Dark Place

Will you go to that dark place?

Don't you think it it is finally time? Within whose life would you prefer to dwell, the one I created for you after millennia of your insufferable begging, or within the life of another? It could have been anyone else, anywhere else, any other time; it need not have been you upon whom the the blessings of life had been bestowed, let alone this generous one. I pulled you from the peaceful pause of inexistense where all things are known save pleasure and pain that you might come back to me a God. I placed you in a healthy womb that you might leave leave it in search for light. I ask you now if you will accept rebirth, if you will once again spring forth from a dark place?

Will you go to that place where no other being can help you, where there is no life but your own? You know the place of which I speak, that place where all your fears dwell, that place where your only shield is your mind and the only sword the sum of its learnings. Can you not see that I have torn apart your life in hopes that you will no longer turn back? To what factions of your past do you owe this strain in your neck? I have shown you the worth of dedicating your life to an entity you were only introduced to by circumstance. I have shown you the value of countless hours dedicated to a task you were never asked to complete. I have shown you the value of sleepless nights; countless sunrises missed and as many sunsets suffered. What other obstacles must I remove for you to appreciate the massiveness of the world you have not journeyed. Would you need more time - I have granted it; less friends - only those who wish to see you will do so now; fewer distractions - never again will you confuse affection for passion, passion for love, love for need.

The stage is set, you may enter the dark place whenever you see fit to desire the light. That is what resides on the other side, the light of a new world, a world where change is more than gain or loss, where words and action are fused by desire, where joy is a subject not an object. You know where you are going and you know that place is not here. Your eyes have blinded you and so I ask you to rest them. You will not need them in the dark. Enter your mind, stay there until a window has opened, then climb towards the sun's warmth rather than its light. There you will find what you as yet have not. Go.

Summer Rain

From the unseen heat of the night sky, water from the wells of heaven.

Rain down on me, wash me clean, wash it all away into the sewers. Let someone else clean up that which plagues my flesh.  Worry, remorse, shame, guilt, covered from head to toe. Beat the ground with each heavy clump. Soften the burden that cements my knees and prevents me from walking away or praying without anger. Hot droplets on a hotter night, burn through these emperors robes and let not only the innocent know that I am naked. Permit me to suffer at the hands of the hypocrites too, that they would squander their first choice for a seat in heaven. Sweet rain from above, continue to offer me forgiveness for my transgressions from previous lives. I see today that I am neither prepared for mortality nor immortality. Gentle beatings against the world around me, let me close my eyes and hear the world as I calls out. Let me see the world in this new way, rather focused than distracted by its beauty.

To the unheard thunder of the world beneath my feet, water from the wells of heaven.

Decisions made of me

You have lost me in the darkness of your closet.  I too had lost myself. All I could feel was the cold ground and the dagger in my side.  Throw me more daggers, throw them as heavily and handily as you can. I will need more tools for digging.  Down is the only way out from here, since I can no longer trust opened doors.  If you wish to follow me, hurry. I must escape faster than does my blood, I have only hours remaining, perhaps minutes. If you don't, understandable. In here there is no light, only the echo of words. But these words will crack through earth on my way back to the surface. When the time is right my words will liberate me from this shameful secrecy. I will be in my life what I never was in yours.

Salt

Pity, have you suffered an affliction my dear boy? A wound opened so wide from unrequited love it feels as though all of time won't close it.  Open and searing in the heat of her rays of passion, you would allow anything to sooth your open flesh, anything lacking in salt to dress your wound. But my tears are dense with salt, they burn you to your bone. And yet is not the salt of my sorrow the only raft that keeps you buoyant?  Were it not for my heaving confession that you could actually be worthy of love, would you not have already drowned in your own rapids? Wherefore is your angel? Why would her words be any interest to you when you when you deny the words of the prophet. He spake unto you, "You now know that sorrow and poverty purify man's heart; though our weak minds see nothing worthy in the universe save ease and happiness." So what of your mind, is it weaker than flesh or will it rumble the ground and deny giants of balance? Poor boy, is your mind a flowing river or a dead pond? You have been sent here to tread, not float. Get yourself together.

Approaching termination

There is only sleep for this anxiety as there may only be sleep to nurture my dreams 
There is only repair for the injured just as there may only be time to forge stone from sand

There are no words to liberate me from the fear as there are no silences that will liberate me from the realization
There are no actions required before just as there will be no pauses required after

There is only the memory to hold on to as there may only be the memories to discard
There are no good reasons to accept these sentiments just as there will be no good reasons to deny them

Disenfranchised

When facing the moment of being disenfranchised a few things start to unravel. First, the layer of happiness you had with how everything was going. You think to yourself, "Well, now I don't have that to be happy for." Typically people dwell there.  But if you're brave enough to detach yourself willingly from that pillar of happiness you find out the fall is much greater.  There are many more layers that will strip away. You will find out some friends will not be your friend, they too were attached to the pillars of your success. They will stand on it and wish you the best on your plunge. You will find circumstances were unfolding beneath your feet much longer than you even knew. You will find that what you saw at the surface to be so concrete was only as strong as the hundred layers beneath, each now to be peeled away.  Today life feels a but like an egg, and as I tear away the shell I'm fearful of whether or not I boiled the ocean hot enough, fearful.of whether what lies beneath has been hard boiled or soft.  Maybe next week I'll find out that I was cherished and my future will benefit from my past, my time, effort and passion. Or maybe next week I'll find out the yolk's on me. 

