"Can I step on those dad?"

The fall weather has been good to us so far, the crisp, clear days of sun and only a slight, breeze messing a laugh of leaves about. The nights have wasted their coupons of clouds long ago. Our moon has sat by the window the last few nights and softened the shadows about the front room. For some reason the lights of the boroughs far around the city seem so proud of their sleepy little neighborhoods. Last night, without a cloud in the sky - or so high I could not see them - the crackling stripes of lightening and the spatterings of hail in between the thunder and rain left the morning washed and ready for deserving folks. The last few days, my son has been so harassed by the flu, his poor little nose was forever running and chapped raw. He labored all night with the vapourizer whirring and turning our atmosphere into a heavy Vick's-Vaper fog. I haven't slept in days, listening and counting his horsed draws for comfort. I watched him at my feet, looking for signs of trouble, every half hour he would get up on one arm and say " dad, its stuck " then pound the heel of his wrist against his chest. Small, hot cloths left piled, started to fill a hamper, I wiped his face and kissed his forehead, keeping an eye on his temperature. I never thought for a moment that I would get his flu. Paper bag, after paper bag, filled with Kleenex and prayers. When I sneezed, there would be no flex to my ribs because of the fusion, my rib cage is like a solid shield of bone and my spine, now completly fused would have no gentle flex to it. The pain terrifies me, it does just when I cough or sneeze. I do with all my power try to stop a sneeze, holding my nose, rubbing my eyes or even trying to quickly blow my nose, but some had to make it through, with a sudden cry of "Oh! Jesus, please!" then defeated, a low groan was my forgiving as I lay back in my chair and and fight the next, the tears. My son would lift himself and grab for my knees, with both eyes half closed he would mumble "I feel so sorry for you" a line he is famous for - if he had some knowledge of someone who was sad or ill - kindly, he let you know it made him sad too. But today, we are finally getting over that horrible flu, and thank God it didn't hurt us too badly. We found ourselves this afternoon outside - my son, crunching threw the leaves, running from me as I zig-zagged behind his shrieks with my poppy red scooter, we heading to Safeway, actually we did not need to go anywhere, except to get out. It was a wonderful day, with my scooter full of Eggnog and raisins, and black and orange ju-jubes and jelly beans, a favorite of ours, properly colored for the season. We stopped at the volley ball dunes and remembered the net-less poles was a favorite stop of ours, the sand all groomed, but full of leaves strewn over the court and along the grass edge. "Can I step on those dad?" both our arms hanging over the chain-link fence. I thought for awhile, laughed "no!" then he looks at my grin and holds his hand across his mouth, eyes squinting and cheeks busting, chocking a laugh. He points a finger at me, accussing me of anything other than catching him, aware of his sillieness, then a break in our giddy moment, he says, with a sharp "don't!". I think in that moment he saw the joke was on him. "Can I step on those dad?" has played out all the rest of our day.

Maybe I should get out more.

When you enter my home, you will see a large oil painting in a heavy, antique, white and gold encrusted Victorian frame of a Winters, slushy street of simple homes. With large, grey black, nobby crusted trees that compete with ugly, garish brown power poles, pocked up by the utility men who climb up the old belt and heel spike way. Tattered, horrific, long, swaying, power lines that drip all day from the melting slices of snow that taper from one end to the other. Along side that painting, is a number of different size frames of various types - what ever I find at garage sales and flea markets - with pictures of ink line art, watercolors and pencil drawings that I have worked on over past years. There is a small worn, gothic cement bracket in centre of these pieces of art, that holds a spiny, vibrant spider plant with shoots of healthy crawlers, spinning out from a crack in the pot that "wears its roots on its shoulder" you could say that "it has found its home," it seems. In front of the pictures is a large, antique, one armed brown leather chair, it has this magnificent, low creak when you sit on it. The chairs leather seat is so old, it has varnished its skin over the years and cracks now show its soft, light, inner-flesh of suede. Beneath your feet is a long, skinny carpet runner that has lost its frilled edge at its end and has a well worn path leading you into my living- room. From the furthest you are, to the farthest you can see are windows, wall to wall and knee to ceiling, windows. You can not see around the first bookcase, so your eyes are taken by a wonderful Christmas cactus, hanging just from the ceiling off an iron hook and spilling dark, green blades to the floor. I call it a "she," I do not know why, but she is so heavy, she scares me. She (Cactus) demands water from me, demands light, demands food and continues to groan, laughing at the iron hook that holds her in place. I do not know what to do with her, because the clay pot that mothers her, that claims her like a child, holds her young growth, is always of dry soil. Should I put her in a bigger pot or just continue to feed her and water her and let her grow bigger, wider? She is so fat and grown wide around, that she leans from the wall instead of just draping down. she sits one side higher than the other, pushing off the wall showing her basket and straining to loose herself from the end of the iron hook. One day as she pushes herself from the wall, her ring might finally pass the end of the iron hook's lip. Coming Christmas she will have out dark red, young white mouthed flowers, spitting white stems, in time they will shrivel and fall to the floor, scattering themselves as though she is bleeding to death. On the wall, between two tall bookcases is 5 frames that surround a portrait of my daughter, her long brunette hair and green eyes watch us(my son and I), always. Her brothers are to her right and left who like their sister, have silenced me with their beauty. Grandma and Grampa on the top right and left corners watch them and in the top middle, a frame sits empty. I do not want to put their mother(ex) there, I do not want to put myself there and I am unable to decide what should fill that picture. A fat, black leather couch is beneath and on this is my son, who favors a corner, closest my big red recliner. A large, square glass coffee table sits in the middle with our metal jacks and balls seen shelved under the glass top with my magazines, coffee-table books and our place mats on top. We eat here on the coffee-table, us 2 bachelors, since the dining room is where our loom is, yes, a loom, an old loom, but still a beautiful 6 foot tall wooden loom. I have worked this loom for years as my mother did and just can not stay away from it. The dust from the worsted strings on the loom are bad for me, since sneezing can be dangerous and could cause my stress fractures to break, again, but I love the feel of linen, the trappings of things made by the hand. Beside the loom is a large fish tank on an old, silvered cedar cabinet my son and I found by a dumpster, but now looks gorgeous holding this behemoth of a tank. The aquarium holds three goldfish, who are over 15 years old and as big as my swollen fists. They surface when I open the top lid and can swish out a cup of water at me when its time for feeding. At night the glimmering reflections about the living-room and dining-room are moody and calming, as are they(fish). If you stare at them, without moving, they will stare back, trusting that you are no more than the computer desk or the office chair in front of it. All night, if I am caught asleep in my recliner, I can hear them picking threw the gravel, rustling a pebble in their mouths and spitting them out against the side of the glass, tink, tink, tink. Through-out my home is hardwood floors and carpets, strewn about where we gather to sit or path threw the home. The kitchen is tiled in earth like stone as is the washroom, which may seem wonderful, but I have found it is harder to keep clean than the usual carpeted homes. The smallest grit, the lightest dust or the bits of this crumb and that, do stand out more than you may notice if you only came to visit, though for me, its all that. It makes me feel lazy, if I do not remove it, I do not know why these things bother me, when I do not have the strength to deal with such little, stupid things, like dust and bits of whatever. It is these kinds of thoughts, that make you think of what you used to have, as far as help and health. The things my kids used to help and do as far as chores go, my ex wife used to do and maybe I took for granted or maybe I just did not see these little things before. Maybe I should get out more?

