Friday, May 28, 2021

Touchstones




             A touchstone is a reference point against which things can be evaluated. It is an ideal by which something may be measured. It is a measure by which we can assess and then discern. Touchstones are a “standard or criterion by which something is judged or recognized.” A touchstone can be an object of significance. Whether a memento, a pet, or even the dead , a touchstone is an acknowledgment, sometimes a memory. A touchstone can be a significant other, a person you believe completes you and makes you whole. Ideally, this person comes without criticism and judgements. They love unconditionally and hold great importance. We turn to our touchstones when we need them the most. We rely on them to ground us, to bring us back to reality even in the midst of great chaos. Some of my greatest touchstones are not just people or places. Physical objects in of themselves hold much meaning. I think we all have little trinkets and keepsakes that we give not only great sentimental value but they act as a touchstone, a way to treasure or fear, depending on your state of mind. Like a cherished old sweater or a picture of your mother, these connections bring us back to a place and a time without having to venture there ourselves. They act not only as a reminder but also as an escape of sorts, an other land of objectification. We feel them. We see them. We know just what they are and why they are with us. Almost literally, noting each is like touching a stone. They can act like old friends if you let them, a safe harbour on a sea of despair. 




             I cannot remember life without it. All these years have passed and it is still with me. It is one of my first memories. I remember spotting it on the corner cabinet in our living room when I was six. It sat there for years. When we moved from Toronto to Strathroy in 1976, it was delegated to a secondary position. The top of our kitchen cabinets would have to do, I supposed. Eventually, I just asked my mom if I could have it and she surprisingly said yes. In hindsight, I think she knew that I would keep it and care for it and hold it to myself. I have many family treasures in my possession for exactly that reason. The tin itself is nothing to speak of. It still holds its shape and most of the illustrations, but it is dented and aged and worn from the life it has passed through. It had looked like that long before it came to me. The ravages of five children clearly shows on its skin. There have been no new dents or scratches since I claimed it from my Mother over thirty years ago. It was once ornate and polished but time and those children have managed to dim and ding the newness away. It is an oriental, eight sided tin with a brass handled top. I treat it like it is worth as much as anything else in my home. It is prominent in the room regardless of its appearance. It is a treasure, a touchstone for me. I don’t have to literally touch it to remember all those years I have held it as my own. It is connected to my childhood and my mother and it represents both at completely the same time. When I miss her, I can caress that silly little tin, almost as if it was a gravestone or burial marker. I could not cherish anything more.



 
            Emma and Abby met on the first day of kindergarten. They became fast friends and travelled through their youth together. No one could have been closer. No one could have been more connected. At least, that is what their youth told them was the truth. More sisters than best friends, the two shared years together. For Emma, no one mattered more. As an only child she had wanted a sibling and Abby was more than she ever asked for. They were kindred spirits. For Abby, her pal gave her refuge and sanity in a world that was not so friendly. Em was an escape from the ravages of abuse.  Whenever she needed to run, whenever she ran, it was always to her bestest friend. There was sanctuary since the day that they met. High school was a experiment in torture. Both girls were not on the top of the popular list. This only strengthened the commitment they had to one another. They joined clubs together and attended social events in spite of the poor reception. They would laugh and then they would laugh some more. There was nothing sweeter than the time they spent together. Eventually, all good things come to an end. After graduation, Emma moved to Montreal to attend Concordia University in pursuit of a Nursing degree. Abby finally found emancipation in New York City. Columbia University offered Film and Media Studies. The day they parted was not a big deal. They could text, they could chat, they could email. They was no real reason not to stay connected. Time surprises everyone it seems. The distance and work load made it difficult for the friends to stay in touch with each other. Eventually, the relationship eroded and slowly faded away. Both women got married and had children. Neither was present for the other’s wedding. They had no clue of anything in the other person’s life. They might as well have been strangers. Social media has its advantage. News spread of Emma’s battle and soon Abby became aware of her friend’s new struggle. Abby knew Emma had once been there to comfort her when the world around her fell apart. It was Abby’s turn now. She left her family and her life and headed home to be with her champion. When she walked into the hospital room, she could see the fighting on her old friend’s face. No words were required. In fact, it was like nothing had happened, like no time at all had passed away. All night long they sat together, playing cards and laughing again. Emma gained much comfort from the visit. It grounded things for her. This was her touchstone. It was well into dawn before the darkness came.
 


 
            I was born and raised in Toronto, so when my first partner and I moved there in the spring of 1994, I fell back into heaven. You can go home again. For seven months we lived in the Kensington Market area, just minutes from the downtown core. The CN Tower was a neighbour and Lake Ontario was just down the street. When life got complicated, or when the money ran out, we would take our miniature television set and head down to the Skydome. While my friend listened to the baseball game, I would toss bread up for the seagulls to catch. It was an easy time, these moments I remember. I can still see him sitting on a grassy knoll, volume turned up and not a care in world. At least, that’s how things looked at the time. I could not foresee the darkness brewing within him. I am glad to have such memories to remind me. Things were good between us, most of the time. Every time I have stood at the base of the CN Tower since then, I can hear the gulls calling and the Blue Jays squawking. I am with him and he is with me. I do not mind a journey through this place. It is a pleasant standard by which I judge all of my memories of him. I don’t even need to actually be there to visit. That miniature television set, antenna and all, still rests in my home like it always has. I am not sure if it even works anymore but I have it. I am lucky to have two interconnected touchstones, both a place and an object. One has granted easy access while the other requires some effort. In 2014, I travelled to this familiar place. I had not been there in years and it clearly had a new tenant. The Ripley’s Aquarium of Canada opened earlier that year and it sits just feet to the west of the CN Tower’s base. Yes, I could still feed the birds if I wanted and the grassy knoll sits just as it did before. It’s now a crowed space, however, and the foot traffic is severe. I don’t suppose I could recreate those moments. I could try but there really is no sense. I have both touchstones to measure my world against. Whether I am standing face to face with 553 metres of concrete or holding a broken down piece of technological history, I am at once in a happy place. It’s nice to have things that make you go there.




             When my first partner died I was left with little choice. I tried to give up only to have to go on without him anyway. It was humbling to experience such darkness, such gloom. Out of nowhere there came a glimmer of light. I met Rob and Brenda when I returned to the United Church my family attended. I reverted to Christianity out of fear and hopelessness and despair. I was crying out and somehow thought if I was actually part of a community, I could find more strength to carry on. With that community came my new friends. The married couple were only a few years older than me. They came with a young son and lived on the far side of Strathroy. For a few years we made much history. We studied together, sang together, we ate and laughed and shared together. During that time, the couple visited Israel. I would have loved to go with them but they never asked. Rob waited until Christmas to give it to  me. The polished cedar box came with Hebrew markings on a simple wood background. The lid was to shape. Inside, tiny scrolls of Hebrew writings wrapped themselves around  a rather plain and uninspiring stone. I had no idea that Rob had grabbed a piece of the Wailing Wall for me. He hid it well and brought it back, just for me. I still have that tiny morsel from the Holy Land.  Although, I haven’t seen either Rob or Brenda for years, I often look back on that time with good thoughts. We just faded away from each other. Some people come into our lives not to stay but to serve a purpose then leave. At the time, I had just come out of the closet and in so doing lost almost all of my friends. Brenda and Rob were hope when all seemed lost. Their friendship was a pleasant distraction from the reality that I faced.  If I am looking for an example of hopefulness, I always find it in that small cedar box, sitting on my television stand with all the other little extras.