Either way the egg shell has hit the table. I hope there's not much more to clean.

Pupil

What do you want?
Your council, master.
Very well, two questions. Think very deeply and ask me in 30 minutes.

Have you decided, boy?
Yes master.
Let's have it then!

Master when will I be finished?
You petty young fool. You ask for the end as though you have even begun. You would sit there with resounding immaturity and the stink of adolecense to question when this will end? Would you like to teach your own life course? Do you feel as though you could now lead me further than I have led you? Do you know where you are headed next? You would question where I am taking you when the only moment of direction you have had in your life led you here. What do you wish to do with your freedom? Have you solved what the purpose of your existence is? Are you waisting time and being held back by these teachings and this training from a different and more important life path? You would sit there on your rug as though it sits as high as my stool to tell me what the air ought to smell like up here. Have you any idea how narrow minded you are to ask for the end? Do you think a forfeit is not a loss? If I told you today is your last here, would you feel suddenly fulfilled? Would you have felt any more graduated than you did yesterday when you were failing? How can you fail and ask for it to be over? What was the reason for your failures if not to pass? You would ask your master to leave from this place a failure? What is your next question?

Master, do you love me?
Very much so.

Head Pangs

I can't think about anything else.

Everyday, toujours.

I circle back between your pages.

It is real because this is real. Right now. Here. I am typing it. It is right in front of me. You see it too. Close your eyes then. It's still there. It is more real than most things I know.

On top of my chest when I breathe. 

I wish I could record myself for a day because I speak out loud.

How many nights? How many sleepless restless hours?  At first guess, almost 900 nights times average 3hrs per.. kind of shocking to think almost 3000hrs at night alone. 

How many hours?  18hrs awake minus the three already mentioned, 15 * 800-something. 12,000+.  They say in Outliers it takes 10,000. Could I have perfected this feeling by now?

These are conservative figures.

I don't want to know space without the stars.

I can't breathe.

Definitive

I suppose my ask is simple.  I've made my ask complicated as it impacts all that I am, and moreso impacts what I can be, and what I can't be.  But ultimately, I suppose it's the case that the most important truths about the world are in fact simple, so I'm convinced that this ask is important.

I know how I feel.  I know what I want.  I know what I need.  I know why I need it.  I don't know how I am felt, how I am wanted, how I am needed or why I am needed.  For what, to what end, to what beginning even.  I know that I am felt, that I am wanted, but now how.  How's are the basis for my howeling.  How will tomorrow differ from today, and how will it be the same?  How will I convey that I am valuable and worth more than my pricetag? Will that even matter?  Or will the world see my pricetag roll up in line with my value, in line with the work I am putting into myself, only to feel as though I am now even more costly than before, for the same product?  Am I just a cost?  My work has already decided so, but perhaps not definitively.  They leave me with questions I need to have answered over these two weeks. 

The next two weeks for me is full of questions.  I suppose I am going to get what I've asked for, answers, simple definitive answers.  A truly thirsty man chooses water before wine, and that is where I am.  I thirst for definitive news.  I don't need to know which way I will go from here, only which way I have been sent.  In this hurricane I have no idea in which direction I will have been spat - up or down?  Will I face the glorious sun or the unforgiving ground with my face?  All I feel is that over the next two weeks, my time here in this place will face a conclusion that I cannot write on my own.  And whether my life to date is to be known as a novel or a novella, is not my decision.  All I can do is make it an epic one.

On the one hand I can't bear the distress of not knowing where my life is headed - it feels more like fear than excitement.  On the other hand, I close my eyes and think that while life today isn't particularly definitive, it is still a defining moment.  My life will go in a direction that I've come to not expect, for I've come to expect that nothing will come of my life that I have not willed into existence.  How could it?  How could I possibly deserve more of the bounties of love and success that I have come to see, without sacrificing for it everyday? How could I deserve more of those bounties when I have had the nerve to sleep, to not question, to rest assured that they will be mine, that they are for me to have?  What arrogance do I have to claim that I deserve bliss?  To which name will God address his glorious presents when I have not even made a name for myself?  Is my name the sum of good actions and a genuine heart?  If so, how is that not enough?  How is that never enough?  Must I lose my joy to lose my pain; how then will happiness be my way? 