I believe I am.

I just put my son to bed and with his bottom sheet twisted around his knees, I said, " you didn't pull up your sheet" he insisted beforehand that he tucked himself in, he proclaimed, sheepishly and tired, " I tried ". After pulling up his sheet I covered him with his big, orange, puffy-fat quilt and touched his forehead as I usually do, then shut of his bedroom lamp, then leaned against the back of his chair and prayed. Out loud I asked the Lord for thanks for taking care of Grampa and Gramma, for taking care of his sister and his brother and his mother(ex), I asked that he take care of everyone we loved, then asked for strength. Now, I am sitting here in the dark, at my computer, thinking about my son's voice and what he said "I tried" and hearing it over and over. How insignificant a struggle is, I thought, if it is not your own. Its late and in my own search tonight, I try to answer a post from friends in a newsgroup. Why ? I guess I am looking for some kind of connection, some sort of link to another form, some sort of validation, that I am. Although, I am deep within the dragons breath, having felt the first rush of meds like a sickly vapor of heat running over my flesh, on my face causing pangs of nauseous sweat. I am reaching with question, greedy needs, maybe, I am greedy, maybe for company, maybe, or I am trying to remain, where we are, and trying not to end up, alone, so alone, I will not be, as, where "WE" are. Are we all sane here? Am I the only one who seems to be parting fast from the " hang in there request " ? I could not fathom not having my son around, who mixes my day with 10,000 questions, a 100 requests of, I am hungry, do you want to play ball, can I open that, what is this, can I have it, all of it, what are we going to do today, tonight, tomorrow? Dad, dad, dad. I am, and, only, you all here know this, but I am, I exist. The pain knows I am here. I live on the top, corner floors of my building, with windows facing south-east and north-west, so the whole City is at my viewing bequest. The streets below with its massive Elm trees towering four stories tall if not more. The lanes and park benches are strewn with curled, brittle gold leaf leaves and the Cafe's below fill with them, blowing about, those Cafe's still fill everyday with University students, nurses and doctors, who exist. The old antique avenues of shoppers, who exist, even as they pass strangers who seem to exist. From my bedroom windows I see clearly the very near great river in its valley and just on its other side atop is our downtown skyline and for miles and miles the lights of tall buildings show off an existence, each light a window like mine, each like mine an existence, yet, I struggle to be as one person noticed, noted, notable. I wrote in this blog sometime ago, that some people believe that, it is not nice to stare at someone who struggles or at someone who is disabled, but I think if you don't stare long enough, you may have missed their smile. I notice when we take our walks on the old shopping, hip, hippy, most sought after afternoon walks of the first avenues, almost no one looks at us, or me. It is like, " I AM NOT "! But I am, I must be, if this morphine is really cursing and I mean cursing threw my veins, then I must be. I believe I am.

Dream #1, first night.

Two nights now, I have had confusing dreams, ever since my father went in to the hospital. On the night he entered the hospitals emergency ward, I endured hours with him in pain, but left for my home to rest. I immediately went to my chair and fell asleep and dreamt; I was home in Ontario, Canada. Down the street from the house I grew up in at Robinson Lake, actually on the lake, in a small boat drifting. I began a searching of memories that seemed to play-out like a video. I looked for old trees I've climbed as a kid across the lake, for the sand dunes I hid between, shivering, naked and covered in course sand glinting, stuck on my toes. Memories of my secret places. Suddenly, while I sorted through these memories, sences of recall, it became very cold and such a fog of calm storms fought me. Without rain and without wind the waters rose and pushed me further out, until I could not see the side I was headed to, nor the side I started from. I saw the long weeds that swept form the bottom of the lake then laid on top of the angry, grey waters. The weeds that I feared, those weeds when I was young and with friends who and I were always trying to avoid, swimming just before the lands of the weeds. In as they(weeds) tried to wrap and slide around my legs and body. Those weeds grew each year growing closer, reaching me at times and sending shivers about in imaginary thoughts of water snakes and unknown, those spined, curly-edge, writhing, slimmy weeds. As the storm circled around my bout I had no paddles, no motor, no way of getting myself back to the shore where I started from. I reached forward and pulled the heavy water along the sides of the boat, I felt with every pull of water those long weeds, the burn of fright on my finger tips, the thought of cuts from the weeds. Every time I reached into the water the weeds held my arms and tightened with every new reach forward, the closer I pulled the water to me, the more I tangled in the weeds from my past, but the clearer the rocks of shore became. I began to feel bigger and stronger, as though every stroke of fear cleared by fight. I ripped up the grey, green ribbed water and seemed to become larger and larger, so large that when I reached the rocks on shore, I reached down and lifted the boat out of the water like a toy in one shaking, wet, tired hand. I stood on the shore and looked back at that past and thought to myself, maybe I really do not miss this place at all.