            Christmas (2020) was a little strange. With Covid-19 nipping at our heels, everyone exchanged gifts from a distance and celebrated, in many cases, all alone. It was no different at our house. The entire  holiday seemed to come then go in a flash, a heartbeat. Christmas morning was standard fair. We opened presents like we always do but something was different. With no family or friends to share the holiday with there was little fanfare. When I was a boy (7 years or so), I purchased a Green Lantern ring from a gumball machine at the local grocery store. The ring was simple darker green with a insignia of the actual lantern pressed into its crown. I cherished it more than anything and was heartbroken when it was lost to eternity. I had not forgotten my pal. The idea of finding it was a fantasy I played with for years. I always kept an eye out for it in antique shops and flea markets. I opened the gift with no expectations. Sitting pretty something looked familiar the moment it was revealed. I held it, staring at it, I initially didn't really get it. The flood gates then opened. It was like I held it in my hand, for the first time, all over again. The simple dark green ring with a Green Lantern insignia on the crown was almost an exact copy of my original. For a moment I felt like I was home. 
            Just to see it meant a flood of memory and feelings. Every association came spilling back with my long lost friend. It may be a clone but it's way better than nothing. This was one of the sweetest and most considerate gifts I have ever received. It allowed me to touch my youth all over again. I cherish it already and it has become one of my favourite gifts ever. I hope that the givers of the gift recognize my appreciation. I have an old and a new touchstone all in one ring..    




             I have many mementos that I cling to for a sense of what once was and what might well have been. For example, the two collars once warn by our two dead dogs hang about for all the world to see. One even dangles from the rear view mirror of our car. My Dad’s fireman badge, sits in glass and safety. His picture, in uniform, rests beside the silver pin. I have pictures of my mother, and my first partner, and cuttings from the hair of each. A wooden box and a monument are left to remain. I have people that I turn to in times of crisis. Some of those people I even turn to on better days. I have places I can visit when I am looking for any sign of that often elusive peace. I have many things in my life that act as a touchstone. The security they bring me may be artificial but they feel as real as anything. Anything that acts in such a capacity, is good for the soul. We need to touch base sometimes. We need to feel the connection we once had with something. A touchstone can be a great source for reconnecting,  reconnection with the past as well as our own place within it. We hug our touchstones. We hold them dear. We use them to measure the things we hold near. In the end, the only thing a touchstone does is activate whatever rests within each person. All that we call upon is already there. Sometimes we just need something to tweak us, to awaken that part of us. 

This is what a touchstone is for.

 

 
 
 
 

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Tuesday, May 18, 2021

Signs

 

"Gods, too, decompose. 
God is dead. 
God remains dead. 
And we have killed him"
(The Gay Science, Friedrich Nietzsche 1882)

 

 
            The idea that “God is dead” (from the German Gott ist tot), also referred to as “the death of God,” first appeared as commentary in 1882 as part of a German publication Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (The Gay Science). Attributed to Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844-1900), a German philosopher, poet and cultural critic, “the meaning of the phrase is often misunderstood.” Nietzsche did not believe “in a literal death or end of God.” His concern was more with the “western world’s reliance on religion as a moral compass and source of meaning.” His philosophy, in general, was more centered on the idea of “life-affirmation” and a passive, nihilistic point of view.
            For some, this statement defined Nietzsche as an atheist. For others, it “reflects a more subtle understanding of divinity.” For Nietzsche, it expressed his fear that “the decline of religion, the rise of atheism, and the absence of a higher moral authority would plunge the world into chaos.” He recognized that “the western world had depended on the rule of God for thousands of years” and so religion “gave order to society and meaning to life.” Nietzsche believed that, without God, “society will move into an age of nihilism” (complete denial of all established authority and institutions). He warned that life “will turn away from itself,” leaving “nothing of value” in this world. Although Nietzsche is considered a nihilist by definition, he was, however, "critical of it and warned that accepting nihilism would be dangerous.”
 
“God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?” (The Gay Science, Friedrich Nietzsche 1882)


            The question “Is God Dead?” appeared on the cover of the April 8th , 1966 edition of Time. The inside article “addressed growing atheism in America.” The ‘death of God’ movement had reared its ugly head in North American theology. Also known as theothanatology (the belief that God is dead), the idea that religion was dying off and that a theistic God may not exist was much in fashion in intellectual circles at the time. It was a growing trend among Atheists, Agnostics and secularists alike. The article speculates that the question of God’s status “tantalizes both believers, who perhaps secretly fear that he is, and atheists, who possibly suspect that the answer is no.” Although the idea of God being dead is no longer in such fashion, it continues to garner debate in academic circles and throughout theological schools of thought.  
 
            A May 2011 Gallup poll established that “when given only the choice between believing and not believing in God, more than 9 in 10 Americans say they do believe.” The 1 in 10 remaining revealed “they have no formal religious identity.” Other statistics showed that “a lack of religious identity increased in every U.S. state between 1990 and 2008,” however, “less than 2% of the U.S. population describes itself as atheist.”  Indicators show that “the number of Americans who do not identify with any religion continues to grow at a rapid pace.” People autonomous to religion “increased from just over 15% to just under 20% of all U.S. adults,” with more than “13 million self-described atheists and agnostics (nearly 6% of the U.S. public), as well as nearly 33 million people who say they have no particular religious affiliation (14%).” On the 12th of September 2011, a Canadian Ipsos Reid poll, titled "Canadians Split On Whether Religion Does More Harm in the World than Good", sampled 1,129 Canadian adults. 30% claimed they “do not believe in a god.” The study found that the number of Canadians “who believe in a deity are dropping at a significant rate.”
 