So many how's.  The 5 W's the rest of the world can answer for me, and I suppose they will, but I'm left here alone with my how's. Well I know how I feel, I know what I want, I know what I need, and I know why I need it. When I know how the world is finished answering their bit, I'll answer mine.  I say this definitively to anyone who sees this, so that they know today I am a different man.  Today I have my pen in hand, and I am facing a new test, a test with only one question: What is your name?

Pillows

Longing.  Exhausted. Last breaths before sleep. There, just further than I could crawl with damaged wrists and weary calves, there are those three pillows I need in order to sleep comfortably.  Three soft words I need to lay my head upon in order to dream. Fear not their manufacturing, I beg your vision in seeing these three pillows were custom built for us. Others may lay their heads down, their necks will kink. When we lay down with these words paradise will visit us behind our eyelids.  For now I will keep yours clean. I will lay on 'I' and see what dreams paradise has performing in the lobby.   Ah, a string quartet!

Preface

At this point in my life I plan to tell you where I've been which is odd since I have been nowhere except places. I've been here and there and learned a few things but I think I should go to those spaces. Those holes in the walls and gaps in my mind and human secrets, hidden beneath the web of society. Beneath that veil are the open eyes of the human experience, and they summon me.  Every morning they look at me and I ask myself if it is finally my time to feel wholefully disenchanted.  I feel as though maybe but...

Buddha and Gandhi and Guru Nanak were at the highlight of their lives when they looked at the world with angry questioning eyes and became fixed on changing it. Malcolm X and Tupac, rather, spun the world around from the bottom-up from their darkest hours.  Me, I'm at the equator, I could go either way from today. From here, I don't know if I can spin the world for better or worse but I think I should start by spinning it backwards.  I need to dive into the annals of human history to see whom it is that I am truly dealing with here.  Who we are starts with who I am, and that's the idea that prompted this work. 

This has been written out of humble adolescence. It is not a guidebook, words to live by or anything normative. This thing right here is a description of the special ideas of regular people.  I wrote it today to get it out while I stilk remember what it feels like to be regular.

Of the utmost

What is importance? What is grand importance? Were the Pharaohs important? To several thousands they meant only death. To many millions since, they meant the discovery of a prophet, the fulfillment of God's love and proof of his existence.  And when Moses delivered his people from them to the land of milk and honey, the people cherished the land, so much so that today they shed blood and kill their brothers for it.  But my question is what is importance, not what do we make of importance.

Is importance the number of lives you touch?  There are grains of sand that will see more lovers wed, inspire more poetry, create more joy for the soulfully weathered, train for superstar athletes, than will I.  Is importance the name you've made for yourself in history? I suspect Dora the Explorer and the current hit song Call Me Maybe will mean more to my two year old cousin, and millions more, than will I.  Is importance doing God's work?  Can someone specify if turning the other cheek or if bringing the heathens closer to the hellfire they have lit with their drystones of sin is more important today? Is importance acting out all of your potential to the best of your abilities, better than anyone else? Is importance really so competitive? Is it ambitious? Can it be gentle, like the perfect sunrise or a friend's smile or a summer night lacking in humidity?  Can it be simple and unwilled, like a mother's love or an artist's brush stroke or a beautiful mind?  Can importance just be, without becoming, like the rules of nature or the lover's heart?

I suppose a person reaches a point where he tires of questioning what is important and rather questions what is importance.  It's interesting how you can know the former without knowing the latter.  For me I feel as though importance is easier felt than seen, and perhaps importantly so.  Perhaps asking what is importance is like asking what is the wind, any short answers would be short-sighted, and likely more snarky than valuable.

We try so hard to see importance, to identify it, put it in a bottle and point to it sayong 'This thing here is what is important to me.' But once it is in that bottle we can't feel it.  It looks contrived, it begins to loom stale, old fashioned values open to argument.  Importance needs to be felt, which means necessarily that it must move, or be moved towards.  Importance flows, it crashes and it burns, then rises, then condenses and falls.  Importance is a living concept.

When you hear importance you can be misled. When you see importance it can look unimportant. When you taste and smell importance the debate opens as to whether you like it or not. But when you just feel it, you know it.

Maybe importance is just a feeling, and feeling is of the utmost importance, close loop.  This dance has come to an end, albeit not necessarily to a conclusion, for no other reason than I feel I should sleep.

4 minute mile

I have sprinter's calves and a sprinter's spirit.  I don't jog, not out of an unbridled restlessness but rather out of a peaceful acceptance of my nature.  I hear it's good for everyone to jog, so I took it up many years ago and my knees taught me an important life lesson: I am not everyone.  I was built to show how much can come from so little, built to show what I was up to when I was at rest, what I was cooking up in lab.

