Friday, September 30, 2016

To be continued...

We are all Fathers; fathering, fatherless of orphaned rascals.

Man, women and children all, the subjects of ourselves to be led and coaxed.

I am a father to my own stubborn griefs sitting complacent atop my hearts cage,

Where the soldier's spear gave ease to the crucified, where Adam gave that bone to be Eve... We are the hobo father.  

Even as Neptune, fluid as grace ever was, we batter the mother for wet dust.

That it all be pulverised to build the scars and the scabs, the palaces of the longing made of obsidian cuts, sew with the echoes of howling wolves, that we can know ourselves by our disease.

Rock that baby, jive the still blind infant, be with the joy amidst crashing tragedy.

Be the father, be the tears of a toughed heart... On all day's we are the father.

Excuse that above, or don't, it's from a ways back, not too far back and I think I might have already published it on facebook though I kind of went searching for it and couldn't find it in my recent past... so who knows?

But for some reason, right now, it does makes certain sense to carry on underneath this draft from whenever because I think it somehow captures the sense of what I might be coming to terms with.

About 5 years ago someone put me onto the 'Power of Now' by Eckhart Tolle and about the same time I was fairly ensconced and starting to make some headway in a dealer gallery. So I was working like a bastard and meditating like a bastard too. Mr Tolle said I didn't really need to do the meditation thing but I always have so I used that to work my way through his book.

Long story short I left the gallery, under the guise of being kicked out, but I'd made up my mind previous to that and from a particular instance whereby I decided that that particular procedural system of art making and art selling wasn't actually of much use to me as I'd figured, and made use of, the ways offered by Mr Tolle to the extent that the making of the art, how it comes to exist and find it's way into the world, was of far greater importance, somehow, than the art itself.

So I went ambitionless and it wasn't hard at all as all those ambitions I'd had were pretty much attained and achieved... okay, things could get bigger, that might have been the new ambition except the essence of achieving had been well and truly sorted so it was quite easy to drop such things and just meander about.

And this I did. For about 4 years I just meditated whenever I could and just did as little work as was possible to keep the base sense of what was needed chugging along. To this extent I was what might be called lucky as I'd already managed to put together a framework, for existence, which didn't need much feeding and that was simply because I knew if such needs were small, paltry even, then I could put all my efforts into the art I'd decided it was worth having a go at.

Anyway, as time went on I began to feel that Mr Tolle, and subsequent study of other 'Guru's', seemed to be missing something, something important,and it's been somehow nagging me to figure out what it actually is.

Because the interesting thing was that whilst I stopped wanting things the things themselves didn't stop wanting me and as time went on this became somehow understood in the sense that with my head out of the equation, because I've ended up pretty good at not thinking, a deeper sense of want seemed to be a part of me. We could quite easily put this down to the subconscious becoming conscious and it's a pretty good way to see it but it also seemed deeper than that somehow too, wider even, and it might sit better possibly as a mixing of the collective consciousness, as posited by Jung, with an evolving earth consciousness.

Then at the same time I found myself apt to talk and make jokes, and generally have fun, at and within any opportunity that presented itself and this seemed somehow to go back to the Tolle thing, the now, and be a very simple and genial sociality. And I like that, and I still do like it. A lot seems to be the willingness to play the fool, to be unencumbered by ego and just serve within any group of people to steer, even if ones self needs immolating (set afire), towards easiness and the abandonment of harsh, serious and all that other stuff.

This then sets up a dichotomy of sorts whereby we , or I and can drop the supposedly royal we, have the totally now resonating sociality where all boundaries of power and status disappear and the animal of human congeniality raises it's head to purr in simple gestures of fun and comradeship and on the other hand we have what might be a world starting to shape itself which would be entirely conducive to this simplified and easy sociality... but it isn't yet.

And this seems the missing bit. The guru's can't help but 'be there' and then in communication advise us how to 'get there' too, and while being in their direct area might actually communicate this more readily than the words do without the presence, this then seems to be the area where work needs to be done... the transition, as it were. That while our heads and our hearts hearken to this state, and may often be in it, the physical world has such a burden of inertia about it that we can't help but be adverse to it yet at the same time it may be the biggest and most vital thing we could be 'adapting' ourselves to.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

If it isn't yet what shall I call it?

I was out driving yesterday, a few things spread across our metropolis wanted finding by me, and maybe it's somehow about that. That ideas about what might be are just sitting out there waiting to be found, not formed even, and it, that state of possibility that is, is about being possible too. Bugger, that doesn't make sense, and somehow I don't think it can... until it's ready to.

And I think quite a few others have found that driving, sitting in a car and watching, can be advantageous in the sense of being inspirative. Maybe it's the betweeness, between theres and heres as in this was this and that'll be that.

Lots of people tend to find nature inspiring and maybe theres something to that but possibly more than that is that they are allowing themselves to just wander, and yes nature can be restful, but as well an expectation that nature is inspirative might make the whole gesture a waste of time as this supposed communication comes from nature when it could very well be that not expecting it, inspiration, it what makes it available and it's far less about the circumstances that might bring it forth.