Dream #2, second night.

This morning I expected rain, the weather station told us "after such a hot weekend we will get rain from day time heating, but its wonderful this morning, sunny, and, gentle winds. My father who is in the hospital recovering from a double hip surgeries, is doing better than expected. I feel such peace from my worries, a little tired and some what confused about my dreams the last two nights. In my second dream, I am answering questions on a computer for a license renewal. As I guided the mouse pointer over the questions, that were laid out on the dirty concrete floor(the floor was the computer monitor), as the mouse pointer moved over the answers, laid out before me, large and spread out over a considerable amount of floor space. The answers seemed life sized. I continued on clicking, rightly on the ones I understood and stared prematurely from my scooter at others I deemed unresolved. As I turned around to answer the questions behind me, I saw rows and rows of mountain bikes, suddenly the room filled with laughter and some of the participants closest to me, jostled for position to exclaim "surprise!" I figured out that the test was for, bike riders, and, that I had unknowingly taken part in some sort of trick. It was hard for me to comprehend, because I can not ride a mountain bike again, I know I can still drive a car, but nothing like a bicycle. At that moment this wonderful Lady moved up, in her wheelchair beside me and started talking to me about...? I could not hear her, I kept looking at her face, her bright happy eyes and thought how pretty she was, but I could not hear her. All the laughter and the movement of the people were all I could understand, and, only understand, without clearly listening. Both dreams have given me nothing, I expected, hoped, to get what I set out to gain, but ended up empty and confused.

I love them both the same.

Its been a tough few days this past weekend, my father fell and broke both his hips. Today, because of his age they operated with local anesthesia, instead of putting him completely under for the steel plate and bolts. My father has always had this way of taking pain, not chronic pain, but acute pain and deal with it. At 80 yrs of age, he is showing emotions he never had shown before and cries easily. He does not just start crying, per say, but now, when he remembers stories and recounts past, young memories, he tears up quite proudly, like a man should, in my humble opinion. He was out of surgery in a couple of hours worth of it this morning and seems remarkably well for it. Though he was quite, anxious and shaking a lot, he said he was in so much pain. I think on the weekend he may of stood up too quickly, not letting his oxygen time to make it to his brain and for a split second passed out, only to find himself on the floor. He phoned my sister, crying, seemingly in shock and maybe apprehensive if he would get a hold of her or not. I got the call from my mother, 35 yrs divorced, but a caring, scarred, forgiving gift to us all, explaining what happened and telling me she is on her way to take me to the hospital an hour after he arrived in emergency. I cry alone, during movies, during the site of tears or emotions, but am usually very strong in the faces of my gathering family. I found myself reassuring everyone that he will be ok, and, he will pull through, nicely. To-day, I felt such relief, because he has done well, and, clearly spoke to me of the long road back to walking again. My father lives with my sister, granddaughter and little Doda, his miniature, paper-white poodle. My sister has taped Doda's picture to his handle grip above him and he noticed it immediately. Although my mom and dad are divorced, for ever it seems, they are very civil infront of us kids, all 7 of us and 9 grandchildren, my mom is the one who has held us gently together, no one else can take credit for that. My mom is the Christian strength and direction, my father is the resolve and spirit. I am closer to my mom than my dad, but love them both the same.

nothing is still nothing,

a slap and broken glass, seperate emotions, trace my shadow, but leave my centre blank, sure as every heart beat would fill me, I'd prefer to cast my shadow in shared light, hold me apart, but hold me, stop amidst my fall, capture my thoughts, place in the hours, singled out tears, wasteful desires, longing out of want, more than nothing is still nothing at all,

Old and young.

What would the old man do with a guitar? What would the young boy do with the sun? Would the old man go very far? Would the young boy have much fun? What has the old man done with a lie? Why did the young boy get so high? The old man got the meal of a deal. The young boy got the feel of steel. As they run. The old man, cold and hungry again. The young boy soothed his burns. The guitar has come and went. The sun begins its descent, but leaves a warmth, remembered intense as they slept.

Along me.

When I fall backwards into sleep, it is because I am exhausted. It is the moment, I am at peace, the beast within me, below me. When I rise above, I exalt myself above you. I am above him, a monicker, a head-piece, his stone gargoyle. Your valley, like my valley is receding. The embryonic fluids stern movement though our river endures. Tortuously taking a corner, then giving a curve. Gracefully flowing, shiftless fall. Succession is bearing on my soul, immersion be-totaling me. I will become, thy will, be done with me. Before creation, certainty, masterful certainty. Along me, then without me, as has been done before us. I can raise my vanity to dignities score, but am unable to post it. In seeing the ground again, in-stemmed, intimate confidence. My yoke would be too heavy for you and I can not help us with yours. The strength is control, the odds, the reality. Ultimately the past will have greeted you. Solemnly, existing from once forth in grandeur. From abreast to concede the ascent but, not with arms folded, but by the graceful scant effort of the lark.