It's important for me to sprint, to give it my all and unleash my life's work with every stride.  Just as important as it is for me to sprint, it's important for me to rest.  Even if I could sprint a marathon, I would not be celebrated. The people would cheer for the first 100m, be amazed for the first 1km, but wait until the end of my race to tell my story.  And after all, a sprinter isn't measured by the amount of strides but by the strength of them.  To be a better sprinter than I once was my stride must gain in power; nobody wishes to commend me for my endurance so far, myself included. To gain in strength I need rest, and time to think, and plan, and test ideas.  Then I'll return to this world, these worlds.  I sprinted for four years, sprinted harder for the last two, and I am more powerful.  By grace I have more power to gain and in the future know that I have more to give, more to experience, more to have given to me, more experiences to share.  But today I am at rest. Rest, not sleep. Coddled up on a sofa with eyes just above the windowsill, watching the clouds form above, I'm focused on breathing, and drinking, and feeling. 

Time doesn't slow down when you want it to, it slows down when you let it unwind.  There is not so much to do, there are not so many moments lost, there are in fact no hours in the day.  The sun will fall and rise again, the only thing to consider is which activities are better attended to in the light and which in the dark. Even in writing this, I despair in having said so much about yesterday and tomorrow as it relates to who I am, when my only concern should be today.  And today, there is harmony; rain and a windowsill, distance and closeness, me and you.

Pharaoh

I was so close to despair. I may approach it again, it has many border crossings, but it's worth mentioning that I was there and at this moment I am not.

It should have felt good today, doing a good deed, but that would have been a selfish feeling.  A few years ago when I saved a bird I actually saved him. Hanging by his neck, had I continued to hurry to my exam he would have perished there, but as goes the story I rescued him.  Today was different.  Having been struck by a car, injured legs and limp wing, this gull was not going to fly into the sunset with my aid.  He had come to terms with being unable to move and nestled his head low between his wings, waiting for the end.  I imagine birds don't have any concept of humanitarianism, let alone gulls.

If I wasn't fired this week I wouldn't have cleared my desk. If I hadn't cleared my desk I wouldn't have had a box in my trunk. If I didn't have a box in my trunk I wouldn't have been able to pick him up. If you hadn't loved me you wouldn't have hated me.  If you didn't hate me we wouldn't have been there, if we weren't there we couldn't have picked him up.  But the world is as it is, and is not in our control, only our aid.  We bare the responsibility without the power, life is the balance.  There is no purpose to your misery or mine, only consequences, and for the most part this one was positive.

I took him in the box from the parking lot to the pond.  If there is no hope for him let there at least be peace.  He taught me so much without any words, which in itself was a lesson.  As I first tried to move him he flapped his wings ragefully out of fear, but very soon he came to terms with realizing his feet would not carry him from his destiny so he settled and let his patience carry him to his destiny.  I wonder what he thought during his time in the box, unable to yell, claw, fly, run, or peck his way out of the dark unknown, he simply accepted it.  He only budged twice and I don't think they were attempts. 

I laid him down near the edge of the water - if the water is where he wanted to go it would be his choice, not my imposed catharsis.  He validated me and struggled into the pond.  Once in there he drank water like a being who still wanted to live.  Facing the end he still lived for this moment, knees normally fold before.hearts do. He did not smile, his beak opened only to drink.  Only once did it open without an attempted gulp, and he looked at me, and it looked like a grin due to the way gulls look, but he only told me to go. The words hit me as I said them to you, we can't give him life all we can give him now is solitude.  I despaired out loud in that all I am able to do is write about him.  There are thousands of people more important than writers, it's going to take some getting used to learning how to lose worth as I take on this vocation.  A vet would have had none of these words and yet all of the answers.  We said our goodbyes, named him Pharaoh, and let him cross the River Styx on his own.  I was this close to despair, but now I am not there.

A few years ago, I stopped a bird from dying only so he could die somewhere else.  He would fly into.the afternoon sun and fill my heart with happy, but the sun will set on him too, by now he too has seen night.  Sadly today's bird found me closer to sunset.  Night has fallen now and I can only hope that he was able to see the moon first.  I saved a bird from dying only so he could die somewhere else.  That is the despair I felt, and yet without any force my gloom turned to glee.  I imagine what it would have felt like, thirsting endlessly on the hot pavement, perhaps being trampled by the sedan tires of unsuspecting young lovers.  I then imagine what it would feel like, for the end to come while floating effortlessly on a midsummer night's pond. What end would a bird have chosen, given only those two choices, given any choices?

Even when we can't choose when it ends, by the grace of God we seem to always have the power to at least grant one last drink of life.  I hope you see that, I hope she sees that, I hope he sees that, I hope I see that, before it ends.  When it does end, the writer gains back all of his worth, for he can take something that the world has never seen and make it more significant than any other of its kind.  Such is the nobility of Pharaoh, and hopefully that of my heart.

