Derek Koch

2010-12-01T18:33:00.001-05:00

When I tell the tale of my son’s birth, I would like to say that it was love at first sight, but that would be embellishment. I had been told that I would never have a feeling comparable to seeing my child for the first time. Part of me was looking forward to having my stoicism challenged. I was curious about how I would respond. And I found, as I witnessed the crowning, and the delivery, that this “first” was like many others. It was incredible, and it was satisfying, but it didn’t live up to the hype. The tsunami of emotion that I had been promised was more a warm, gentle wave on my toes. Indeed, I was happy. Very much so. But my first thoughts, as my son lay on his mother’s stomach and took his first breath, were laced with both amusement and surprise. Just moments after being born, he lifted his head and turned it to the right, and I thought, with some satisfaction, “Strong little son of a gun.”

So we named him Samson. And we introduced him to the family, and took him home. I held him with love, and rocked him to sleep in my arms with songs learned decades ago, but for the most part I looked down on him with the same bemused stoicism with which I regard the remainder of my life and the world. I spent long hours wondering what he would become, and realized, with more warm waves washing over my toes, that I had no future planned for him – carpenter, lawyer, hairdresser or poet, my only thoughts were that I wished him more and quicker happiness and purpose in his life and vocation than I have had in my own.

It was only then, perhaps when I was reassured of the invincibility of my own perspective, that it must have happened. And it happened so slowly, and so gently, that like steamed planks bent and fastened to the bones of a hull, not an ounce of strength was lost but a new and wonderful purpose was achieved. You see, I’m a Dad. And although the academic and intellectual understanding was both immediate and full on the day he was born, my emotional enlightenment – my spiritual steaming and bending – had to take its own time.

Almost a year has passed, and my reshaping continues. When he smiles at me now I know peace. When he laughs I know joy. And when he reaches up for me with hope on his face, I know the deepest sense of purpose. He undoes my stoicism to the core and leaves me without the armour of wit or cynicism. He’s happiest on my shoulders, which is as it should be – a perspective and a life higher and better than my own is all I can hope for him – and when he stands on my lap and slowly bends his head towards mine until our foreheads touch I know a sense of solemnity and fraternity deeper than any I’ve encountered in my forty years. He’s as much a brother as a son. And the reshaping continues.

There is an image in my mind that comes to me sometimes on the edge of sleep that effortlessly crushes me and brings me to tears. Perhaps it’s a painting I admired in passing some years ago. Perhaps it’s something that needs to be painted. A battle in the distance. Men with helmets, swords, and shields, bloodied but bold, rushing to reinforce the line. And, in the foreground, an old man lying on the plain, badly wounded and too weary to continue, shield and sword lying on the ground, reaching up to a young man. The young man reaching and looking back, but obviously turning towards the fray. The look between them – the gap between them – speaks volumes. The love. The camaraderie. The knowledge that one must go on while one stays behind. The fraternity of their cause. And the knowledge that they will never touch again, not even in this, their final moment. The cause is too great, too urgent to abandon. And the fight doesn’t wait for fathers and sons to say goodbye.

I know that my son will sharpen his teeth on me as he rises to take my place in the world. I can see the day when he calls me an old man. I can hear the words. The contempt. The disdain for his father. But if, after those days and words, I can reach out to my son on the battlefield of our lives as he turns to fight, knowing that I’m too tired and old to follow him, and if I see him look back, love and pride in his eyes even as he turns away from me to join the battle, I will lay my head on the plain and grin, even as the darkness comes to claim me. This one moment will make all of the others worthwhile, and even though the image contains my very final defeat, part of me craves it, knowing that this one moment will be my measure, and that I will not fail. All of this from my son’s smile, his laughter, his hope, and his forehead gently touching my own.

You see, it’s not the first sight of my son that changed my life. It’s the thought of my last that has washed over me and overwhelmed me. The knowledge that his eulogy for me – his judgement of me – is all that matters as I kiss his cheek at bedtime. Even as he falls asleep, well fed and well loved, his tiny sigh of contentment is such violent affirmation that it sometimes closes my throat with gratitude and blinds me with tears of joy.

Yup. I’m a Dad. Strong little son of a gun bent me – bent ME -- like a twig. Still bending me now. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m his Dad.

2010-04-17T12:24:00.003-04:00

Work in the fields is hard. Good, but very hard. The heat, however inevitable and expected, is a weight on my shoulders that refuses to yield. And then, from nowhere, a cool breeze lifts the weight from my shoulders and eases my labour. I pause, look west for the source, and see nothing but neatly tilled fields and my companion. The trees and grass are still -- no wind moves them. Then my companion pauses, looks up from the dust, smiles, and looks east over my shoulder, searching, as a gentle gust lifts the sweat from dusty, sunkissed skin. Enlightenment washes through me. We are the relief from each others' labour. We are the breeze.

How long will it hold? How long until the heat returns? And, if we can make the breeze, can we make it rain? Can we, between us, wash the stench of indifference off this dirt and make it live? Can we turn this desert into a chaotic, lush, living thing that can feed us? I look into the cloudless sky and send my small thoughts into the ether, summoning.