Me, I was on the motorway first but that just bogged up real quick and I got off at the very first exit, Otahuhu, and kinda meandered... I always take the path of least resistance, whether it be physical or mental. Yesterday it was physical in the sense that as soon as those cars bogged up, made their lines of impatience I just went another way, and given I always have time on my hands I'm not really adverse to wasting it, and I ended up at a place where I used to go years ago, Rosenfeld Kidson which is an exotic timber supplier. I made up an excuse for myself that I'd see if I could find a bit of Maple as it's in the back of my mind somewhere that I'll eventually get back into making guitars, so excuse found I went in and followed my nose.

The sum of that visit was, and I had no idea of this as I wandered about within this cathedral of potential, was as I left after getting a price for one particular piece, which ended up being Cherry, that wood that always tends to remind me of Chekov and Russian springs, I remembered my own great piles of stashed timbers and realised how profoundly rich I am. And that's partly that I recognised, remembered my own great stash of timbers, but also that adding the odd new bit, like adding a notion of a $100.00 bit of Cherry when theres a spare hundie floating about, it all adds up to this richness of having time and space available to actually be my own sense of what rich is.

Ah, even with this meandering writing I do I have an objective except I have no idea how I'm going to get there and yet this wandering has given me a hint as I remember back to yesterday, which already seems so far away, and in that timber place something of my being bouncing off others seems to have made sense. It's as if me just carrying my time about lazily and the possibles I might be accruing even looser it seems to spark off in others a wondering in themselves of what might concern them to hold stuff that way. There was a point I was talking to a chap, not at but around somehow, the appreciation of timber and I mentioned finding my own as packing crates and sawmills being unwilling to go near them for the possibility of old nails left in it and so having to build my own sawmill in the driveway and I, now in hindsight, felt this fellows wondering himself about fixing his old boat to go fishing more.

How is this? I didn't see it yesterday... I'm sure of that, but I know I felt something, an opening, a gap as it were, in the defined wandering towards the yet to be defined... interesting.

Now should I open that up a bit more or go straight to the objective?

The objective I think and it was about the how of realising ones own projecting, the mirroring we all do where the world is us, but in somehow being able to see that but also see beyond that to the reflective reflections... and it's the interference patterns, which are what light does... when it's a wave.

This was actually a couple of weeks ago and for some reason I'd gone back to the experiment with light through slits and where before the slits it was particulate and after the slits it became wave like... it made no sense then and I didn't really need it to but it must have found it's way into what I call the back of my head because yesterday as I passed those mansions of Remuera Rd and wondered why I like them so much it occured to me the question of being reflective and understanding oneself in those reflections was also about seeing beyond the reflections and feeling, seeing, whatever, the reflection reflecting of others and quite suddenly this experiment in light came to me.

And it's an insight but it's an insight still sketchy... but that's it's business and not mine, let it go then and if it wants to come back it might even find me willing, or busy chasing others... and it reminds me too of Pacific navigators, which incidentally makes a certain unquantifiable sense too because the other day I was looking for the Latin of boat and it was navi, but also vessel and ship etc, and, anyways, how the navigators watched the waters for interference patterns. That for most the waves might be doing what waves do and all moving one way except on the edges of those waves are the waves which move underneath and there are layers of these waves going all the way down... that they can see the reflections of the Islands they are wanting to get to.

And, of course, having gotten this far theres something sitting on the edges right now beckoning and playful, some remembered idea or thing which will bring it all together, tantilising... but, it'll come in it's own sweet time, or it won't.

Patience indeed might very well be a virtue.

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Prejudice and discrimination.

Straight off the bat you might think I'm going to go off and add to the demonisation of these words... which might in itself, that start, show off my own prejudice within my own expectation of how I might decide you are coming to this post.

I suppose then, in the above instance, I could be illustrating why prejudice and discrimination are problematic and it's therefore easier to just bannerise these poor words without giving them the time and the space they might actually require.

I love prejudice and discrimination! (How's that for an opening? Throw your half empty coffee cup at the screen right now... and leave disgusted!)

noun: prejudice; plural noun: prejudices

preconceived opinion that is not based on reason or actual experience.

noun: discrimination; plural noun: discriminations
the unjust or prejudicial treatment of different categories of people, especially on the grounds of race, age, or sex.

recognition and understanding of the difference between one thing and another.

What has brought this up for me is one or two friends I've been talking to over the past few days who shared what for us, in hindsight, was growing up as a minority... except then it might have been a racial minority but now we don't really say such things as that and what we say is cultural minority though that doesn't work either because way back then, living and going to school in South Auckland, we were all part of that culture so even then cultural minority didn't apply unless one really went big and used the appellation in regard to the whole of New Zealand and the comparisons became economic stratifications...

So what it was is that we were white kids within a culture of predominantly darker skinned kids, see how difficult this is? What actual descriptive terms am I allowed to use?

The thing is that, and this comes through with quite a few, but by no means all, these people of Euro descent I now come across from the old days, is that it wasn't at all about measured differences at all and just surviving in what ever way seemed to be the best way to just keep surviving... and having fun.