“What can be asserted without proof can be dismissed without proof.”
(Christopher Hitchens, British-American author/journalist)
 
            From 2009- 2015, I lived in the heart of Kitchener, Ontario. On occasion, I would saunter down to the end of my street and seek refuge from my wacky world in Victoria Park. On a summer day, I usually took a good book and a bag of treats for my feathered friends. The park is located in the downtown core and tends to act as a gathering point for bikers, strollers and overheated children. A large splash park, a small lake and paved paths leading in all directions attract a cornucopia of citizens out to experience nature in an urban setting. Ducks and geese abound. Children, usually screaming for gratification, attempt to scatter away from their families throughout the play areas, all the while running through goose poop and down covered grasses. Schneider Creek feeds this manmade lake and encourages daytrippers to stop and sit on a bench to enjoy the view. At the time, and considering Covid-19, I just assumed everyone would be wearing a mask and social distancing. I will also assume that it is okay to still feed the wildlife even though you are not supposed to.
            My regular resting place lied just over one of the small bridges that greet you when  you explore the park. Near to the small tributaries that feed the wetland, demure islands direct the flow of the quaint waterway. An aging, iron monolith spans the stream leading to solitude. Amid dense spruce trees, and next to several large flowerbeds, the bench I favoured was secluded for the most part (or so I thought). This respite always helped to clear my mind and free my spirit. Like a form of meditation, the time I spent alone in this haven cleansed both my body and soul. When the wind softly blew and the trees swayed in accord, I closed my eyes and I was taken away. I can hear the rustle of children and parent's calling from the distance. I can once again find a glimmer of peace. 

“God is the darkest creature in the universe, sitting on his throne of perpetual malice. He gives only one answer. Silence is his answer, always. The silence that surrounds him is the silence that condemns him. This is no ordinary silence. It’s the silence of eternity. Where did this moral monster come from? From the mad fantasies of men. He is the empty toy of an over-indulged, blue-eyed child. The world does not need him.” (Mark Romel, Egyptian writer)

            She cried out from the bridge and quickened her pace towards me. She wasn’t more than four or five years old, but her vocal chords were already well trained. She stood only so tall, but her auburn hair was long and free flowing. Her purple shorts matched her colourful t-shirt; it was painted with white daisies and fit her ever so tightly. She was slim and energized and did not even notice me as she ran to the flowerbed just before my position. Her mother followed right behind. For a moment, I cursed them both under my breath for intruding on my privacy. Damn the public part of a park!
            With little hesitation, she climbed right into the mass of geraniums and lilies, almost a blend with her colour scheme. She seemed like a sweet little girl, but man, she sure could scream. Her cries of exuberance were not quite enchanting, but her joy could be heard throughout the area. You could tell from her energy that she was thrilled to be amidst the rainbow of plant life. She walked about the garden rapidly, spying on each blossom, each flower, like it was a piece of heaven. Her Mom cried out to her, “Carrie, get out of that garden!” Little miss sunshine simply continued to graze.
            Sometimes when I am not around children I forget how innocent and impeccant they really are. They never cease to amaze me with their insight. The simplest things are the most incredible to them. I sat there watching with a smile, despite her banshee wailings. The echo of them still linger in the air like fog and smoke. Once again, her mother called out for her to cease and desist, but the sounds of the child's fury outweighed all others. The wee thing bent over, picked herself a lily, and after hiding it behind her back, then made her way in leaps and bounds to the bench her mother had found for herself. She stopped dead, presented her gift and said, “Mommy, look what Jesus made.” 
 
“Only sheep need a shepherd.”
(Voltaire - François-Marie Arouet, French historian and philosopher)
 
            He must have been at least seventy-five, perhaps even eighty years old. He stood on the corner with his small wicker basket, nodding to all as they passed his way.  Although limited by the lack of teeth, he tried to smile nonetheless. It was not that he appeared frayed, by any means, but his body looked weak beneath an oversized suit jacket and ill fitting slacks. His hat was dashing, brimmed with a light blue ribbon, and pinched perfectly to each side of his head. Perhaps it had been Sinatra’s fedora, tossed to the crowd when he played the Toronto C.N.E. Grandstand in September of 1984. Just maybe as a younger fellow he had reached out from that crowd of revelers and clutched the prize. It was dapper and it seemed to make this man.
            I just assumed that the pamphlets he attempted to give each passerby were either promotional flyers from some business in the area or Watchtower material from the Jehovah’s Witness temple down the street. Each soul within his reach was met by a colourful page with wording I could not discern from my vantage point. With only fifteen minutes left in my lunch break, eye spied this old man in a sea of people. It was not that he seemed timid, rather he struck me as unobtrusive, careful not to offend. He was sure to offer each one his gift of paper, but he never forced it upon anyone. As each message disappeared into an ocean of irrelevance, he carefully took another and then another, not once hesitating in his mission. He never spoke a word.
            The wicker basket that held his revelation was made for a fisherman, but the cap to hold things in tight had been removed and was nowhere to be seen. His shoes were old, but nothing in comparison to the man himself. Each sole had seen far better days. Even the obvious polish he had used to hide their scars was aging rapidly and crumbling from being well worn. Despite his attire, and overall appearance, I didn’t feel sorry for him. Sometimes people just glow with a form of energy, an aura if you will. He may have appeared to be one way, but his output was vibrant. No lack of nimbus could explain his glow away. He radiated, apparently quite happy to be doing what he was doing. The warm morning sun began to give way to darker afternoon skies, a harbinger of all the wet that met the rest of the day. With my free time quickly ending, I dropped my cigarette to the ground, stood rather quickly and fixed myself as I pressed my boot to ensure my bad habit would not spread to anything vulnerable. I took one last look at the man and his hat and started walking in a direction which would not cross his path. Something overtook me, rapidly reaching inside and suggesting that I turn around. I could not help myself, I just had to see. As I approached him, he reached inside his carrying case and pulled out a yellow page. Not two, not three, but just one perfectly timed to hand me. He nodded, as if offering a hello. I smiled at him and said “thank you” before I softly walked away, his canary coloured disclosure in hand. “God loves you and I do too,” was all it had to say.
 
“Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.” (The Waves, Virginia Woolf 1931)
 
            She was mean, bitchy and quite the curmudgeon. She went to services anyway. Long before my family arrived in Strathroy and began attending the United Church, she was in her pew, in her spot, week after week for years. I always assumed that someone of her social and intellectual caliber would not take part in religion, but I was only a kid so what did I know? I have to admit that as a pre-teenager I did not care much for Dora P. Fortner. She seemed sour to me. Even when I won a poetry contest in grade six, judged by Ms. Fortner, she appeared to begrudge everyone for making her partake. Taking a photo with her for the local newspaper, The Age Dispatch, seemed more like torture than an academic reward. I wouldn’t say I didn’t like her so much as I just didn’t get her. She was a well known citizen, a published writer and poet who received great respect for both her achievement and her wisdom, but she put off such a nasty vibe. I found it hard to be around her for any period of time.
            My mother used to talk to Dora all the time back when both old girls were alive. Miss Fortner had taught her English and Poetry when my Mom was in public school. She only ever had good things to say about her friend. She never understood why I found the experience of her such a hard pill to swallow. I suppose I have never really taken to something so bitter. She was friendly enough, and well liked among our congregation, but I don’t ever remember seeing her smile. The more people talked about her, the more the newspaper published her work or got her input into current events, the more I struggled with understanding her disposition. I mean no disrespect, but every time I ran into her at Church or saw her out in public, I wondered how she had gotten such a big stick up her butt. I couldn’t even stand reading her poetry.                       
            When she died in 1988, the town celebrated her life. The Age made nothing but grand gestures regarding the lady and her work. My mother cried at the funeral, or so I was told. The Church welcomed her into heaven with not even a pause to consider it. She had lived most of her life primarily as a recluse, shielding herself from the world in a rugged home near the flour mill where my first partner passed away. Her poetry was well received and she published collections of it throughout her life. Her work in Flights of Fancy (1955) and Daydreams (1958) made her somewhat of a local celebrity. As an adult, I find her work tactile, observational and pleasant.
            People never cease to amaze me. I am always surprised at what lies beneath our social façade. In the summer of 1980, I first realized that not everyone is who they seem. My Mom had arranged for me to take instruction, to be tutored by her aging friend. I recall being quite intimidated as I knocked on her door. For a moment, I thought that the house was about to cave in, all creaky and broken and frail. Inside was like a museum. Antiques and books, so many books, filled the space. It reminded me of some old professor’s office in those black and white British movies they used to play on late night TV. She welcomed me into her home and we headed to the back of the house and her private study. I stepped inside and I couldn’t believe my eyes. From floor to ceiling stood Christianity, represented through art and sculpture and literature. Everywhere you looked, you could tell that Jesus had been there. I would not have been shocked to have discovered Him under a pile of papers or magazines. Apparently, there was so much more to Ms. Fortner than met the eye.
  