Too much thinking.

If there was just one picture left in me, one story I could finish. I have tried to start my last but, can't find the want. If I would just start, the beginning, would end easy, forget about not having more. Just one more would convince me, of a past filled with captured thoughts. How many worlds have I spilled out of myself on canvas? How many thoughts have been laid bare on paper? How many times have I taken from life, absorbed and held deep? What haven't I said that I haven't written, over and over again, unselfishly, weakening of purpose? I find the Dragon these nights angry, most of the time bitter, motionless and shaken, but with few words spoiled and without expression, exhausted, gasping for sleep. Only my thoughts record the stroke of my pen and brush. I'm sorry.

Blueberry Mountain.

How it all came back, in like a twisting, a reverberating note, dancing around into higher vapors, free to soften away until heard no more. In watching, Never Cry Wolft, I remembered a small wish I had, when I was a young boy I wanted to wander the wild, uninhabited, inhospitable landscape of the Canadian Wilderness. I grew up spending every summer in an indigenous peoples, wilderness camp for youths, along side of Native Elders this Christian camp, though close to home was still, Northern Ontario. Every summer during the school holidays, my mother, would pack up my brothers and I and send us to spend time with other boys and girls our age. We would study in earnst, survival habits, earning badges and making crafts. We would set out in canoes to the Twin Sister Islands with nothing but our paddles and find our food, make our shelter and have fun. The girls would be on one island, the boys on the other. Though the islands were only 100 yards apart we still could compete and see each others failures. A small group of us, would go each year during this test to the big shadow. A mountain so flat faced and tall that the shadow could be seen from the mainland. That shadow, stretched almost to the boys island and hid us as we entered its reach. So cold was the shadow to turned the water black. We would slowly skid to the shadows maker, a mountain they called, Blueberry Mountain, who the Elders told the tale of blueberries at the top, never picked by humans, only the wildlife and a single warrior, who named it so. That summer, I spelt out in my minds climb that I would make it to the top this time of Blueberry Mountain and jump off with my summer friends as my witness. My simmer friends, who in the shadow shivered its cold and dared of us who would try to scale it again. I remember the black water and the silver rock face we edged, foot by grab, to get to the bravest heights yet, this year, to jump, some daring the others to go higher. My brother went as high as any of us have but, became too scared to jump and couldn't get down. With trying, he held the mountain close and but, fell, still holding to Blueberry Mountain, he slid against the face of such shear rock and could not stop falling. Not until he hit the black water and in the lucid, amber foam of his splash, he disappeared, deep. As fast and as loud as he screamed falling, his reaching out of the water, was without shame, a scream that should have stayed deep in the black water. First, he broke the surface, pitching himself up and backwards and down he went again and in that moment all eyes pleaded with me for help. I was almost near the top but, could not have climbed down fast enough to help, naked, I turned to face the mountain and with one hand out, the other hand pushed myself away enough to suffice not the same fate as my brothers. I, with both feet first, struck, breaking the water murderously hard, sent in like an arrow. Both arms out, breaking the black water, and taken in deep, the darkness focused on me, with both eyes open the deep closed and further now I felt from my brother. I saw nothing, I heard nothing and I felt nothing. Pushing the mass of black that beheld me, I shoved and clawed and kicked the stillness, cold and angry, I pulled the surface to me. I tried to seek my brother, the others, no one was to be heard but, over my brothers cries, I selfishly felt the relief in hearing his pain, felt joy in his heed of their attempts to quiet and pull him out of the water for the screams from the shadow that day had early signals from the mainland, return, now! That night, with my arms weakened from the slap of the water but, no where near as broken and bloodied as the front, right side of my brother. We joked later, that he left a lot of skin on the rock face of Blueberry Mountain and a bit more on the side of the canoe as we desperately spent the better part of the ordeal trying to hoist him into. We, the boys, the next afternoon were lectured, on safety and stupidity, lectured on the evils of skinny dipping but, we were not that stupid, as if a bathing suit would have protected my brother from hurting himself. If my brother never fell that day, I may have made it to the top of Blueberry Mountain.

How could I ever be a man again?

Its important, I write what I can here, if I write it on paper and leave it in my home, who will find it? Who will understand, why I say the things I write? It is only here that I can see who I really am. Will my children, although grown, understand the mindless ramblings I've written? I don't want anyone to understand what I write but, witness what I was in what I write. I can't sit with you my son, my daughter, my mother or my father and tell them the things I write, nor could anyone else, try to sit with your closest and say the things you write. I am being looked at so closely now because, I am not like them and am suffering, am on massive legal doses of narcotics. So they must be searching my eyes, my speech, my comments, searching me for weakness, for a stumble, for that moment when I break under the pressure of being ill. I think, since I am alive, I must be stronger than them. My family in the midst of me, are not grasping the ideals of how lucky they are to be healthy, to have blood that is clear and not toxic of medicines and pain killers. To have healthy chances of direction, to have missed the bullet that hit and still spins inside me, taking out brittle bone, after brittle bone. To not feel gravity drawing the centre of the earth towards them, to dance without leaving a footprint, to reach dreams I can not, to draw air without guilt, to give, to be needed, to be of use, to carry on a reality for the betterment of together/another. I talked with a neighbor the other day, who said, " I push the chance of a companion away because, I am like a weight he felt upon the ankles of another" he is my age and suffering from a different disorder, MS (Multiple Sclerosis). I guess, I agree but, how do I fathom the reality of companionship? How could I ever be a man again?