After a moment, I smile, shake my head, and return to my labour in the dust. The breeze will stay, or it will go. The rain will come, or it won't. The crop will thrive, or it will fail. After all, who commands the breeze? But as I bend to my task, and the breeze follows me, I keep one eye on the sky.

2009-06-02T19:50:00.005-04:00

Holy crap. It's been a busy year, and I've updated other media (FB), but this one has been neglected. Seeing as few read it (but me, for some perspective), no real harm done. So what's been going on the past year?

Worked my ass off in Industrial Sales for Maple Leaf. That's the period from June of 2008 to January 0f 2009. Summer, Labour Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas came and went with very little to mark them save the graying of a few hairs and the fact the lawn turned suddenly white.

In November of 2008, Lisa's dad died. Liver cancer caused by sclerosing cholangitis. He was sick for months, but well enough up until a few weeks from the end. We never did get the chance to resolve the issues that stood between us and I wasn't invited to the funeral. Few know the history there, and I'm not going to go into it now. Suffice it to say that words were exchanged and an estrangement ensued. It would have been wonderful to meet again and at least shake hands, agreeing to disagree with as much respect as we could muster, but it takes two to fight and it takes two (or more) to make up. For the first time in my life, and I hope the last, a man who could have been a friend died hating me. My mother, father, and sister attended the funeral as proxies. I shed my tears with Lisa, in private, and moved on. At some point in the future I'll visit his grave and say both hello and goodbye, but for now I'm still both angry and hurt by the stubbornness of a man who went to his grave, forewarned of his own death, and declined to settle accounts amicably with his son-in-law.

In January of 2009 I was promoted to a new position at Maple Leaf -- Business Development Manager for Maple Leaf for a key national account (who will remain nameless). Great raise, company car, and a new team. Nice folks.

Immediately after finding that I had a new job, I found out Lisa was pregnant. Excellent news! First try and we rang the bell. Four weeks later in February, however, we miscarried and we went through two months of hell. Me working 15 hour days, Lisa recovering both physically and mentally from the ordeal. Blood pressure spiked, at one point, to 180 systolic over 100 diastolic before I smartened up and backed off on the hours, the caffeine, and the stress. There goes February and March. Missed another complete winter of snowmobiling, ice fishing, and skiing for professional advancement and personal misery.

By April the stress started to dissolve and with snow melting, we started gardening again. Seeing green after a winter full of snow and stress and death was a relief I would find hard to describe (so I won't). Started to get a grip, personally and professionally, and found time in between gardening, family, and work to enthusiastically put another bun in Lisa's oven (which we didn't confirm until early May).

May was nice. Really nice. Solid grip on the new job, two cars in the family, paying bills, laying in new flowerbeds, and tying up loose ends. Saw some friends, lots of family. Started writing again (everything from political wishlists to new fiction), and the place looks fantastic. Started exercising again. Almost completely recovered from 2008.

What does June hold? Dunno yet. We'll see. It's nice to have some blank paper to write on instead of an agenda to follow. The opportunity to create is vastly underrated. Maybe instead of writing an agenda I'll just doodle for a while and see what my hands puts to paper.

Until then,

D.

2008-06-22T01:20:00.001-04:00

Just a Cat

Just a wee bit of fluff, she was small, she was gray
She was just three weeks old when I met her.
All she knew as she mewled was her mama had left
And November was cold and was bitter.

Only one day before their full number was six
But the first winter snow had come calling
And her brother who crawled from the warmth of their crèche
Was three feet from the rest and was frozen.

I was torn, we had one, there were five in the clutch
And six mouths was a frightening number
The voices around me inside by the fire
Spoke of nature, of God, and doing nothing.

But the nature of me is a thing to consider
And my hands oft enough do God’s bidding
Doing nothing is not on the path I have chosen
And I gathered them into my bosom.

We fed them by hand with a dropper so small
It held less than a teaspoon of milk,
Cleaned their eyes with warm water, and put them to bed,
Reassured our old cat it was “and”, not “instead”.
Listened quietly as our new residents wept.
And we knew we had done what we should.

They fed and they grew, in a week, perhaps two,
They were sneezing through dishes of cream.
Driving pitons in mountains of denim and flesh,
Climbing Lisa, and mountainous me.

There was one, with a spot on her tiny gray head,
Who was special to us and who stayed.
While her brothers and sisters found homes with our friends,
She brightened our lives with her ways.

I just don’t have the words to explain or describe
So I won’t, I’ll just tell you real plain.
Not a word of a lie or embroidery here,
She was less of a cat than a friend.

I watched for a year as my friend coughed and spat
And we did what we could as it happened,
But cancer doesn’t care if you’re evil or good,
And we watched as it ate her with passion.

Then one day we just knew, that we just had to do,
What November had tried years before.
We had saved her from cold, we could save her from this,
Not by cure or with milk, but with merciful hands
Not by holding her back but by sending her on,
To a place where no illness exists.

We called our good friends who had nursed her before
And asked them to come to her aid in three days,
They drove to the house, and they waited instead
As I struggled through Thursday and cried in the car.