"Because you have seen me, you have believed;
Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed."
(John 20:29, NIV) 

            I'm not ready to die so I follow Covid-19 protocols the best that I can. I wear double masks in public, socially distance myself and adhere to all stay at home and capacity orders. Work at home has become the new normal. A walk may occur on Sunday evenings, but primarily I only go out only for the essentials. This house is more like an office these days but it is also safe and secure. My lifestyle is irrelevant and I haven't seen my friends in well over a year. Its a strange world. Large groups of people gather against protocol while the rest of us hide from them in our shelters. Truckers demand their right to die and to bring their children along with them for good measure. Churches expose their congregations for the right to worship and have to be closed down to garner any compliance. Of course, then they all whine about the fines while they whine about the mandates then whine that they are going to die. Our reality has changed and apparently now gives people the right to be reckless and negligent but not homophobic, or sexist or racist. Generally speaking, people don't seem to care. It's survival by any means. Such casual disregard is usually at the expense of those who prefer not to be dead.           
            Originally, it was my intent to only take the Johnson & Johnson option. I would wait until it was offered to me. Eventually, blood clots changed my mind very quickly. It is just what I need, taking something to save me that ends up killing me. This is one accident prone fella who don't take chances with his health. When the Pfizer vaccine was finally offered, I let any concerns fall to the wayside. I felt as if I had no real option other than to face fate or die on a ventilator. I walked over to the Paris Fairgrounds and appreciated the rather sunny day. I am not sure if that's ironic. I  kept my appointment, I got in line and then I answered the 387 questions asked before approval. I then sat in a large hall waiting for the deed to be done. Approximately, 30 - 40  people filled the hall (including staff). All in all it took less than half an hour for the entire process including a 15 minute wait after injection. When my time came, I stood up, again waited in line, then found myself in a simple booth. Just before the syringe, I prepared myself. I felt like I was about to take the Mark of the Beast.

"The second beast was given power to give breath to the image of the first beast, so that the image could speak and cause all who refused to worship the image to be killed. It also forced all people, great and small, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on their right hands or on their foreheads, so that they could not buy or sell unless they had the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of its name. This calls for wisdom. Let the person who has insight calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. That number is 666." (Revelation 13:15–18, NIV).

            Conspiracy theories have been around long before the coronavirus. The pandemic seems to have reignited age old prophesies and myths regarding the book of Revelation and the End of Days.  It appears to be a defining characteristic in the more conservative Christian movements that I have been exposed to.  As of late, the "Church" is turning to an ageless hope that Jesus will return and vanquish our planet and the universe from evil (and nature). You cannot have it both ways. These people follow or manifest their lives in one direction, calling it divine and Holy. They claim to lead a God-filled life of charity and promise and hope then they pray for God to return to earth and kill most of the people who still live on it. God is Love and Messiah and vengeance. Every moderate Christian, that I know, has taken or will take the vaccine when the time comes.  For them, the shot is a saviour. 
           People who are guided by prophecy and conspiracy tend to selectively recognize the symptoms. When it comes to the Bible and Christ's return, there are very specific events that must occur before any anti-Christ (or anti-Pope) can rise to power. The rapture must occur. The Jewish Temple must be fully restored. Moses and Abraham are resurrected then murdered, which all the world will see. Any "mark'  would result from an established kingdom, not something that is yet to manifest. The Jesus I know stands in great contrast to the very Apocalyptic warrior this Messiah turns out to be when He returns. I took the vaccine well knowing the religious and theological implications. The book of Revelation makes it clear we must choose to take the Mark of the Beast, or be slaughtered. The two are not mutually exclusive. Live or die, you must decide. 
            Many Christians that I have encountered during the pandemic expressed great concern over the taking of any vaccine and the implications when one does. Magnet to the arm aside, the Covid 19 solution appears to be working to some degree. We are in limbo, in stasis, waiting for the world that will come. I have absolutely no concern. I have conformed to my nonconformity. Most people need something to follow, something to make sense of this life and all the chaos that comes with it.  Religion serves that purpose until it does not. Jesus can bring more harm than good. Although I am no longer a member of the Christian fold, I still cling to the occasional scripture to help see me through a struggle. I always manage to find what I am looking for, like signs on a highway or direction from a map. 

"Then I saw “a new heaven and a new earth,” for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” (Revelation 21: 1-4).
 
            I see glimpses of God almost everyday. Since I was young, I have always been in tune with a presence I could not deny. I am aware of Him, in spite of the harsh life I have witnessed. I see Him in nature and hear Him in song. God can be found in children, in the aging, and even in memory. I will not believe that God is dead. God must live and I believe that He does. No matter where I go I always see the Spirit working through others. People struggle together, try to help each other and generally think in terms of us rather than me. Children are amazed by their environment and strangers wish us a good day. God is not dead rather with us and all lives matter. There is always an indwelling, regardless of one's disposition or lot in life. There is no real choice to make. This world is slightly upside down. It is even a little terrifying, if you ask me. It can be hard to see hope and peace and safety. It can be a challenge to know where you are supposed to be and just exactly what one should believe. Which way are we supposed to go? No matter where I go I am constantly noticing signs of life. 