Suffering river.

Dreams bait ye, winter chills settle ye, first tender children snow. Ye hearts soul languishes, tears stoke o'er my cheeks. What though, I sang, I remember, what though, I sing. Ye bring when thy take full, now give bring begun. A mountain, a valley, swing o'er below. Blessed waters, blessed edge, wide and far. Again char, again hollowed sky, nay give. Drought and dried, urgent peace, be still, stay. Ye gloom is scarce, o'er semble, sorrowful treasure. Thy air, thou'est dew, blent not to earth, parched draw. Anchored safe, bodied brew, forlorn begging root. Ye tremble dew, be-it mine, swallow, anxious storm. Deny, ye rue shade, drink, ye freedom grow, ye dew beg, dwell. Together deep, lest fermented reap, for sky, for sky, for sky.

You are hurting me!

My Dragon, talk of another side, of a fog of enemies, untold, the counting remains, falling. Am I so strong that you can't kill me" frustrated"? Why can't you finish twisting me? Claw and fold the earth over me. Press and close my ribs, still my breathing and shake my capacity. Pounce upon my exhale and deny me the room to draw in life. Cast my frame before I am consumed by dust- by what I can not see, by what I can not touch, by what I feel, by what I hate, by what I fear and by what I seek. You are hurting me!

New Life in Song.

Bring everything to Me and lay upon My Faith great yokes . Sing of Promised Glory with open arms to Receive My Abundant Word. Spill upon the Fruits of Life a New Birth and demand My Promise. For My Glory never began, nor will it end. Have Fulfillment and Will the New Eden. Become of Purpose and Give Rejoicing in Song. Share in Dance and Laughter with My Name. Sow and Reap again for Wine and Want for Me. Everything I Promise and with everything New. All stars and all Universe, all Heaven and all Earth. Beginnings for all that has ended and endings for all that has Begun. Cherished Gold will be walked upon as sins are Foretold. Angles witnessed Water and Angles witnesses Rebirth and Angles witnessed Fire and Angles witnessed Pure. Angles witnessed Bread and Angles witnessed Body and Angles witnessed Wine and Angles witnessed Blood.

I am here!

I am here. The air leans upon my neck as I fall over the earth, claimed by time, harsh echoes, memory. Without voice, without compares, awareness fluttering growth, faltering, faltering, faltering. Searching for the inevitable brace, the gripping, consciously I, before me. Should I become weak - bless my life, should I cease to give pleasure - desire me. Peril is war, and immature rest sought upon your cleft - "I am a child nearest the Universe" fears dyeing with me, alone, begging, smaller words spoken for peace, yet. Bring forward the past "I may reach out against the future narrowing" shelter my memories, in them - I should return, new, whole, and enthralled, naked, spent and taken reborn. I am here. The sound of voices fill wishes and dreams, stir regrets and envious visions, greed, a black and white, a less of such color. A resemblance of beginning thoughts, sharpening what will not last, and stalling, finding sight in blank thoughts.

Like a Lion, far too far from the Gate.

I am not sure how to say what happened the other day at the Mall, while shopping with my Son and my Mom. I was alone, while my Son was looking to buy a Father's Day gift for me with his Grama's help, I was looking for some clothes for myself and had noticed some little girls staring at me and walking by and as I passed, they would stare at me with heads turned hard. I was using my crutches to walk amongst the racks of white shirts and such, while carrying my pick of a pin striped white shirt and trying to sort threw some black slacks. I noticed these two little red haired girls of about 8 or 9 years of age watching me, staring, witnessing my life. I am used to people looking at me, since I am a 200 lb man who would seem very tall at over 6'0", but hunched over, as though I were carrying the world on my back. Instead, I am only carrying, a camera, that is always with me (just a habit) and my coat, gently across my arm, a crutch and a walking cane hold me up quiet well. I guess all this would seem an impressionable sight. I really don't mind. Well, next moment, I could see the bottom half of a women approach directly in front of me, she said " excuse me sir" I apologized and stepped out of the way thinking, she would walk past, I was in her way, but I couldn't see her face, (if I am standing or walking, I just can't raise my head up high enough to do so, not for her or for a car that was coming for me). Instead, this women stood at my side with her two little girls in front of me and said " I saw you and I needed to talk to you to ask, can I pray for you?" I felt a hand on my arm and heard a soft prayer, right now, right then and right there, on the spot. I am not sure of how to say it, but she bent down and I saw this healthy, strong, clear eyes of a women with two little girls, who could easily look into my face from their little angelic eyes, into my eyes. At that moment her husband, the girls father, who at about 6' 4" tall and maybe 250 lbs, smiled, hugged his little family, then disappeared into the crowd. At that moment, I was alone, left with that gift of prayer, recognized as a brother by such strength, power and compassion of a family who loves God and giving. I love God, with all my strength and always have, although lately, I have been speaking to Him like a Lion far too far from the Gate.

If I could

If I could decent the darkest ocean, be in of all things there, I would welcome the deepest thoughts of obscurity beyond all that bothers me here. If I could be all but a sound amongst any morning songbird, be in all them here, I would welcome centre thoughts of Saturns rings, beyond all that likens me here. If I could circum little things, be in of all debted here, I would welcome unto being who I am. If I could fathom purpose, be in of all given here, I would welcome rewarding thoughts and grow bountifully. Against nature all comes up dry, lost of color, searchless, still and amongst inevitably all of everything. Against nature all comes up full, having of light, searching, about and amongst deserving of everything. Against nature all comes up reaching, gainful of identity, served, indelibly as everything. Against nature all comes up inadequate, said of life, sinful, without from as all things are now.

As it should have been.