Genesis

He got away with it.  Mom didn't cook today and dad is working overtime.  He didn't want to have leftover curry, for the third time.  Sometimes curry goat can taste better the second time than the first time, but without fail day three curry goat is tough and tastes like poverty.  But since mom said it's okay to cook something fast because he has a big assignment to do, she made him hot dogs.  He hates the schneider's kind even though they're a little bit bigger but they'll have to do.  2 hot dogs, each one wrapped up in a slice of Jamaican Hardo bread from Tastee, ketchup only.  Today I'm not going to enjoy these hot dogs though, because I have this great idea for the assignment.

He sat down.  Sitting in the tiny 4th bedroom which his family refers to as the computer room, for the first time he is excited about doing his homework.  Grades 1 and 2 were pretty simple, but grade 3 has taken him by surprise.  He's not even quite sure why his dad calls it cursive writing, but being left-handed with less than average dexterity he's pretty sure it has to do with foul language.  He hates it so much, so he asked Mr. Colwell if for this big writing assignment if we could print it.  Mr. Colwell agreed thinking that he would revert to standard lettering, not knowing that his uncle is in IT and has convinced his usually frugal father to invest in an IBM clone Epson 300 EGA computer.  16 colours was pretty advanced for 1990, so much so that most applications would not fully utilize the power of this system - word processors notwithstanding.  It didn't matter to him though, he was so happy to be able to 'print' his assignment today.  Because he knows all of the MS DOS shortcuts, Mom and dad will never know that their 8 year old son is actually playing computer games while doing his homework.  Normally homework always comes first.

He didn't get away with it.  His father normally drags his feet when he walks but whenever he's in the mood to ensure discipline in either of his sons he is impeccably fleet of foot for a man nearing 50.  He's received his first and last warning to turn off those damn games and finish his homework.  After a customarily received scolding about the importance of hitting the books to avoid a life of prision and turning "wutless," he'a acquiesced to finishing his assignment.  He wasn't even delaying because he didn't want to to it, deep down he just knew that once he started writing this story it would never stop.  It was to be his first story, and it had to be just perfect.  Writing is so much more fun than anything else.  Arithmetic is validating, he loves getting 1st or 2nd every morning in minute math.  Geography is cool because he gets to colour, even though he doesn't stay in the lines and he can't write the country names straight without drawing a faint line underneath with his ruler, which ends up smudging as he writes the name with his crooked left hand.  But writing is just fun.  He gets to take this world that is in his mind and put it somewhere, where other people can see it.  And when it's there, it looks exactly the way it looked in his head.  It's the only place where he makes sense. 

He's a little bit different everywhere else.  He uses the wrong hand and holds his fork wrong, he uses the wrong foot and kicks with a curve, he speaks with a lisp and he has braces behind his teeth.  He weighs too much and if wears that undersized black power shirt again he knows someone will actually push him to the ground.  He buys paper airplane books and the ones about helicopters because he hates Goosebumps.  Truthfully he just doesn't read as fast as the other children and it makes him feel sad when they talk about the books a few days later and he is again outted.  Read your own adventure books are fun because he does a pretty good job of picking the most positive end before the other kids.   Reading is just a drag on time, but with this computer he can write faster than anybody he knows.  So he prompts dw4.exe and opens up this word processor, blue screen with white characters. 

He starts to type, in a fashion that only an 8-year old could invent.  He looks like he's playing Double dragon with his left hand hovering over W, A, X and D like a nintendo keypad, and his right hand principally responsible for any other key on the keyboard out of that range.  Regardless, brush to canvas he starts it off.  Halfway through the adventure he pauses.  "Where is this story going?" he wonders.  Mom has yelled at him once already to get ready for bed, the third warning will come in a half hour and with a belt.  He has very little time left to finish this story, so he pulls out a piece of paper from the dot matric printer, and a few pencil crayons, and he maps out the story.  The main character is going to have to make his way past the marsh, over to the pits, through the obstacle course, save the victims, and out of the camp, to live happily ever after.   Now that this has been sorted out over 20 minutes, he's back to typing.  The story has now written itself.  Like clockwork his mother has decided to blast through the door with anger at her son's disobedience only to find humility.  Her son had turned the lights off in the room so that she would think he has gone to bed so he could finish his assignment without worrying her.  He can see the screen just fine, monitors were not exactly bent on power converservation in the 90s.  Her roaring "Jam!" has now been stifled into a gentle and motherly "...when you're finished your pyjamas are on the bed, make sure you brush your teeth, Jamuski."  Autonomy!  He's allowe to break curfew!  But he doesn't even have time to soak in his chance to be rebellious, he's getting really tired and this story has to be a whole page long.  He adds some character depth near the top, a little bit of filler plot in the middle, some creative spacing before the "The End" and voila!  Now he can go to sleep knowing his homework is complete.