 

 
 
 
 
Sources
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


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Friday, May 14, 2021

Melting Pot

People City
part two


"I thought if I could touch this place or feel it 
This brokenness inside me might start healing 
Out here it's like I'm someone else 
I thought that maybe I could find myself 
If I could walk around I swear I'll leave 
Won't take nothin' but a memory 
From the house that built me"
(The House that Built Me, Miranda Lambert 2010)

            Toronto is so much more than its darkness, in fact, there is no place like home. I long to engage it once again. Covid-19 has seen to it that the city itself is out of bounds. It has been well over a year since I had cause to travel from Paris (Ontario) to the heart of the big city. Whether personally or professionally, Toronto still calls to me. It has lingered there from my beginning. It may be the place of my birth but the life blood of it runs through my existence. I yearn for the decadence and I yearn for the cityscape. The metropolis is one of my oldest friends. It's not just the people or the place that draw me to it but also the overall atmosphere and the sense of belonging and safety. Toronto is shiny bling, the Big Smoke, an adventure that is sleeping, lying in wait. It is the house that built me.




            Toronto is the most populous city in Canada and the fourth largest city in North America. The Greater Toronto Area (GTA) is the most densely populated metropolitan area in Canada. The GTA includes the City of Toronto and regional municipalities, extending along Lake Ontario from the Burlington area through to Newcastle in the east. According to the 2016 Census, the Greater Toronto Area has a total population of 6,417,516. If one extends the boundary to include the "Golden Horseshoe," (an urban amalgam surrounding the most western end of Lake Ontario) the population comes in as 9,245,438. Toronto (and area) are well known agents of diversity and immigration. We are the melting pot. The population is as unique and varied as the skyline that houses them. It is normally a very busy place. It also has some of the worst traffic in North America (before and despite Covid). 
            Established as the town of York in 1793, then renamed Toronto and incorporated as a city in 1834, Toronto was designated as the capital of the province of Ontario in 1867 during Canadian Confederation. There is great history to be found among the modern, the urban and the fabulous. A potpourri of then and now flows together and allows the city to look as it does. Much like New York, it is classy and dignified yet shiny and new. With such a grand population, the blend of race and religion and gender might well interfere with the harmony of the place. While there are always issues at hand, Toronto is inclusive despite any wind of war. From downtown at the CN Tower, from City Hall up to the Village, reaching to Niagara Falls, millions of people manage (every day) to function together (for the most past). It doesn't matter who you are, you are most welcome. Toronto is a people city.     
            I have been to almost every major urban centre in North America. Most places south of Tijuana and including Alaska (and Hawaii) I have yet to experience. I don't really have a bucket list anymore, I have been there and seen that. Of all the cities and all the cityscapes (including New York), Toronto stands out to me. Yes, this Torontian is biased but rightly so. Outside of certain Nordic cities/countries there are few rivals to  Toronto's cohesion and community. You can see it on the street and you can watch it on the news. Everywhere there is a story to behold. Every stranger holds a face that blends into the mosaic. Some people we never forget. Some places we  never forget. Toronto has both.   


Circle of Friends

            Our intention that day was to be at play in the fields of the Lord. Toronto was a frequent destination but most visits were short and just part of the job. It is always a treat to explore my hometown. First thing, first. A quick stop at the medical marijuana dispensary found a few weeks stock and two (edibles) Ginger Snap cookies, one for each of us. This day occurred long before weed was legalized in Canada. You had to hide your stash and medical pot was the only outlet for a consistent feed. We meant to spend the entire afternoon floating, shopping, and then dinner for two. Downtown Toronto has everything you could ever want to partake in, all on one side of Younge Street or the other. We headed into the core and parked where we always do. We had decided to purchase the edibles to avoid any awkward displays of ingestion. We waited until we had parked before we consumed. It's not often I go out of my normal routine, particularly with marijuana. I have to be careful not to consume too much for fear of hypomania or different degrees of panic. We both ate the entire cookie and they went down real good. It was  just a matter of time. 
            By the time we reached the upper concourse, we were fried out of our minds. This was a virgin  trip for both of us. I had no idea just how hard the rush would hit me. We exited the safety of a concrete shelter and walked out onto a concrete circle. It seemed fascinating to me, at the time, but I have always assumed my interest had more to do with my buzz than any profound revelation. The entire area was lumped in between high rise after high rise The only way out were walkways that dangled you over metal grate after metal grate. It was a shelter, with benches for sitting and a non-working fountain for extra consideration. I have to admit I had not experienced the high that consumed me that day. I was crippled, unable to function. My comrade became a kindred spirit. The ride was wicked. We both sat down to rest for awhile (not that we had much choice).
            We sat for hours trying to recuperate. It lasted and lasted. The entire time we sat there, we did nothing but observe. For awhile, it was all hazy but eventually there was zilch left but to notice. There were people everywhere. Toronto is a mix of every nation, every color, every lifestyle. There was a disabled woman, sitting in her electric go-cart feeding pigeons. There was a mixed couple, holding hands while stopping to drink their coffee. There were yellow people, dark people and a few light skinned people thrown in for good measure. Despite any disenchantment, I could not help but recognize the fluidity of the place. Every minority, every majority, every gay person (me) blended together in some easy harmony. The area was alive with the very driving force behind the city. This was the Toronto that I love. One person after another strolled through my new circle of friends. It was obvious, in Toronto there is always the option to fit in, to blend, regardless of your identity or any other causes or movements you hold to. I suppose that's why, north of the USA, all lives matter. It was a strange day but once I was okay to drive my friend and I headed home.





Take a Picture

            In the fall of 2019, Toronto hosted its annual Comic Con convention at the Metro Toronto Convention Centre, located a short walking distance from the lake and the CN Tower. The world had changed long before Covid. On October 17th, 2018, Canada legalized marijuana and its medical benefits. Smoking a joint became like smoking a cigarette. The entire scope of that event diffused the legal authorities view of a once taboo product. Although the rules had shifted, it was an adjustment for users here and there and most places it would seem. The protocol for public consumption was awkward to say the least. Rather than smoking in the car, we walked over to Comic Con with the intent to smoke before we entered. The large and very modern walking path that ran parallel to the Centre gave invitation after invitation to us to stop for a puff or two  It was an uneasy feeling picking a spot but, apparently, any issue only remained in our heads.   
            For me, legalizing weed felt much like when Canada legalized gay marriage. I celebrated but in reserve. On June 20, 2005 the Civil Marriage Act  passed, giving rights where they should have been in the first place. As a gay man I just wasn't used to such public expressions. It took me a while to adjust. Standing smoking a big one on the "side of the road" was just as interesting. I do not believe I have ever been stared at so much. I kept thinking that someone should take a picture. It was more of a mosaic than anything else. So many people, so many faces all secretly judging us they travelled on their way. 
            The spot was like a mini-roundabout, divided by a planter and some lovely grasses. After years of rules we felt defensive but we lit up anyway. I got nothing. I was so busy hiding out of instinct that I forget to inhale for the most part. I felt exposed and so did my friend. I believe that most Canadians really don't give a shit whether you smoke a joint or love other men. Canucks still do not understand the appeal of Trump nor do they agree with whomever sells the best morning coffee. We have better things to do, well some of us do. As we finished, we folded gently into the flock as if nothing  had happened at all. Apparently, it takes time to adjust to new freedoms. 