Today, I am not well, I am like water in the desert, consumed and hiding, clear and shallow, but honestly weak, an angry fire without enough grass to burn. I need so much what should have been, it is all that can cure me, it is all that can make me one person with my true self, as I was before. Tonight, I want to dream, as it should have been.

In this cold place.

We have summer in this cold place and will have summer long enough, I believe this now. I live so very high up on the top floor of a building that follows the sun from window to window. I would often dream about having a travel trailer. I would follow the sun, staying just on approach of the melt. I would slow down if I saw the fall and speed up if I got caught, long in spring. I would pray for snow everyday, large, sloppy snowflakes and watch from a huge, lazy stay in front a wide grin, of course. I could fall in and out of sleep all day, my biggest struggle would be to finish reading Victoria and Veranda magazines. I love vintage cloth, berry jam scones, with pastel Peonies dropping sugared petals by the tray. Little mouthed, fat bottomed bottles of ink and dripping, dipping styles to write on old parchment rolls. I would like that place.

What makes us alone?

What makes us alone? I don`t mean, alone sometimes, but alone all the time? Why are some people always alone? What kind of alone? Well, the ones who are loners, who have friends that are only co-workers, penpals, newsgroupers. Seniors, the old forgotten ones or just second to their children's busy lives. The disfigured, the homeless, the freakish or just the extreames (no legs, retardation, lunatics, them people etc). The depressed or those that just want to be alone or them that just do not know why. What sorts of defenses do these unapproachable behold? Are they so strange looking or just uglificatting? No one would want to leave themselves open to hurt them, or not having to hurt them, or to witness a response from someone who, never responds, so it would be a safe assumption to, just not start anything with a shronic loner. You are the witness, having seen us. Seeing us is in some strange way, seeing your(self).

The park bench and the lamp post.

Its dark at this hour of the morning, alone, here at my computer with an esspresso, with soft music and just the light of the monitor. Outside of my window the whole City seems quiet, except for the park bench, far beneath me and an old lamp post. The bus route running past that park bench has long been cancelled, but the men still come and keep it nicely painted and the grass around it is kept trimmed. That old street lamp shines a theatrical spot around the bench as darkness tries and fights it, just as two old friends should do. The bench can hold three comfortably if they waited as they would have for the bus and the old lamp post would have shone down to ease thier fears. A long time ago, I used to sit on that bench, my son and I, waiting for his school bus to take him to school and I would sit there for awhile after the bus left to ponder and process my day. I wonder if anyone knew I fell asleep sitting on that park bench at times, in the shade from so many towering Elm trees. I was put to sleep as the gentle shivering of its leaves were set sail on the very winds I dreamt of leaving on. Tonight, that park bench beneath me with its old lamp post has drawn out my thoughts for the last hour, having forgetting the pain. That park bench, with its old lamp post, has sweetened a dream, a friend, sharing a peaceful moment.

It is hard to live with what has.....?

I sit with elbows on my knees and my chin on my fist, waiting for my thoughts to break and release my mind from its harvest of desires, intentions and regrets. In a struggle for endless acceptance for all that I could have done. I search for the complex end to quench my thirst for the code of this bitterness. If I could untangle what has happened, if I could undo the damage, as the wreckage entangles me like a yoke. You can imprison yourself within the confines of pain, in its self, you can not break-free of the Dragons claws that pinch you into the earth. No metal is needed to form the realestate of inability, no watch is governed for those that can't reach out. There is no addiction when taken into account the desire for motionless dignity, they look content, beneath the surface of consciousness. I have now, what I have always desired while I was young and overworked, time, space and exhaustive sleep, all that while complaining. In the shortness of time I have found the abundance of endless nothing in the constant, inseparable moments. As a child I wanted to learn, and I found the failures that would better me were the successes that would compell me to except the brush across my face. I proudly stood by the mess I made and stared at the right words cursed. I listened quietly, never letting go of the very brush crushed in my hand as my little fingers cracked, I never let go of that brush. I have painted for some of the most influential people in the world, but can't form the mindset to paint for myself today. I remember angrily ripping up a basket full of old work that I was once so proud of and cursing that which I was, who was I that wanted my old work, years of old work? I can not do what I have done before and am not as I was, why should it be here to remind me of what should have been? I regret that immature moment of time, but regret those beginnings to, I call them beginnings, since those beginnings have an end, before my time. It is hard to live with what has ..... ?

Is there a way back?

This has been a long week for us since I don't get outside enough, this last 2 weeks we've spent most of the time in the house. I really want a balcony, but this wonderful apartment that has an eagle's eye view of the city from sunrises that crest the downtown highrises in the bedrooms to the sunsets over old Avenues from in the living-room. This place has no balcony to sit on for our breakfast and since I really like coffee and would really love to have it on the balcony through-out the day. I look from my window and see all the little patio tables outside on the corner with all the pretty, fashionable people sipping their espresso and all the energy from those walking from the University or from the hospital. Everyone seems so strong and healthy with such drive that I feel pulled by their energies. I fight the urge to mix with them and since, I am not one of them, all I can do is witness, want and dream. Those days are over for me and probably will never be for my son either and its hard to want to be a part of the present on the breaths of the past. I have found great adventures in my dreams, like rewalking the past, its very easy to do, with slow deep breathing and directing your thoughts to your past. I can walk the streets of Croatia again, the open markets in Milan or by the cafe's of Paris or the pearl farms of Tokyo. I miss the sweet butterscotch candy I ate in Ireland and the hot roasted peanuts in NewYork, Old Montreal theatres and the parks of Shaboogamoo or even just simple Banff are in reach this way. Am I going crazy? Is there a way back?

A little of all things.