We pet her and nodded, we held her in place
The vet slipped a sedative under her skin.
She hissed once, I held her, she climbed on my shoulders
And wide eyed, confused, she sat down on my neck.

And in less than a minute, she folded her feet,
Her muzzle dropped past my ear onto my collar,
Her body grew slack and I held her in place,
Knelt down to the table and gently displaced her.

Put an undershirt under her head and we hoped
That my scent on it would be a comfort to her
As she stretched one last time and the sleep overtook her
The vet shaved her thin leg and looked for a vein.

The needle went in and the plunger was pressed,
And we whispered and pet her, I watched as her flank
Stopped moving, her breathing stopped quickly, in seconds,
No magical moment, no peaceful transition,
Just a nothing where moments before there was something,
And the vet gently confirmed that her heart followed suit.

We watched as she died and we cried without shame.
The vet and assistant cried with us, surprised,
At the sharpness of both our affection and pain,
And the love and the loss in our faces so plainly.

We stood there and petted her, waited for certainty,
Knowing that minds can persist for a time,
The vet and her cohort packed needles and boxes
And left very quietly out the front door.

And after a time I went down to the basement
And fetched the pine box I had built Wednesday night.
I had burned her name into the wood as I cried,
And we placed our wee gray friend inside.

We put her to bed by the tree in the laneway,
I covered her box with some earth from the back,
And when Saturday came I spent time with her there,
Planting gooseberries, columbines, lilies, and sedum,
Shedding tears as I worked with the barrow and shovel,
Giving beauty and life to our cat once again.

I wish I could tell you that three weeks had dulled
The edge of the pain but it’s there with such vigour
Astonishing in its completeness and stamina,
Time has done nothing, so I turn to my pen.

She was simple and gentle, and whole in her essence,
Uncorrupted, and incorruptible, incapable of deceit,
What I miss is not fur, or a feline companion,
For the old cat and a young one are still underfoot.

What I miss is the purity and innocence and honesty,
The completeness of affection and the simplicity of purpose.
Just a cat, yes, just a cat, but one of the few rare true things
That I have found in a world full of lies and illusion.

So few I have found that the absence of one,
Even though better for her than sickness and pain,
Is a trial for me on a scale so disproportionate
With the knowledge that Spot was “only a cat’.

To know what we want. To live without lies.
To love with abandon. To find our contentment.
These things we have only for moments or years,
We spend all of our lives in a purposeful quest
Chasing things that a cat in her purity of essence
Owned with her birth and took with her in her death.

D.

2007-03-02T23:58:00.000-05:00

The stroke of midnight passes quietly like the shadow of an executioner, and it's suddenly and irrevocably tomorrow. And now, having not yet slept to replenish my emotional cistern of hope and goodwill, and without the benefit of a new sun to reinforce my resolve, I am forced to consider a new day having not yet ended the old one. Even the cats have better sense, having long since found comfortable sites on cushions and couches where they even now sigh softly and occasionally lift their heads to peer, through content, slitted eyes, at their master, the fool, who refuses to retire despite the hour and the pitch black vacuum facing him at each window.

But how can I rest? What deeds have I done, what dragons have I slain, to feel content with a soft pillow and a warm bed? The hours of the day passed me by like autumn leaves in the wind, brushing me gently as they passed by but headed west without regard for my preference that they stay and spend the day with me. And while the hours brushed past my face in their haste, leaving no memory but a vague recollection of movement, women and children died in Darfur in vivid crimson detail. The world raped Nigeria once again, crushing the citizenry under a brutal, black, towering tsunami of oil. The left stepped left and the right stepped right, and the people and the nations of the earth continued distancing themselves from each other by religion, and race, and language. Wars will be fought a decade from now, and millions of people will die, as a result of decisions made today by incompetent leaders. And, by circumstance or choice, I suffered the soft torture of ease instead of the blissful crucible of action and reaction that shaped the world around me.

And while -- after suffering the intensity of being ground into powder by the mortal and pestle that is life --my pillow and bed are often a reprieve, tonight they are an unearned reward, and as such contain as much guilt as they do rest.

So, for a time, I'll consider the new day that is quickly gaining momentum, gazing into the black vacuum of my windows and dreaming of what is possible with the time I've been given. Sadly, human folly is beyond my ability to mend given the number of hours allotted to the day. Already I can feel the hours gain speed on the wind, and can feel them mercilessly brushing past my cheeks.

It seems that my pillow and my bed may remain estranged from me for some time...

J.

2006-11-16T22:45:00.000-05:00

My leg as a metaphor for self...

Some minutes ago I was comfortably reclined on the couch, warm and happy in a comfortable bathrobe, watching my favourite sci-fi. Then I looked at my leg. And suffered enlightenment.

Reclined on my right side, my left leg was raised, casually and comfortably, on the arm of the couch. The bathrobe had fallen to expose my calf, knee, and thigh. And I realized, as I looked at my straight leg, that it didn't look quite right.