            I did not come out of the closet until just before my 30th birthday. Despite having a partner for years, it wasn't until his death that my sexuality became a topic of choice. Apparently, no one had a clue which suited me just fine. I was raised in a quasi-religious family, studied theology and served as a member of the Untied Church of Canada. I was engaged twice. In retrospect, it was a great way to hide yourself. The brief time I spent at the Strathroy Pentecostal Church of Canada cemented for me that it was the right thing to do. Moving to Toronto changed my perspective. In a sense, I was an innocent, despite my sexual proclivities. I had yet to be exposed. It started slow then it started to grow. 


Fuck Toto

            The walk home through Toronto (by night) was always an interesting experiment in social interaction. The pathway home started near the Bloor and Jarvis Street intersection which sits on the fringe of the gay village. I would then walk to Church Street and follow it to College Street and eventually to home. Although not a overly short journey, I travelled into "The Village," spying on the night life as a form of entertainment and great interest. It always seemed to me that the most interesting and unique characters came out to play with the dark. I often found myself standing, watching some bitch slap contest or drunken leather daddy battling civility and the coming dawn. I deeply appreciated spotting men clearly in love. Its was sexy and strange and enchanting. The heart of gay Toronto is made for sublime viewing and even the occasional offbeat adventure. I absolutely loved every minute of it and could not wait for more. . 
            While most other parts of Toronto seem to rest after midnight, at least from a populace point of view, Church Street festivities carry on through the night (at least they did pre-Covid). As the morning approached, the sidewalks and alleyways would slowly empty of huddled masses and stragglers back from where they had been. There was always some drama afoot until hints of light seemed to chase away the strangest and most distinctive citizens. A few carried on into the sunrise. Walking home at around 5 A.M. usually meant for quieter streets. The rays of light seemed to banish these nocturnal dwellers into hiding as if they were vampires, denied their feeding. Come the break of day, somewhere between the night and the morning, I always found myself walking this way back home. Each encounter was enlightening and helped move along my understanding of what it means to be gay. . 
            I hit Church Street where it meets Isabella Street, and turned southward in the direction I followed each night. I journeyed along the west side of the thoroughfare, hoping to avoid any problem that might arise. Once I passed Wellesley Street, I always believed that the coast was clear. I forgot that strange creatures often dwell beneath the waters off this coastline. As I headed south, I saw her coming north, across the road from me. I wondered to myself why such a sharply dressed and pretty woman would be walking alone at this hour, near daybreak. I could tell she spotted me. She cut right across the street in my direction. Her three inch stilettos calmed any fear I might have had of impending doom. She smiled, took a smoke from her dainty ebon handbag, and then stopped dead, right in front of me. Raising it to her mouth, she proceeded to ask me for a light.
            She must have stood only five and a half feet tall, although those heels added nicely to her persona. Her hair was deep black, rather short and seemed frozen in place, lying tightly to her head. Beneath her silver beaded dinner jacket was a tuxedo shirt, unbuttoned to just above her naval. A small cross hung carefully around her neck, the metal makeup of the chain and ornament disguised by the shadows of approaching dawn. Somewhere on her person was a very short skirt, although for the life of me I couldn't spot it. Her coat dropped past it to just above mid-thigh. Her earrings were modest, although they may have been diamond studs. Black velvet shoes and her purse matched perfectly, accenting her look and suiting her to a tee. She was beautiful. For a moment I thought she was Judy Garland, then I realized that was exactly who she was supposed to be. Politely, I lit her cigarette, then reached into my back pocket, grabbing one for me as well. I wished her a good morning and tried to go about my business. 
            I had never met a drag queen in person before. I had seen a few on television and spied on a few from across the street, but I had never met person to person, face to face. When the option of going home together played its card I nicely informed her that I was gay. The quick reply was "me, too."  I felt like an idiot. I really had no idea. At one point, I found myself looking for toto but  he never showed. I hope that by believing his Judy was a real woman, I paid  him the highest compliment. I still feel stupid but I never assume anything anymore. You never know. Unfortunately for Dorothy, my partner waited for me in Kansas. I had no interest in anyone but him. The real Ms. Garland had a better chance than this guy of getting into my pants. Don't get me wrong but I was not going to follow down the yellow-brick road even if it was over the rainbow. 




           The Toronto skyline is one of the most beautiful cityscapes in the world. It is best viewed by night and from a distance (like crossing over to the Toronto Islands by ferry). The city is cradled by Toronto Bay, a naturally occurring  harbour, located on the north shore of Lake Ontario. Toronto is protected from the fury of this Great Lake by those islands. Billy Bishop Airport welcomes gawkers and travelers alike. The harbour acts as both a recreational area and a commercial port. Everything that Toronto is began in this haven. The earliest pioneers were drawn to areas off the lakes and did more than just thrive. Toronto is breathtaking, not only for its beauty but for the beauty of its people. The two entwine every time you walk down Younge Street or swim at Woodbine beach. 


The Same Boat

               The view from the Toronto harbour is stunning during sunlight hours. It is even more pleasing come night. The CN Tower, Skydome (The Rogers Centre) and the entire skyline light up the bay as if painted by Van Gogh himself. Runners and dog owners have miles of boardwalk and trails to journey on daily. Wharves and piers are scattered all about the beachfront and rock climbers fall over the bluffs located east of the harbour. Considered a relatively shallow lake, the swimming conditions in Lake Ontario fare well, despite its relative size and the industrial growth surrounding the area. These waters even host their own version of the Loch Ness Monster. Known to Torontonians as Gaasyendietha, the beast has been spotted out in the lake itself, as well as in the harbour. The creature is a Native Canadian myth handed down from the Seneca tribe.

            The harbour is a busy place. Heavily travelled shipping lanes make for active waters. The Rochester Ferry service from Pier 52 to Rochester, New York only adds to the traffic. Day and night cruises, yacht clubs and recreational sports like sailing, waterskiing and jetting, all blend together with many personal boats and business craft. On a warm summer day, a nautical mosaic of shapes and sizes litters the harbour. Each mode of transportation is unique unto itself. Some vessels are small and some are gigantic. Some are maintained and pretty, while others show their age. Each mode has a path it must follow in the water. Deviations from the lanes may result in casualties. More often than not, these ships just pass each other by. Regardless, each one is part of the whole; they make all the waves. Even the most disheveled boat adds its movement to the roll. I can see all the blue and feel the whispers of the wind and the sun and yet, in its darkness, I am mesmerized. I am aware that everything works together to make a productive and efficient way for travelling, a microcosm of floatation devices.




            Toronto is a lot like its harbour. To see the resemblance we must first recognize that everything on land is as interconnected as anything out on the waves. The city flows through co-operation and an unconscious agreement to be civilized.  We are bound to social expectations. There are exceptions to every rule and they usually interfere with this collective stream. Sometimes we have to look outside our own little voyage to understand how someone else might have gotten so far off course. This should not automatically disregard their right to go sailing. We may come to the city on different ships. We may even pass in the harbour, only aware by sight of each other's journey. We should be careful the direction we steer. In the end, we might find ourselves in the same boat. 