He stands up.  He's normally the most shy kid in the entire class.  He still is, at least ten other kids presented their story before him, he didn't volunteer.  But Mr. Colwell gave him the most comforting feeling when he said "Jamil, I want you to read your story, I was very impressed.  At least now if the other kids disagree or think the story is stupid then they disagre with Mr. Colwell which means that they are wrong.  So he reads it.  He reads it so fast with his face buried in the paper.  While he reads it, he's so nervous that he folds away the dot-matrix perferated sheet edges used for feeding the printer.  Without knowing it he gets to the end and looks up.  Everyone says nothing, and then someone finally says "Wow!"  He turns native red.  He was right, with these words they would finally see the world the way he sees it.

And that's why he writes.

The original story had an epilogue so I might as well have one.  Afterwards Mr. Colwell took me aside and said, "When I said it was supposed to be a page I meant a regular lined paper page, this computer page is probably worth two and a half regular pages.  You did way more than expected, but when you say print, that should still be with pen and paper.  This is what we call typing." 

I've always written a bit more than desired.

Redundant

When a glass is broken people rush to sweep it up, it is too sharp. When a vase is broken people rush to find someone to glue it together, it is too pretty.  When the Berlin wall was broken, they kept hammering at it until it was a memory. Broken down into tiny pieces. People would even rejoice in keeping one of those tiny pieces. Hell, I even have one.  When something is too strong, everyone will come together to break it down.

Such was my effort, such was my compassion, such was my love.  None of you want my strengths anymore.  This week you all decided that what I gave you wasn't enough. What you both want is for me to shut up and listen to the fact that my words only complicate something very simple, you're better off without me.  Thanks, heard it already on Monday.

I wish I was just pretty and sharp, then you would have stopped at picking me up and putting me back together. I'm not strong enough for these blows anymore.  I'm a human being.

I concede, my words are now redundant.  Choose yours carefully.

Happy Kush from the fields of Corsair

Today is not for commonalities, today is for nobility. Today is the day for a king, but I am in the courtyard where a princess was ordained.

Here in this land she had no idea was royal. Watching all of her subjects, the market people and money changers would go about their days, passing by on the Queensway to earn bread.  From her palace of solitude she painted dreams of their lives; how either noble or indignant they must be.  Her stories brought her closer to their mystery and yet the 6-foot black fence kept her away from their realities.  One day, she would think.  But with each passing day, the bell would ring and she would have to make her way back across this field and back inside herself.  Her father and mother has put her among these common people, these people who are not like her.  Confused from her confusion she does not realize that this is because she is royal, but she must understand the workings of these subjects, these people south of the Queensway.  It's not her fault, how could she know so soon and so early that she was a princess?

How could she know so soon and so fast that she was my Queen?  On that day, the first time we celebrated Kushiali, how could she recognize this dynasty I painted with my words?  She has no subjects, no land of her own, no famous battles conquered.  Even in these words, I forgot to mention that your royalty is not in the amount of land to your name or people who follow you.  It is not in all those things out there, those kingdons are for a lower class of nobility.  Your royalty is within.  Within everything you say and do, within those deep eyes that used to gaze and the deep mind that was forged to a life of pondering, there on that field.  Your royalty comes from the consideration and attention you pay to your loved ones, from the words you say when you cannot take action and the action you take when words escape you.  You give what you have, and take even what you might only later afford.  You listen to me deeply and while you're down there you speak directly to my soul without translating for my senses.  This is why every word of yours is worth a thousand of mine.  No wonder I try to repay you with this currency if mine, the only currency I have at times.  I know words are coins, but they're at least better than monopoly money.  I'm just sorry they are so heavy at times you can't bare to carry your words and mine. 

Words escaped me the first time we celebrated kush too.  Kushiali was easy for words, I hope you still have the pedals, but when we celebrated kush my words drowned in a riverbed, all I wanted was to bask in the realness of our silence.  All I can say is that I want to make real those words from Kushiali years ago.  I want to make it all real.  I started with the flowers, this time you can smell them and feel their realness.

You deserve to wonder of our realness.  You still ponder, if you are a Queen let alone mine, then where is your name etched.  You wonder sometimes if it's still there, you tell me.  It seems so long ago that you carved your name into this edifice, hasn't it rusted over?  You don't know that your carvings are eternal.  They are not for the eyes alone, they are carved deep beneath what looks like rust.  There has been rust, so much rust.  I went today to check to see how much rust has covered the surface of your name.  There was indeed rust, so much rust.  But it was still there.  I checked every single pole in the fields of Corsair to check for the markings you made in the past, and then I realized why it was not there.  I was sent there today to make words real.  Your mind may feast on my words but in this place where I stand your eyes need nectar from which to drink.  You gazed for so long in this place as an unsure princess, I could only hope for your eyes to see now that you are a Queen. 
Thanks for seeing me through this time.  It meant more than you perhaps know from my words.  So I went there to make real my words.  I started with a  few letters.   Baby steps.