I've always had big legs. Thighs thick as fire hydrants. Knobby knees. My leg rested on the couch arm like two long, oval balloons joined by a knee. And I thought to myself, "That's not quite right." So I pointed my toe and flexed the muscles in my leg.

For a moment, as the ripple of contracting muscle flowed down my leg, it looked "normal". It looked like any leg I might see in a magazine or on the local ball diamond. But the contraction continued, and the illusion of "normal" quickly receded.

In fewer seconds than it takes to describe it, the muscles in my thigh and calf had distorted my leg beyond the illusion of "normal". The oval balloons of thigh and calf redefined themselves quickly, and in seconds my leg was gnarled like the bole of a tree, long coils of muscle rising in fluid ridges from hip to ankle. The only part that even remotely resembled a "normal" leg was my knee, which -- surrounded as it was by raised berms of muscle above and below, seemed more abnormal than ever. Nonetheless, as I lifted and turned my leg, I knew that this was "me". This was "right". Not "normal", or remotely attractive, but "right".

And I realized that I wasn't looking at my leg. I was looking at my "self". And I understood something about "me", and the world I live in.

You see, it's easy to look at me when I'm at my ease and see soft oval balloons joined by somewhat normal parts. It's easy for many people to anticipate my behaviour based on what is delivered by other soft oval balloons. But the behaviour I deliver when I'm "right" -- when I'm at my best -- is powerful, gnarled, usually abnormal, and often not attractive. Effective, yes. Attractive, no. It's very easy for those around me who haven't acclimatized themselves to this dichotomy -- the dochotomy of "Janus" -- to be confused and angry with me in consequence. They pay for soft balloons, but I deliver oak instead.

I only seem to be "normal" for moments at a time, between my ease and my excellence. But maintaining the illusion of "normal" would require a balancing of philosophical and muscular tension that I don't have the ability to deliver. I'm at ease, or I'm excellent, but rarely in between where most people exist. I'm only "normal" in a very transient sense. The rest of the time, I'm abnormal and alien. And everyone knows it.

What to do? Nothing. Comprehension doesn't always result in progress or improvement. Ask Cassandra. But it was an interesting moment.

D.

2006-04-21T18:54:00.000-04:00

I know the names of the gods
That the horrors under your bed kneel and pray to
Before they fall asleep at dawn.

I know the things they fear.
I know the things they worship.
And these things are manifest in me.

What you fail to understand,
Is that these very same things are manifest in you,
And that as you tremble alone and desperate in your need,
Yes, even as you feel horror's teeth begin to close
On the soft, tender skin of your milky-white throat,

They both fear and worship you.

J.

2006-03-09T19:30:00.000-05:00

Manifest Destiny

"I'm special. I'm far more special than you. I'm so special that I have a special destiny, given only to me and my kin, that predestines me for success. Because I'm predestined for success, any obstacles to my success are inherently evil. Because all obstacles to my success are inherently evil, and because success is my destiny, I must oppose all obstacles to my success with whatever force and means are necessary to succeed. If I did less, I would be failing in my destiny and betraying my kin. Because my success is ordained and predestined, the methods I use to succeed are also ordained and predestined. Your methods, however similar to mine, are not ordained and predestined, and in consequence they are abhorrent and evil. I am pre-destined. You are evil. My destiny is to destroy you utterly unless you submit to me or become like me. Only when you have been destroyed can I rest, knowing that everyone shares a common destiny, and that it is mine."

It's not "who we are", but "what we choose" that makes us better or worse than our neighbours. No-one is "more special" or "less special". None of us are destined. And those who believe this are not human, however upright their stance or loquacious their speech. They are animals and they are driven by fear.

Beware Manifest Destiny and its proponents. Because, however much it may appear to you now that you are very much like them, when they are done with an "enemy" who is more foreign to them than you, they will begin to measure the differences between them and their former allies, and begin anew.

J.

2006-01-15T16:11:00.000-05:00

Untitled

I think it's the way your ugly lips curl
Whenever you see my face.
Or the contempt that drips from your dissonant voice
Every time you say my name.

There's more than a hint of it in the outright brutality
In the way you mock and taunt me.
Your savage whip of verbal wit
Has tasted my blood too goddamn often.

And the way you kiss him, full of promise,
And press yourself tight to his ignorant flesh
While whispering lusty promises in his ear
Is nothing less than vulgar.

So I have but one thing to say to you,
You conniving, whorish bitch.
You can take this to the bank, you brutal, savage, slut,
With every fibre of my being, I love you too.

J.

2005-12-30T17:33:00.000-05:00

Lately, I’ve become more and more disillusioned with Christmas. While everyone on television is giggling uncontrollably with Christmas spirit; while every radio station is playing "Santa Claus is Coming To Town", and while everyone is saying “Happy Holidays”, I feel more and more like a twenty-first century reincarnation of Ebenezer Scrooge. Often, it gets so bad that I turn off the radio and hide in my office to avoid the inevitable saccharine sweetness that haunts the corridors – and don’t get me started about family Christmas.