Take a tour of Toronto from above @
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZvjlI-p5wE

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Thursday, May 6, 2021

People City

 


            When my family moved from Toronto to Strathroy, Ontario in 1976, we left it all behind us. Actually, they left it all behind them. Any chance I got to go back, I took. Toronto has always been a huge part of my life and continues to be. So do the people that fill my visits. Coronavirus has limited any actual contact outside of technological means so it is appropriate to claim that I miss my hometown. I miss my city. It's been over a year since I travelled down the 401 highway to snuggle into Toronto's downtown core. Whether socially, professionally or someone simply walking down the street, I think of Torontonians as my kin (in a manner of speaking). Although I live over 100 kilometers away in Paris, Ontario, most of my friends live in TO (Toronto). Most of the people I spend my time with reside in the Greater Toronto Area. My family might argue that Strathroy was where we grew up, but I know it is the Big Smoke that constitutes my place of birth.

            I love the place, more than words can express. Almost every segment of my life has ties to TO, in one form or another. I was born there. I lived there with my first partner. My fondest and fiercest memories of my youth are centered on its suburbs and its downtown. It may be the largest city in Canada, but for me it is an escape from the complications that come with modern living. I can disappear on its streets and hide in its pleasures. Toronto means adventure and art and culture. The people represent the civilized world to me, an example of diversity through immigration and Pride and tolerance. In spite of its flaws, and with great bias, I view it as the best city in the world. New York aside, most certainly, it is at least one of the best and my favourite place 
            The heart of a city is the people who live there. With over 9 million in the Greater Toronto Area, there is much spirit and soul to the grand space. I have travelled extensively throughout my adult life. I find this city thrives because of the people who call it a home. It is a rare thing when someone is hospitable, especially in places like New York City or Los Angeles. It is a natural thing once you cross our border. People are friendly and people are courteous, for the most part. Yes, it has its own forms of darkness but there are always good men and bad men. Yes, Toronto has its skeletons; it comes with warts and all. It is the people who make up the essence of this place. All the architecture, all the history, yet the entire city would hold little without the very lifeblood that flows from the population. Each person has a story to tell, or we have stories to tell about each person. Each face, each being is part of an eclectic mix. Toronto is the People City.

"Find yourself in people city
Stay awhile if you can
With folks who will be tomorrow's faces
Kickin' the traces
Showing you places
In Toronto
That's people city"

            I grew up in North York, a congested suburb of the Toronto area. As a boy I played on Younge Street and watched the CN Tower rise in the distance. Fenside Public school was a cozy 10 minute walk from my home. From Kindergarten to Grade 5, I spent my formative years huddled with  my friends in the confines of this bricked in monument to learning. For the record, I had the best upbringing and the best parents I could have asked for. I was a inquisitive child for the most part, full of hope but full of questions. Despite the occasional balance, despite a sense of peace, I was temperamental at best. 

S’en Aller

            I have very few memories from my childhood that do not bring me joy. My public school was your standard fair. Fenside Public was my second  home. My adventurist soul was fledgling then. I was full of curiosity and full of questions. I had managed to go without fighting for a few weeks when Shawn Savoy attacked from behind. All I had done was to ask, in class, a question, and you would have thought the world had ended. I suppose in public school five extra minutes at lunchtime is an eternity, but that is beside the point. As I walked out the west end hallway and onto the schoolyard, he pounced. Having been given a gender-nonspecific name like Kelly taught me to fight early on. Four siblings and a myriad of friends didn’t hurt my battle skills. I grabbed him from behind and whipped him over me, ducking down to shift gravity. He fell hard on his back and ass, screaming nonsense the entire time. It was over before it really started. He stood up and took his swing, only to be met by a barrage of punches and jabs. I had learnt previously that you have to fight if you're going to win. 
            So began my war with Shawn Savoy. Even though I have not seen him since my family relocated away from the city, he remains my greatest childhood adversary. I hated his guts.  I guess I still do. He lived just across the way, but he might as well have been from another planet. To this day, I am not sure what his problem was. The only time I ever reacted towards him was when provoked. He was my least concern. Perhaps the problem lies therein. Maybe completely ignoring him, excluding  him and mocking him behind his back, was enough to build a rage towards me. I would have thought that after endless black eyes and bloodied lips that he would have learnt his lesson, but he always kept on coming. He was an odd and angry little boy. I know we all suspected that abuse was a factor in his home, although no one ever cared enough to try to prove it. In fact, his entire family was as disposable to the neighborhood as Shawn was to me. When I wonder what he is doing now, I have visions of orange jumpsuits and him having to take forced lunches with some guy named Bubba. 
            Without a doubt, his worst offence occurred when I was bitten by an Irish Setter. He was a witness to the carnage yet did nothing to help. Instead, he stood laughing, mocking me like I deserved what I got. I can see him standing twenty feet away, only a chain-link fence between him and me and the beast. For the longest time I wished him harm, some sort anyway. He brought out the worst in me and I allowed him to every time. When I walk about the streets of Toronto, I occasionally try to picture what he would look like now, what would he be like if we crossed paths one more time? For all I know, I have stood in line with him, ate at the same restaurant as him or even roared at the same Toronto Maple Leaf's game as him. Sometimes I imagine we pass, eyes noticed from behind a mask; somehow we meet, recognizing one another after all this time. My instincts would remain the same. I would turn my head and I would simply walk away. 

"Where love takes hold
Makes old dreams happen
She makes you feel things
So very feeling
Take on old meaning
In Toronto
That's people city"

            I went to check out the DD Summerville Olympic pools. I was doing research on the area and relished the chance to rediscover a landmark from my youth,. Approximately 25 kilometers from downtown, I assumed it to be a "conservative" environment. The Beaches, this area, I always pictured as upscale, middle class living. I had not been there in years so I was rather surprised  by what I found. Having rediscovered my youth, I walked about the area observing. Among all the masks and social distancing I came across a homeless fella sitting alone against a concrete wall and the swimming pools within. He invaded my memories. He was not supposed to be here, This was not how it was supposed to be. I continued to circle the area. I had the time to face my denial. In less than 10 minutes I counted 14 homeless or vagrant humans. It's sad that we get used to other's circumstances. In a city the size of Toronto, you never know what you're going to get.    