I am a little tired tonight, even though its late and I can't sleep, I am still sick, a little weak from the pain. We managed to get outside in the sun, which we needed since being inside from the rain and the wind of the last couple of days. I can walk with the help of my crutches, but I like to use my electric scooter so we can go farther into the old neighborhoods. We moved from our usual home, so no one knows how I have changed and that is good, because I am not handsome anymore. I used to be a very tall, strong and noble man with men working for me and friends in the neighborhood, who admired my loyalty to my family. Now, I have disappeared into this new home, far from my past and far from anyone who once knew me well. I now live in a highrise apartment with many disabled people, whom I have never met and who are all suffering, enormously, there have been 5 deaths here in the past few years. In this place no one knows of me, which I am very glad to be able to conceal. I will never be found here and will never be compared, all who remember me, will remember what I used to look like and will never compare me to the past. However, I miss greatly, a little of all things.

I hate these days.

I sleep in darkness and am awake in the same, as the mornings song is taken on winds warmed by the sun, running for darkness, is not unlike what I've done all-night, sought the longer night. This morning, I dreamt of help. I wanted. I should not have been so weak and afraid. This morning the Dragon has waited for me and I didn't have the strength to take his venom, weak from seeking shadows all night, I've hidden in want. Shameful, I am to have wished for someone to make breakfast for my son, shameful, I have wished for warm, strong hands on my shoulders to steal the pain from my blood. I was married for 20 yrs, and alone now, with my son for almost 7 years, although, I do not miss her, at all, I do miss soulfully, passionately, the gift of a women's strength. No hands in life can get closer to you than your mother, but your love can get even closer, her power can give you strength and take from you weakness. Its hard to say this, but loss is a way to appreciate having. Although today I have spent the day in bed, too sick to take my medicine, I did bring grapes, cheese and bread to my son with cookies and ribs in the fridge, which he loves to sneak quietly antways by the numbers of them lsft, I knew he would be fine. Its around 2:00 am and I am up, feeling a little better and very happy to be eating some bread, though my son ate all the ribs and all the cheese, he left me my favorites, grapes and berries. Moj Zlato

In front of me.

I read an empowering post today, which spoke of strength and spoke of such freedom and discovery, in a clear, clean truth. Truth and perception, compassionately discovering life's pulse. I closed my eyes and began breathing, nervously seeking out, this author's strength, but found myself fearful of relenting, everything is in front of me, beyond the Dragon. Metaphorically speaking "the Dragon" is the constant fog of the morphine or maybe its just my being too weak. I closed my eyes and felt him in front of me and circled away from his torment, only to feel him breathing in all the fog and leaving me to my pain. Can I feel this pulse of life, in all that, I sought out the suns ribbons of light, growing, taking, sharing? I hear the words, I have drawn in my mind, what they are saying, but honestly, I only hear my heart beating and the deeper I reach into my inner-self, the clearer the Dragon becomes. I walk in the dragons foot steps and at times, I hear him stop, I smell the broken earth and I almost see what he's done. I don't know any other way to describe something so powerful, so wanted, so hated and so a part of my everyday, that nothing else is in front of me. The Dragon is my light and my darkness, my deepest inner strength and my real weakness. I am being his self and he rules the hours that are left of me. If I could take, again, I would reach past the Dragon for what is in front of me.

My face is nice.

Third day and I'm still tired, feel sick all over, am sick all over, so why not feel sick and tired all over? My vertebrae is fused solid in a stooped over, twisted and stooped sideways position. The sideways is from a cluster of stress fractures at where I broke my back. The cartilage in my spine is ravaged from inflammation and is gone, but in its place is new delicate bone growth from the vertebrae touching each other then fusing together. This fusion is new, baby delicate bone that broke some years ago, and fused itself fixed. So, at the centre of the bend in my spine is the old break, which settled forward. My torso, since I am a tall man, the torso turned as if the spine did a rotated spin to the right and then settled sideways. So that's like bending to touch your toes and turning to the right, bending and stretching sideways to the ground and freezing in that position. I have good large shoulders, a broad chest that now crunches down and is permanently squishing my stomach and organs out of there natural position, sort of down and out, I guess. I have extreme problems swallowing, even water and when I do labor threw a meal, its like one bite begins to feel as though I've eaten a Thanksgiving day meal, this makes standing after eating very difficult. Today, I did nothing, except stare at my thoughts, which I am tired of doing. If I have the operation by my 11 surgeon team, I could stand at my usual 6'-1" again, also all the muscles in my back, that I use to try and keep from falling over or the muscles I strain to pull my head up to look straight ahead(since my skull is fused to my spine so there is no looking left or right or up). The operation, if successful, could leave no trace of this hunched over look, that I am now, but I said, if it were a success. It is a dangerous operation and has a 45% chance of my dieing on the table from blood loss, infection from an open wound that would be about 30" long. The surgeons would have to break my neck and re-attach, break my back and re-attach it, then cut the muscles on one side to twist the spine back to normal, then re-attach them. Once this is done and the steel rods, bolts, etc and if everything goes right. They would then leave me in the hospital upside, strapped to a bed that would be upside down, for a year. If anything goes wrong, I may be a quadriplegic, crippled with a bag to ... relieve myself into and maybe never talk again. Right! What would you choose? I have a severely disabled son who has been with me since birth and we have been alone for the last 6/7 years, the mother just couldn't get along with him so she left a 20 yr marriage, oh and she didn't like me much either, tee hee. I have a 25 yr old daughter, who is grown and gone and an 18 yr old son, they all left at the same time. Anyways, they never much hung around their disabled brother antways. He is severely retarded, but has always been close to me, I named him after me when he was born and spent every minute with him as he grew up. He is handsome like me and tall, strong and so cool to be with, he is extra kind and always in love with life. That's why I won't have the operation, because he will be alone if something goes wrong and I will never let him go into an institution. I'll just stay this way and we can just carry on as we always have. Him and I, and the Dragon, we will make it some how. I know my son misses his mother horribly and she only visits him maybe once amonth for an hour or two, but when he comes back form his visit, he brings the light back with him. He is all I will ever have again and I thank God for his leaving me this much. I do miss a warm hand to reach for, but will settle for wanting, its enough, I mean, I could never let a women see me that way again. I am sure of that, absolutely not comfortable with how I look now, just picture it, now I apologies for compromising anyone's dinner, but I'm not this tall, strong handsome guy anymore. My face is nice.