I’ve wondered what the heck is wrong with me. I’ve tried to silence my doubts by rationalizing about stress at work and in my personal life, but in truth that’s not it at all. At the base of it all, I simply don’t “feel” Christmas. There was a time that I “got” it. But that time seems to have passed, and I don’t understand why. I love to give, much more than to receive. I love to bring a smile to a child’s face, or the face of my incredible mother. I love to be surrounded by warmth, and by family, and by love. But lately Christmas has been just another day, with the exception of the wrapping paper, the smell of turkey, and the large, green, seasonal pyramid in the corner of the room that moves in on December first and moves out in mid-January.

So what’s the matter?

In truth, the last five or six years have been difficult. I’ve made much “life progress” – I have a wonderful spouse, a great house, three cats, and an expanding workshop that provides me with much entertainment. But there have also been some incredibly difficult experiences – I’ve watched friends divorce, seen my parents brutally disillusioned by their church, been employed at jobs in which I was expected to lie to clients and coworkers, come to the understanding that love can be both eternal and fickle without paradox, watched in horror as a member of my family ruthlessly and repetitively abused my parents’ naiveté and faith, and I’ve been on the receiving end of some personal and professional cruelties and indifferences that have sent me spiritually reeling on a number of occasions which I won’t quickly forget.

I suppose what’s really getting under my skin is the forced “equality” of Christmas -- the expectation that I will shake the hand of a former employer who forced me to choose between integrity and employment instead of spitting on his shoes and turning my back on him in disgust; the expectation that I will share a meal with a family member who has nothing but contempt for the family instead of bodily crushing him into the earth; the knowledge that unrepentant sociopaths, murderers, and rapists are celebrating Christmas just like me. I suppose, after what I’ve been through, that the thought that we’re all “equal” on Christmas fundamentally disturbs me, in spite of the message of equality inherent in Jesus’ birth and death. It sets a sense of despair in my heart that I find difficult to fight.

You see, I try to have integrity all year, not just on Christmas. I try to give a bit every day, not just on one special day in December. I try to make children smile whenever I meet them, not just on one highlighted day near the end of the year. And seeing a small percentage of the population slip into sheep’s clothing and join the flock for one day of the year while they plot their next hunt is simply infuriating. It awakens a part of my soul best left asleep – the part of my soul that is predatory, cold, cruel, ruthless, and craves the bright taste of lupine blood.

I suppose that I will continue to honor the Christmas traditions – dinner with family, gift exchanges, and the mutual messages of insincere affection that mark the season. But for me, my Christmas will begin December 26th and end December 24th – more than three-hundred and sixty days of trying to be my best and give my best to those around me. The few days that remain will be rote, role, and restraint, nothing more.

So if I meet you in June, hand you a small hand-made gift, and say “Merry Christmas”, just nod and grin. Wait to shake your head until I turn away. And know that I’m humming “Silent Night” as I turn on the air-conditioning in my car.

J.

2005-12-24T18:52:00.000-05:00

Untitled

I tell you that all the pages of all the books of history summed in their encyclopedic and categorical splendor can not begin to deliver the soul of man. All the works of art in the capitals of nations can not begin to adequately contain the love of man for woman, woman for man, or parent for child.

Forgive me then if I turn from the yellowed papers of my ancestors and works that other men’s hands have wrought, for these things are but maps of a different age and another man’s quest. They can but tell me where another man has traveled, not where I myself must go.

I wish for men with whom to take this land, and a woman worth giving it to. And in the absence of those comrades, the gift of losing myself in the illusion that the maps themselves are the land I seek and the first and last pages of those maps are the boundaries of my soul.

In the absence of both comrades and illusion, I too pause by the edge of the unknown and make this, my map. If you stumble across it, know that I have long since gone before and the path I chose will not open for you.

Set this map down now, and look for your path. I have gone ahead, but come back often to this very spot on the edge of the unknown to rest and wait. Perhaps, one day, we will meet and share the path for a while. What God and Time ordain is beyond the ken of men.

Until then, my unknown friend, be well. Go with God.

J.

2005-12-21T22:36:00.000-05:00

Quote from Janus qua Anthropologist qua Biologist

“It never concerns me when people anthropomorphize their pets or their possessions, but it always gives me a serious case of the willies when people anthropomorphize people.”

Much of what we do is dictated to us by urgent whispers streaming from our hindbrain, a cold, brutal chunk of neurons sitting just under our higher learning centers that controls emotion, reproduction, and basic needs of the flesh. Most of our mammalian and reptilian cousins possess a very similar mechanism – the only thing that makes us different is our cerebral cortex, the seat of philosophy, advanced cognition, and the very human “what-if”.

It never frightens me – sometimes nauseates me but never frightens me – when someone rationalizes a lower life form’s behavior as “human”. We describe our cars as “cantankerous”, our pets as “loving”, and our computers as having “viruses”. This is, for the most part, harmless. It may even be a positive behavior, as describing lower life forms and inanimate objects in human terms naturally increases our accountability to them and inevitably improves our own situation. If we feel a responsibility to our car, we change the oil more often. In consequence, it lasts longer, which benefits us in return.

It always, frightens me, however, when we describe our own animal behaviors as “human”.