99,999 - Goodbye speech

8:17am on the 401 on an ironically sunny morning, stuck in traffic behind a 4Runner, feeling a bit of fear of what this week will hold, a sense of happiness came over me.  With loud reggae blaring through my open windows I whipped open my phone to record a special moment for me.  I was just at 99,999km in my car.  I realized then that today would be the day that things roll over; we are blessed to have defining days.  I returned home from the office a few hours later after it was confirmed today was to be an end of an era.

When I was told today would be the beginning of the end, I didn't take the news like a boy or a man, I took it like a monk, as though I was being told something I already knew: There's not much more I can do there, there's not much more I wish to do. Generations change and I've lived through three of them at hp. The worlds of sales and IT are as fast-paced as advertized, in a short time you run the risk and reward of becoming very old very fast. I've lived through experiences, joys and hardships, at hp certain people will never come across in their entire careers, trust me I've been through it all. On the one hand it's made me feel weathered at times, and according to Mamie made me appear to be 35 when I was only 26, on the other hand it has left me with the fulfilling feeling that I've achieved everything I needed to before leaving: Long hours do pay off even if the currency seems foreign. I came out as a different man than the man who entered. I learned a lot in each role amd there's a story beind every addage I might say. Being an administrator taught me to need, being a sales rep taught me to want, being a people manager taught me to truly cherish. Being an SSR taught me relationships are important, being an ISR taught me relationships are necessary, being a manager taught me relationships are everything. Being an SSR was a constant reminder that I have a life outside of work. Being an ISR was a constant reminder that I have a life at work. Being a manager was a constant reminder that what I wanted outside of work was here inside this place. I can look a few people in the eyes and say you're a better person to have known me, but I can look everyone here in the eyes and say I'm a better person for having known you. I live my whole life in in 4 year increments, with a year of overlap. It's my way of cheating the despair of having only 1 life to live, instead I live many tiny lives.So this feeling is very familiar; the ever dreaded 'what's next?' At this point I'm left with hope, or well, hopes. I hope that given the less than graceful exit circumstances that I might have more than graceful exit compensation. I hope that I can use this moment to change the trajectory of my life, since I spent the 4 years at hp working out the callibrations. I hope the people who loved me remember me, the people who hated me forget me, and that the indifferent at least remember that I tried. I hope to see all of you again, and at least some of you again and again. I hope Denise wins the lotto max on the 2 free plays we have going before I leave, or if not I hope that everyone endorses me on linkedIn. Beyond that, in terms of being let go and how I feel about that, I think I learned how to deal with my last days at hp on my first day at hp. Over by the entrance to the elevators I learned sometimes 1 door has to completely close for the other one to open. Life's best lessons tend to smack you in the face in front of everyone. I'm happily embarrassed.

The Outhouse

I don't shit where I eat, but I shit in the same house. 

In my perfect world, the toilet is in the same house as the kitchen.  I'm tired of travelling to the outhouse, past everyone's reassurances, past their disregard for the problem, their denial that what I have is an illness.  I'm tired of going so far out of my way to be frustrated just so nobody in the house has to deal with my stink.  The feeling only brings on shame, as though I don't have enough.  I have been shat on, it wasn't even my fault.  You would admonish me further by pointing me towards that cold shower.  Granted, I'll have to go to that place anyway before I can hope to enjoy the rest of my days, but wouldn't you at least say that what I deserve is a nice warm bath?  Don't I deserve it? After all of this toil, the constant heartbreak, the sides that continue to weaken under my ribs, wouldn't you say that a little bit of pampering for me would not be out of order or in surplus?  

I don't need directions to the outhouse, and I won't need directions back.

Brick by Brick

I have to seriously re-investigate my self-concept.  We're all given blocks with which to shape up and prop up our egos upon.  The more blocks you're given, the greater the risk one faces of proping his ego upon a tower.  The higher the tower, the thinner the base, the easier it will fall.  I know this but no-better than that is building a bridge so that your ego can traverse from here to there without getting wet.  High above still waters only the fall will kill you.   I am about to lose blocks, and with the blocks I have left I only wish to have a pathway with forks along the way.  We all need choice.  My ego will no longer hide in its tower, or sprint across the waters of despair fearing each step.  I will beat my own path and walk along it.  My self-concept will be paved with my sweat and my tears alone.  All any of you out there have to ask yourself is do you care to be a part of it, or is it the sky you prefer?  My self-concept is paved with choices for all of you as well.  Everyone has the right to become anecdotal, I've decided to matter.

Mess

A man split in two appears as one.  Which side does he show, which does he hide?  He owes no explanation but he owes it to himself to understand.  He'll never come to terms with all of this through words alone, but what actions has he been granted?  His eyes are burning with passion and compassion. Handkerchiefs are good for tears but this is acid.  It has burned through him.  His skin needs tending to, lips not withstanding. His muscles need mending, heart not withstanding.  His flesh is exposed, and his deepest layer seers in your sunlight. He burns for you still, don't you see?  Have you no Oasis, no pond in this desert from which he could drink; drink so he can make it to the other side of his travels?

