t let him be dead!!
Super fan from Vaughan
A: My brother Doug and I are massive fans of The Game. Just huge. It’s one of the few shows that’s able to mix sex, nudity and violence with class, and it’s wholesome enough that you can watch it with your kids, too. Good life lessons in GOT, good life lessons. Five out of five on the Rob-O-Meter.
Kinda reminds me of Miami Vice in that way. You could always count on Crockett and Tubbs ( Remember to take the BuzzFeed quiz: Are you Crockett or Tubbs?) to teach you right from wrong.
My brother Doug and I used to watch that show all the time. We dressed up as ’em for Halloween, too, and always used to get in a fist fight over who got to be Crockett. Doug always won because he was the eldest, but it didn’t bother me too much, because I liked dressing up in black face and speaking in that crazy Jamaican accent. Didn’t know that wasn’t considered “politically correct” until after I was mayor. Whatever. People don’t know how to have fun.
Those were good times, though. Miss the good times. Miss ’em pretty bad.
Anyway, I don’t think that Jon Snow is dead. They did something weird with his eyes at the end and I think that means he went to live in his wolf-slave, or that maybe he’s returning as a White Walker, so don’t despair Super Fan!
Dear Ex-Mayor:
I’ve been dating a terrific guy for six months. We have a lot of interests in common and I love spending time with him, but lately I’ve been feeling that our core values aren’t aligned. I’m a lifelong Christian and I know what is right and wrong biblically. He’s a Christian too, but he told me that he lost his virginity and has no regrets about it even though he knows it’s religiously wrong. This upsets me because as a Christian I know premarital sex is not allowed. He’s a good man and I don’t want to lose him, but he’s sinning! What should I do?
Conflicted Christian
A: The one thing we know about Jesus, other than that he had a beard, is that he’s forgives EVERYTHING. He recently forgave me all my Ashley Madison sins, and my wife, whom Jesus had put in a pretty tight corner by forgiving me so quickly, had to cut me some friggin’ slack, too, as she knew I had Godly absolution. I tell you, the holy Lord is the best goddamn lawyer of all time.
But for Jesus to forgive your sins of the flesh, you first have to make ’em. So, whatever you do, whether you decide to remain true to your faith and only give your man a hand job, or if you cave in and screw his brains out with U2 blasting, Jesus will still think you’re cool! He’ll give you the keys to his kingdom whatever you do! I know it’s weird, but it’s true. I tell you, Jesus is a bloody rock star, the Bono of his time.
You’re gold, Conflicted Christian, so sex it up!
Dear Ex-Mayor:
How do I come out to my homophobic parents?
Anonymous, age 15
A:
You’re a fruit, eh?
Geez.
Boy, don’t know what to tell you.
Really scratching my head here.
I guess it all just kind of grosses me out. Don’t want to think about it and have those images in my head. Anyway, good luck and go Blue Jays!
Rachelle, my wife, had to work and was unable to make it. These are the text messages that she sent me over the course of the evening:
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Rachelle: Pickle, tell me, how’s dinner going?
Rachelle: Really? You’re giving it a C minus, maybe a D?
Rachelle: That’s strange.
Rachelle: Really? You’ve lost a lot of respect for the family?
Rachelle: Did they call you out for bringing half a bottle of wine again?
Rachelle: You have to stop doing that. It’s embarrassing!
Rachelle: It is.
Rachelle: No, I’m not embarrassing, you’re embarrassing.
Rachelle: Oh, I think I know what happened.
Rachelle: What did you wear out?
Rachelle: You wore your black turtleneck and that jacket, didn’t you?
Rachelle: I know you think it makes you look like Carl Sagan.
Rachelle: I know.
Rachelle: But I still don’t understand why you think that’s a good thing.
Rachelle: Look, I don’t hate the cosmos.
Rachelle: Or space exploration.
Rachelle: Just bad clothes.
Rachelle: Now come on, just tell me what happened.
Rachelle: Oh, sweet Jesus that’s hilarious!!
Rachelle: So, just before everybody was about to start dinner, Marston said, “Edgy Pastor, would you please lead us in grace?”
Rachelle: I love that girl.
Rachelle: No, she’s not full of herself.
Rachelle: She’s so clever, and she’s right, when you wear that outfit you do look like an edgy Pastor.
Rachelle: Yes, you do.
Rachelle: Yes, like some white dad who’s going to rap Genesis or something.
Rachelle: Oh honey, I would never get in the way of your relationship with God!!
Rachelle: There’s more?
Rachelle: Hannah said, “It looks like a jacket you mother might have bought you.”
Rachelle: It’s like that girl is my daughter.
Rachelle: And then she added, “At a store called For Your Son.”
Rachelle: “For Your Adult Son.”
Rachelle: Oh Lord!!! Tears are streaming out of my eyes I am laughing so hard!
Rachelle: And then Marston said, “And she paid for it with a coupon she clipped from a newspaper?”
Rachelle: Oh Pickle, you really are defenceless in the face of those girls!
Rachelle: So what did you do?
Rachelle: Oh.
Rachelle: Do you think that was a good idea?
Rachelle: Well, it’s just if you’re always pretending to have an asthma attack, people might not be very responsive when you actually do, that’s all.
Rachelle: See? I told you!
Rachelle: That is just too funny, I love that they all held hands and prayed for the edgy Pastor during your fake asthma attack!
Rachelle: Did you end up saying grace?
Rachelle: Well, I think you should have embraced the persona and rapped it!
Rachelle: Yes, your life is nothing but a series of missed opportunities.
Rachelle: Oh, I’ve got to go, work calls!
Rachelle: Well, my edgy, little Pastor, I’ll see you in two hours, may you walk with the Lord!
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