When we watch two tribes of chimps fight, we describe their behavior in clinical and detached terms like “territory”, “resources”, “kin-selection”, and “zero-sum outcomes”. When we, however, fight with another tribe of humans we rationalize our wars with words like “human rights violations”, “weapons of mass destruction”, “international treaty violations”, “war on terror”, and “manifest destiny” to justify our actions and demonize the enemy while often, simultaneously, beating our chests with both hands while spittle flies from our mouths in political mimicry of a chimp’s bestial bloodlust. In the midst of our rage, it’s easy to miss the humanity – 3000 civilians died on September 11 2001, but since that time, in the war on terror, over 50,000 innocent Iraqi civilians (conservative estimate) have been killed in our pursuit of terrorists. In the midst of our struggle to rationalize our behavior, we fail to understand the psychology of the suicide bomber, gang violence on the street of Toronto, and why our per capita murder rates keep climbing year over year.

When we watch the reproductive antics of animals, we use words like “pair bonding”, “breeding rights”, “genetic diversity”, and “offspring”. When we watch the reproductive antics of human beings, we use words like “marriage”, “fidelity”, “cheating”, and “children”. In the midst of our struggle to rationalize and humanize our own animal behavior, we fail to understand why stepchildren are more often victimized by step-parents, why divorce and infidelity have become so common, and why cosmetic surgery is quickly becoming an industrial powerhouse in North America.

Folks, we’re animals. We’re very advanced animals, but animals nonetheless. It concerns me very much when we fail to realize how much we have in common with our short-lived, bestial brethren. The more we rationalize, the more we justify, and the more we philosophically distance ourselves from the genetic knowledge in our cold, brutal hindbrains, the more like animals we become.

A chimp doesn’t doubt. A chimp doesn’t hesitate. A chimp acts with certainty in everything it does, including bashing the skull of another chimp open and eating its brain. How much do we differ from a chimp? We differ in that we doubt. We differ in that we hesitate. We differ in that we analyze our motivation. We differ in that we face uncertainty. In the absence of doubt, hesitation, analysis, and introspection, we are nothing more than animals competing for territory, resources, and breeding rights.

I don’t know about you, but I truly value my doubts. I value my hesitation, my analytical ability, and my introspection. It’s certainty that frightens me. It’s the knowledge that absolute certainty is the bailiwick of gods and animals – the omnipotent and the ignorant. Knowing that, I’ll take uncertainty any day. I’m no god. And I hope that I’m not an animal – but that hope can only be realized if I stop anthropomorphizing my own behavior, recognize my base animal instincts for what they are, and work to suppress them or at a minimum to admit they exist.

Enough said. My car has been begging for an oil change for days, and my cat has been impatiently waiting for me to finish this note.

May you be the willing victim of doubt, and recognize in it your humanity.

J.

2005-08-31T22:05:00.000-04:00

Her Roots Are Showing (Condensed)

Her roots are showing.
Her imperfection is beautiful,
And I want her more now than before.
I see her dreams and I believe in them,
Every sip of her is satisfying.

He turned from her quickly, forgot her unkindly
She struggled for liberty, tired far too quickly,
Uncertain if she owned the strength to break free,
And that certainty isn’t a function of youth,
Thinking this is as good as it gets.

More valuable now than a hundred far younger,
The new version shines when compared to the old,
And her heart will be lush soon with life unimagined.
Now warm, gentle sunshine will be her companion,
Not youth, but true beauty of woman will grow.

Once again, joy will be more than a word,
Purpose and love will be constant companions.
Tomorrow will be a dear friend, not a foe.
In spite of the silver she will cry tears of joy.
As she slips from our fingers and flies even higher.

D.

2005-08-31T22:02:00.000-04:00

Open Letter to a Fallen Friend

I have never been fond of saying goodbye, but have always had a perverse addiction to telling the truth as I see it – and in consequence, instead of “goodbye”, please accept what little truth I have to offer.

My birth certificate says I was born in a local hospital, but that’s only partially true. A part of me was born somewhere else. I know this only because I have memories embedded in my heart of another place – a language that no-one speaks anymore and a culture where what is best in us is not considered “best”, but is the basic price of citizenship. For a very long time I have been in exile, constantly traveling but never with the chance of going “home”. The real nation of my birth has, for some unknown reason, been removed from every map ever printed. Sometimes, the memories of this place are so faint that it’s tempting to think it never existed in the first place. But, now and then, I run into someone who is so fluent in the language that they could have only been born there themselves, and who seems to have some of the same memories that I do of a place and time that was somehow different and better – or perhaps the memories are only a vision of what could be in the future, and not what was in the past. In any case, knowing you has given me unexpected joy in the same fashion that running into a fellow Canadian would give me while traveling in a strange and foreign country, and for that you have my thanks.

Onward.