The Long Walk Home  

           

            My first partner and I lived right across from Kensington Market for most of 1994. The Market flows into Chinatown and is within walking distance of Queen's Park and several universities. Our basement apartment was quite nice considering the area, and had just enough room for us both and our two cats, Gizmo and Felix. That year was more like one long party than a quest for direction. Instead of building future endeavors, we pissed away our money on beer, tequila and cab fare. Having the Market so close was a nice touch, not only for the fresh produce but for the quaint cafés and shops scattered throughout the streets that make up the area. Two hundred feet across the way from our house was a splendid patio-bar with umbrellas and sports channels blaring on the what would now be old TVs. If we were not to be found, we were across the way or downtown at the Loose Moose on Front Street.  We did not think the "Two dollar Tuesdays"  deal could be beat. 
            I sure can't drink alcohol like I did back in the day. We used to drink and drink until the money ran out or one of us ended up with our head in a filthy toilet. It was a coin toss which one of us got shitfaced first. The Loose Moose was a draw for the young crowd. University and college students came for the prices and stayed for the decadence. When the night was over, taxi cabs disappeared like presents on Christmas morn. For two piss-drunk hedonists, it was a very long walk home. From Front Street to Spadina Avenue, then across to Dundas Street, seemed to take forever. We both battled passing out or spewing on the sidewalk. We knew the area like the back of our hands, so we occasionally took a shortcut down a side street or a back alley most people were too afraid to travel by. On that long walk home, we used to talk about how much we loved living in Toronto and how much we would miss it if and when we eventually moved to less expensive ground. For the first time since I was a child, I was home again and it cost me..

            When Spadina meets Dundas Street, you have to head west to meet up with Kensington Market. We lived on Bellevue Avenue, which was connected by Denison Avenue to Dundas Street. Like most other Tuesdays, once we had spent our cab fare on a few more beers, we stumbled towards home with little regard for anything other than our buzz. On Denison Ave., I stopped to tie my shoe, hoping to avoid falling on my butt. My partner continued walking only a little ways ahead. Suddenly, she appeared before him blocking his way. She introduced herself specifically, with a friendly "Hi! I'm Dalene." She had, apparently, been standing, pacing across the street at a tiny park near our home. Lots of girls like Darlene frequented the area. Bellevue Park, like most parks in the downtown core, had drug and vice traffic, but we had yet to be so exposed to this seedier side of city living.
            She was a tall drink of something, that's for sure. Her African Canadian ethnicity was as clear as the two teeth she maintained in her mouth. Her hair was unkept and from a distance you could almost smell her lack of care. A smell I can confirm. She wore a faded jean jacket, a light pink halter top underneath and a revealing short skirt. The strangest thing was that her shoes didn’t match, fashion victims of crack cocaine, we stereotypically assumed. She approached, reached out and touched my friend's chest and then asked for a dollar. When she was informed of our current poverty, she insisted that if he gave her a dollar she would "treat him real good." He removed her hand and proceeded to give her all the change in his pocket. I added a little bit more. Services rendered would consist of  her leaving us alone. She took the money, stood back from him, and once again offered him sexual favours for more small change. She called out to us as we sauntered away. We saw Darlene on occasion. Usually she could be spotted doing her thing in the park across from where we lived. It was strange to have engaged her so. Neither one of us had ever "met" a female proustite nor been offered the suggestions our new friend had made to us. The entire event opened our eyes. 

Hobophobe



             Winter in Canada can be extreme. The harsh northern wind, the terrifying temperatures, and a deluge of snow make for treacherous conditions both in the rural areas and inside the cities. Toronto gets no exemption from the grip of Mother Nature. From November to April, chances are that her streets will be covered in one form of freezie or another. One day in January might be warm and sunny, with a southerly flow, and the next day the town closes down under two feet of the white stuff. Our weather is unpredictable at best. Canadians are known for their perseverance in the face of such assailants. We may not like weather after autumn, but we can handle it. At least, most of us seem able to face the dead of wintertime.
            Like every major city in North America, and I assume most of the world, Toronto has a homeless crisis. No matter the season, the streets are riddled with beggars, panhandlers and victims of the concrete jungle. When the winds of December blow hard and cold, warnings of frigid temperatures have city volunteers searching the streets for the less fortunate from our society. The local news channels report on frozen men and women, duped into believing an exhaust vent or shelter by a building will save them from the relentless and bitter sting of hypothermia and freezing to death. As with most things you see every day, or hear about all the time, you become ambivalent, walking past them as they beg for change or sleep in the snow.
            I have never been a stranger to this ambivalence. Even though I cannot help but see them as they sit alone, sometimes with their dog, dirty and defeated, I don't want to see. I have tried to help, I have reached out to many of them, but the experience always left a bad taste in my mouth. I've been assaulted, belittled, spit upon, violated, screamed at, cursed at and everything in between. All this was just for the honor of asking if they needed my help. While the majority of the visible homeless population seem to sit with a cigarette in one hand and a Big Mac in the other, while asking for change on Yonge Street, it is the invisible factor that I feel for the most. We cannot see their need and they have no face we can relate to. Still, they are out there, beyond our line of sight and compassion. They are disposable. It really can be a cold, cold world.
            I still drop loose change in their hats and I always help them if they ask for help, but I refuse to place myself in a situation to which harm may find me. I guess you could say, once bitten twice shy. One winter, just after the new millennium began, I was stuck in Toronto, trying desperately to find a way home and out of the city. Toronto was covered by ice and snow and even the taxi cabs seemed to have disappeared from their roosts along Gerrard Street and up along Bay Street to the west. I left my friend's house wrapped in layers of sweaters and winter clothing, protection from the -25 Celsius wind chill and the 80 kilometer gusts sent by Lake Ontario. The Great Lake sat partially frozen at the foot of the metropolis. As I crossed Yonge Street, heading towards the Greyhound Station, I spotted a man lying in a pile of snow, huddled against a lamppost. His blanket was covered in at least 3 centimeters of snow and it blocked any air flow from the vent below. He was heavily covered in matted and old gear, ice had started to build up around his body. His face and his hands were exposed to the unforgiving temperatures and I was unsure if he was breathing. Compassion defeated fear, so I walked over, I took him by his left arm and gave him a shake. I called out to him in hopes he would awaken. Suddenly, he sat up and started screaming at me to leave him alone. He reached down into his blanket and pulled out some kind of sharp weapon. It looked like a shank from one of those bad prison movies made in the 1970s. He just growled at me, as if feral and fearless, so I backed off slowly and went on my way. For all I know, he could have been Shawn Savoy. 

"Winter's white in people city
Green ravines make summer pretty
When leaves start to turn
Then the rainbow burns
That's when you learn
That you're in Toronto
That's people city"
(People City, Tommy Ambrose/Gary Gray 1973)

            When I was growing up Toronto was home. It was also spectacular and stunning to this little boy. As a man I carry that view with me. We mystify those things we find in favour. Unfortunately, my rose-coloured glasses started cracking years ago. I am not blind to the tragedies that litter any modern cityscape. While I tend to ignore like the best of us, it is example that l follow like the rest of us. Toronto has a different side, a side beyond the concrete and steel. It is not all pretty lights and fanfare. Still, despite the obvious, Toronto is my long held friend, my destination when I feel most alone. There are a million and more tales of this city, some seem invisible but they are not.





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