Would you mend me? Would you tend to me?  I don't know.  It's only flesh after all. It shouldn't concern you when I bleed, it should concern you when I no longer.  The stains may never be lifted, what a mess I've made.  And you. What more words would you like to lay down on the ground beside you as false?  Here against the hot sand I close my own wounds and mend together my sides with my words. I offer you a small fabric filled with them because I see that I have spilled blood on you, but you grab them by the blade instead of the handle.  Now you too are bleeding. What a mess I've made. I am guilty: Negligent use of a deadly weapon. These words were too sharp. Punishable in my tribe as a principle offence.  I will turn the blade towards me and fall on my own sword.  A man split in two will appear as a man in two. What a mess I am about to make.

A surprise

Imagine this, a surprise everyone expected.

Making your way across these lands just as you had everywhere else. You've set foot on every terrain worth walking, you've seen it all.  You walk the barren lands bravely but avoid the waters. You know what happens when the waters crash down on you and get your hair all wet - tangles, dreadful annoying tangles.  You avoided the waters for so long until one day from your hilltop you saw something out there, an island unto himself.  A giant slate, so large and heavy he ought to sink, floating out there in the sea carelessly.  His austere silence fills you with wonder, what is this energy by which he stays afloat?  How does he ride these waves without a ship or a paddle?  He seems more like you than them, more equiped for the ground tha the sea.  At first his silence is what brings you to the ocean shore, thousands of miles from home, but then he beckons you.  Hold my hand and join me, just a few more steps.  He teaches you to ignore the crashing waves. With him, you feel like the waters you've avoided for so long aren't as bad as you remember.  Maybe this large island unto himself will be your Oddysey.  Maybe you can see through one more voyage. Maybe...

Shipwrecked. He is as he was. He is an island unto himself. How could you not have seen?  He isn't floating, he's teetering, bobbing above the waves he can handle but taking in water at the bottom.  He found himself along your shores having no set direction. He called to you when he saw you. He wanted to know where he is, but he ended up more interested in where you are.  Where is this land in which you reside? Is it where you want to be? Is it where he wants to be?   Both you and he desire to be somewhere else years from now, but neither of you know exactly where that is.  He tried drifting across the sea and you tried traversing the lands.

Imagine this, a surprise everyone expected. You met on the shores of love and shared the beach.  You spoke of the crumbling earth and he of the roaring tides, and after sharing the stories, neither of you were saved.  Neither of you need saving, just a change of scenery. 

The two of us met as stranger at this time and at this place because it's time for you to brave the waters and for me to begin walking on firm ground.  Where we go from there is up to us.  A surprise everyone expected.

The shore

Loving you is dry land swimming. I can only describe what it could be like, what it would feel like.  I can only tell you I'm prepared, I have no words around the experience. I've heard good things about what it feels like to crash against your waves, but these days when people ask me why it is that I'm in love with you, I drown.

I drown in the sorrow of not having a day where you were completely mine. I drown in the embarrassment of them knowing you were never truly mine. I drown in the regret of never forcing myself upon you. I drown in the anguish of still waiting for you. I drown in knowing that this love was unconditional.

Your waves carry me back to shore where my love has turned me against you.  Your waves are strong but my love is stronger.  Love always turns competitive when it fears being unfulfilled. So I match your high tides with angry winds from my mouth and your low tides with spiteful silence. I only know how to tread your waters and stand resolute when the moon makes you angry. I know how to jump back in whenever I feel washed up, but there has always been escaping sand between my toes. 

I want to be so deep within your waters that there is no ground to be seen or felt. I want to confuse this for weightlessness and continue flying, farther anf further within you. I want to immerse myself in your enormity and speak of my adventures. The first man to have gone so deep into her ocean, the only man to lay claim to knowing her completely, having seen both her sides.  I want the world to see my words and share in the delight I have in describing you with my words. I want us to be celebrated.

But anyone who reads this today will only read it with anger, anguish or pity. It was selfish for me to even write it, worse still publicly. I think when love gets competitive it hates losing more than it loves winning. Maybe that's why I am dry land swimming.

There's only two ways off the shore.  Loving you is the direction I chose, but you have to receive me with your waves to make it work.

Bench

I can warm it. I can carve our names in it. I can protect it. I can call it mine. I can watch the game from it. I can dream how I would play from it; what magic I would make happen.

I can be your main consult from it. I can help the other players believe in you. I can smile and lead by example to show the others life isn't so bad here on the bench. They might even believe me.  But when the whistle is blown and I've been told I won't get my chance today, there's nothing else I can really do for you.

We are in injury time.  Ask yourself what the score is, whether you feel ahead. You can sub me in and play for a win concede the draw.  I'll understand either way, but I can only help you further if you pick me.  Last rush.