The problem with a finely made tool is that it places demands on those who use it. I picked up a chisel in my workshop some months ago and, handling it carelessly, dropped it. I reached out quickly enough to intercept it on its way to the cement floor, but as I returned it to its niche on the wall I noticed with mild amusement that I was bleeding. I’m sure that some would have cursed the chisel and flung it across the room. Others would have feared its edge and hesitated to use it in the future. Not me. I admired it, in spite of the blood dripping from my palm, and looked forward to the next time I would have cause to pick it up. I looked forward to the challenge and the responsibility inherent in the use of such a finely made thing. You, in spite of what you may share with your peers, are a finely crafted tool. You have a purpose. I know this because it’s clear to anyone with eyes and a soul. If you have felt dented, chipped, or generally bruised it is only because those who have used you have done so ineptly, carelessly, or without knowing your true function.

My only regret in knowing you is that we don’t have time to share more stories of the homeland, and that I won’t have the privilege of seeing the exceptional results when you are recognized as the finely crafted tool that you are and employed, both personally and professionally, by those who embrace the demands that such an instrument places on them.

Godspeed and good luck.

2005-07-31T22:11:00.000-04:00

The Death of Innocence -- At the Petting Zoo

Sweet cherubim feed white tailed deer
With oats and molasses from converted gumball dispensers
While their parents look on nervously.

Coarse-whiskered ungulate muzzles tickle delighted childrens' palms
But one faun, in its eagerness and inexperience,
Pinches the delicate skin of its wide-eyed benefactor.

The boy flinches, the deer bolt en masse
The children stir, one toddler cries at the sudden motion
And all eyes turn to the angel whose skin has already begun to purple.

His awe turns to surprise, then surprise quickly turns to fear.
I look at his angel's face and smile broadly to ease his pain.
Looking at me and pointing at his spotted peer as it hides behind its mother, the cherub speaks.

"The stupid fucker bit me!"

D.

2005-07-28T22:40:00.000-04:00

Janus who?

Janus was just a guy. He lived way, way back before Rome was founded, and was the mayor/king of a city named Latia. His rule was memorable, however. He brought, with his rule, a time of peace and prosperity, introducing agriculture, currency, and fine arts, and his reign came to be known as "The Golden Age".

He was deified, after his death, and became the Roman god of beginnings and gates. He was often invoked at births, marriages, plantings, harvests, and other events that signified beginnings or endings. His icon was a two-sided plaque, with a different face on each side, and was usually posted at the entrance to the city or a private residence. One of his faces turned inward, toward the citizenry; protecting, nurturing, and encouraging. The other face turned outward, toward the wilderness; intimidating, warning, and discouraging.

When the Sabines attacked Rome and infiltrated the city -- quite legitimately so at the time, as Romulus had stolen their virgins -- Janus caused a hot spring to erupt and chase them (the Sabine army, not the virgins) from Rome. The doors to his temples were closed during times of peace but open during times of war to permit his quick and unobstructed intervention on behalf of the famous legionaires of Rome, and when these same legionaires went to war on other cities or nations, they always departed the city under the watchful eye of Janus at his portal on the Forum Romanum (one of the main streets of Rome).

He was universally known as both a guardian and a warrior, as a teacher and as a punisher. For this reason, Janus is sometimes known as the "two-faced god".

What does this mean to me?

Well, I have a nasty habit of throwing the Sabines out of Rome. I rarely hesitate to get involved in moral or physical battles, particularly when my "city" has been infiltrated by the enemy. I am quick to move from peace to war when my family, friends, or community are threatened. At the same time, I love the fine arts and the nobler, gentler proceeds of civilization. I encourage tolerance and progress, but when diplomacy fails I can be simply and coldly brutal. This has, at times, earned me the same misnomer of being inconsistent or "two-faced" from those who don't understand my character and don't care to learn -- but never from those who are on my side of the moral or physical "gate". To these individuals I am almost always recognized as a guardian, friend, and encouraging mentor, even though they recognize my destructive potentials.

I suppose it depends what side of the gate you're on.

So, I suppose, Janus is a kind of mentor -- the ultimate father, husband, and leader. Although I won't expect to be deified after my death, if I can work towards that example, in spite of the misplaced criticism of being "two-faced", I know I'll be a happy guy on my deathbed.

In the interim I'll be happy too, because after I chase the Sabine army away, I get to keep all the virgins...

:-)

D.

2005-07-25T23:22:00.000-04:00

"The Foundling"

You look at me with questions
In your sparkling, gentle eyes.
You wonder why I nurture you,
If this be but disguise?

I know not how to show you,
Purge your mind of doubt and worry.
But listen for a moment
As I tell a feline’s story.

A kitten crossed my threshold
After first November snow.
Bedraggled, starving, fleabit,
She regarded me with woe.

I took her up into my arm
And warmed her in my shirt.
She purred and promptly fell asleep.
Less kitten there than dirt.

Such a bit stood naught a chance
Against the winter chill.
And freedom, faced with such a plight
Would be a bitter pill.

A man must make decisions,
Must make fate obey commands
When he holds the life of such a one
In large and calloused hands.

The choices that remained to me
Were opposites in deed.
Her suffering was mine to end,
With death, or warmth and feed.

A man can not ignore the need
To do what needs be done.
A man stands fast when faced with things that
Make a coward run.