Finding what's left.

I closed my bedroom window this morning on the birds wake in song, but not in vain, I love when in the wee hours that song is easily discerned. I was cold, for the first time since I can remember, I was cold from the run of the winds across me. As I lay in total silence, I felt my self searching for what's left of my life. I thought, today I would cook a good meal and since I am an artist, was an artist, have always felt that the palette is - what it is - and today it would be Portabella mushrooms, onions and handmade pasta. On the the side colors of tangerine, cantaloupe, baby carrots, celery, cucumbers and dicon with parmesan curls. I just couldn't enjoy laboring through trying to eat it. After I peeled open the tangerine I was immediately pulled into Christmas memories, neading the flour and egg I felt my mother's hands squeezing mine and with the first lemon cut I heared the ice cubes cracking and clinkling in pitchers brought out to the garden, long forgotten, brought to me, lemonade. will I forget the wake of mornings song birds without searching, what's left of me?

Where are you?

Will you be magic to-night and put dreams in bed with me, now, soon? Fires of, fires beneath, embers. What fuels this constant burn? I will soon call out for the Dragons night, but fear this fire is stronger again, than he. I wish for such strength that is not given me, where are you? I own pain, I am with a hot, iron yoke, too tight and ill fitting that my arms are heavier than fear and even though, I feel all this, it is my stomach that envies constant loss. How fragile can ones ache be that is as delicate as the minds tissue, split, cried and intimatly parted raw, but left breathing in gasps of prayers for defeat. Somehow this can not be what it is with out the Dragons fog, where are you? Bastard, where are you?

Reached these words.

Its taken from me, but I am through the worst of it, we are through the best its given us yet. I've been wanting to write and have written editions in want, but here in front of the white, I am blank. Guilty of what I've felt recently, guilty of certain thoughts, weak. The Dragon is not strong enough, unless I am left defeated, I call upon his explosive relief and chant, ridiculing him, to strike and numb me. Everyday will be better from here on in, it always works this way. It starts out as that small mountain before all I want, through it I fear the climb and throw dares to the Dragon. At the top of the mountain, I look away from the dragon and wait just at the edge, in the fog, hoping to stumble, wanting the Dragon angry. Its been 7 years since anyone who knew me before has seen me since, becoming weak. I am finding comfort in the fact that, to them I have not changed, to them there is no-who I am now. I was in magazines, strong, tall and handsome, happy, safe, invincible and forever. I will never again walk the earth as I did before, from the far East to Europe, from the bottom to the top of America. I think all who experience earth, in suffering or not, will have a thirst for some semblance of it in Heaven. The greater comfort in no more suffering, no thirst, in the Dragons claws the earth breaks. I will fall into exhaustion tonight, breath the fogs of venom and remain still, until tomorrow. Bring mornings again, but not as they have come lately.

What I want?

I know for a fact, that if everyone gets what they want, then I'll get what I want. So, I wait for a trip back to that small mountain I was scared of, over that mountain, its Lake St, Charles - via Devil's Falls. I'll never go on the sunny side of the other mountain, there will be enough sun on top of my small mountain. Devil's Falls always wore out our bathing suits and the girls knew that too, best skinny dipping in the gorge. How I loved my small mountain top, in the shadow side, my eyes wide open and heart aching, I felt such fear in my small, dark mountain. I would dare them to come up out of the water, and slide down Devil's Falls, crystal clear and only deep enough to stretch out and crawl, their backsides sore. To roll over and look up into the clouds while they float on from Lake St. Charles. Never looking ahead, winding back down to Devil's Falls, over and over again. I feel like the hunchback, look like the hunchback, hiding in the shadows, if I could dare to skinny dip again, at Devil's Falls.

Broken earth.

Well, I lost the fight, got caught up on its claw, actually, reached for it, reached into the fog. Laid opened my hand, reached past, then upon. Again, I am with the Dragon, its before me in a calm walk, cuts of broken earth, fallen shallow ruts , angered strikes, deep clawings bitter pith. Calm me for the dragon's near, reasons for giving, excuses for seeking, reasons for taking. I am anything other more than broken earth, claws clearly rest earthened, waiting, clenched, frothing between us, our hate, our desires, our loss.

From a small scare.

Here we are back from a small scare, but were ok and will continue to take it one day, a time, and counting. I prayed for one more day and thank God, we are here. The last time I was here. Every day you can see us in our windows, high above this city, with its expansive view reaching out to an eternal vanishing point. So many tiny, tiny little scurriers running about, following the trails of the same. Do they know I am up here wondering about them? Do they know we are here? I sigh a lot when I`m thinking, almost like I have expressed an opinion. Like an unhappy escape, a given up sarcastic immunity, a system. Can you be patient with the world? With them? Are we patient`s or patient? Is anyone counting on counting on us? To-day, again I feel alone, and I see a lot of them down there, walking alone, standing alone, looking by them selves.