But when the wind blows fortune
And he has the strength of limb,
A man stands fast when faced with chance to
Help those who need him.

I sighed and set fresh straw and rags
Before the crackling fire.
Deposited the kitten there,
Who mewled her feline ire.

She yawned and fell asleep
And since has been a stalwart friend.
She shares my cot and sleeps a lot
And mouses now and then.

But when I enter house and home
She greets me, all delight,
To see her master and her friend,
Come home and spend the night.

Her joy in life is mine to share,
At such a petty cost.
She gives much more than e’er she gets.
To him who banished frost.

And now I face another stray
Who shivers in her skin.
Abandoned, hungry, fearful,
Clothed in dust but good within.

I know you sense the master
Deep within this calloused skin
Deliberating carefully
To turn or take you in.

A man can not ignore the need
To do what needs be done.
A man stands fast when faced with things that
Make a coward run.

But when the wind blows fortune
And he has the strength of limb,
A man stands fast when faced with chance to
Help those who need him.

The kitten who dared cross my path
Rests there, upon the stairs.
Regarding you with happy eyes
Content, well fed, no cares.

Decisions that were made for one.
Must now be made for two.
And so, my dear, here now I stand,
And offer such to you.

And like a man who feeds a fire
To spare himself from night,
I nurture thee not for thy good
But for thy warmth and light.

You warm my soul and light my path.
You banish frost and pain.
And so, my dear, though stray you be,
You fill my heart again.

For one who is, himself, so lost,
Who wanders aimlessly.
Now rescue him, and take him in.
And save this man from me.

The three of us, all lost ourselves.
Can stop and cease to roam,
Can save each other, strays each one,
And make this place our home.

So take my hand and take me in,
Though Master I may be,
The kitten, and then thou and I
Can rest, at last, all three.

A man can not ignore the need
To do what needs be done.
A man stands fast when faced with things that
Make a coward run.

But when the wind blows fortune
And he has the strength of limb,
A man stands fast when faced with chance to
Help those who need him.

D.

2005-07-25T23:14:00.000-04:00

"Why I Write"

They’ve asked me here to vomit sounds
Into your captive ears.
They’ve asked me here to whisper words,
Of heroes, love, and fears.

And though I take the podium,
And though you see me rise,
The honor is an odium,
A barren, bitter prize.

These words are not vocabulary
Meant for prying eyes.
These words were writ to soothe my soul,
And not to advertise.

There is a thing that feeds on souls,
It crushes human spirit,
Vicariously parasitic,
I refuse to feed it.

It whispers to me in my sleep
“Give me one drop of soul,
Then I will go find other prey,
And leave you almost whole.”

I recognize the blood upon
The horror of its face.
The essence there is that
Of the entire human race.

And so I sadly shake my head
And brace myself for hell.
I wait for it to come and take
That which I will not sell.

It grins and closes teeth on me
And flays my flesh in strips
I rush to gather every goddamn
Drop of blood that drips.

It chews the harder for my greed,
And laughs at my persistence,
But even in my agony,
My heart is pure resistance.

No blood of mine will feed this thing
That beats me black and blue.
No blood of mine will strengthen it
And send it on to you.

So, frantically, impaled on teeth
That suck the souls from men,
I hoard my scarlet beads of life,
And stuff them in my pen.

I write with desperation,
For my reservoir’s replete,
The flow of ink must equal blood,
This beast must never eat.

Defiant in my own demise,
I desperately scribble,
The words appear on paper,
In a bloody scarlet dribble.

And, drying on the paper,
They defy the beast’s great hunger.
They mock its parched and eager lips,
Refuse to make it stronger.

The beast chokes on the paper
That builds up inside its throat
It hacks and coughs and dies a bit
With each poetic note.

And so you see, my poetry
Was not put down for you.
This bloody mess is my barbaric yawp,
“Hey you, with the teeth! FUCK YOU!”

D.

2005-07-25T11:25:00.000-04:00

This is my barbaric yawp.

Rather civilized, huh? Actually, this is just a small part of my barbaric yawp. Other parts are less civilized. Those less domestic parts are generally reserved for private consumption and offered only to those who have a taste for slightly darker meat. If you like the flavor and texture of richer meat, ask for it -- but I won't put it on your plate and expect you to eat it unless you express a preference for it.

In the same way that catharsis can be obtained by standing on the edge of a cliff and yelling into the vast indifference of an uninhabited canyon, catharsis can be obtained by standing on the edge of the internet and yelling into the vast indifference of the worldwide web.

And so, here I am, talking to myself -- which is, I might add, a very pleasant way to spend the day. I disagree with myself often enough to encourage moderate internal and introspective debate, and have sufficient quantities of well-leashed internal demons to keep myself entertained. From time to time I'll post their rantings, ravings, and ridicule. They're a truly fun bunch, but are best served with a grain (or grains) of salt for flavor.

And so, like all things that have beginnings, this journal / blog / shout-into-the-abyss begins with a simple hello, a slightly surprised blink or two, and the unknown potential of who I might be tomorrow.

Have a nice day, Derek. See you tomorrow.