And while I was talking to one of these old friends I even told a story where I went to Art School and the first month or so I felt uncomfortable and I couldn't figure out why until I eventually realised I hadn't actually spent so much time, day after day, just in the company of white people.

The thing was, I think, that we learned, without thinking about it, that prejudice was required to a certain degree (while at the same time we didn't even know prejudice was even a word) except it had to be held fairly lightly and one had to discriminate very quickly. What that means is that situations and circumstances could change all the time and you had to be fluid, you had to weigh up situations quickly and then live by those decisions... until things changed.

To that extent survival, if things got hot, depended somewhat on not being extreme in ones prejudices whereby one was overly positive or overly negative... that would get you into trouble. And with all that said the colour of ones skin was never more than a surface treatment. Far more important things came up first as instinctive and intuitive decisions had to be made.

Like one day you might be down in Mangere Bridge and at a house where the family were Maori but the father had been in some government job for decades and they lived in a much better house than you did and they introduced you to cheese spread out of a jar bought at the supermarket but then the next day you'd be on the other side of the mountain where the shade cooled out the house for most of the day, and be with another new friend you'd met at cubs, and their house would be run down and full of just washed clothes with a bunch of semi-pulled apart cars littering the section and learning how to shoplift down the local dairy and this boy would have blonder hair than you did.

It was just this big huge melting pot of difference, and yes, there were fairly obvious differences though they simply weren't differences that counted, and you just couldn't be prejudiced but then at the same time you needed to have some prejudice available in case it could be thrown up as a point of difference, a uniqueness to make things interesting. Yes, you did see prejudice, as we now like to call it, except you didn't 'look' at that. You 'looked' for anger and problems and the colour of ones skin had nothing to do with that... though of course it actually did.

Discrimination then became a life line. You needed absolutely to discriminate, to be discriminating. Again it had nothing to do with the colour of ones skin... it was the edges that counted, What was underneath and around the edges? What was the emotional underpinning, what seethed and boiled if anything? Was a smile at a joke hung on difference loaded or authentic?

Because what you did learn fairly quickly was that when situations might get tense it was often that this minority which you were supposedly a part of made you the representative of the majority you weren't actually a part of at all except, by default, simply because of the colour of your skin you became.

So yeah, I've had these few chats with white people who shared the same basic upbringing that I had and we're prejudiced as fuck, certified card carrying members of not even giving the bastards any chance to be anything other than what they obviously are... that surface details don't matter but they give you clues as in what kind of shit might be hidden and under what cloaks... or not.

Do I resent ever being part of what ever supposed minority I might or might not have been a part of given whatever circumstances were in progress that used such definitions to define what might be prejudicial? Fuck no, that'd be stupid and take away some of the fun. 'Cause in the end once you've figured out the possible use of prejudice and discrimination it, they, are a useful set of tools to get one more orientated, aligned as it were, to having fun and being interesting, and that, as far as I can tell, has absolutely nothing to with colour, gender, money or anything fucking stupid like that... while at the same time somehow being all about it. It's then nothing to do with what it is but what you might do with it that counts... in my book anyway.

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Progress is hypocrisy in action.

I had something happen last week, I think it was last week, where somewhat out of the blue I was invited back to an old haunt. I had said to someone that this would eventually happen, to which they had doubts, but it was one of those things that just felt inevitable though in this case somewhat akin to unfinished business.

And that made sense simply in how the invite was couched. As in like come back and start at the bottom, which I didn't answer except I did say I would surely come back in for a chat at the least. Because, for me, there are things I'd quite like to do and in this regard theres a possibility of investment in that so I'm more than willing to offer my side of what might be a round of bargaining.

In the meantime I tied up again some old strings left dangling and with that reviewed a little of what said old haunt was up to and made a seemingly innocuous comment... boom! Door closed. Oops, but then again, not really oops as I'd tweaked an emotional edge got a reaction and realised nothing hew had happened so the whole thing would have been a waste of time anyways.

Then, just the other day, someone gets all upset about an attack on something cherished and new and goes mad, as in angry this and that and then this and then that, and again I'm like bloody emotions, they can be a pain in the ass.

Now I've nothing against emotions per se except when the owners of said emotions are victimising themselves with their own emotional outbursts and basically using such to blame the world for all their own unresolved problems.

And this leads to one of the things I say quite often now which is that when people are irrational then no amount of rationality is going to make any difference especially, it seems, and this is something I've encountered recently, these people who have these emotional outbursts seem to enshroud their denial in being all for critical thinking... weird.

But then again I don't really care that much and instead of trying to push my own ideas of what might be going on I turn things around and wonder why I might feel a need to offer what I think are either answers or a better set of questions to address whatever any emotional outburst is actually sitting on top of. To that end it's like feeling the magnetism within any outer shows of emotions which seem to be irrational and then feeling whether these outbursts are setting off little echoes in me so I can dig down deeper into myself and uncover any little pots of my own gold.

I still like intellect though and maybe that's about all the years I've spent meditating and being able to quiet my mind not to the extent that it's an enemy worth vanquishing but that being able to isolate the intellect and then feel around it's edges for attachments to emotionality has somehow honed the abilities with intellect I might have. It's not that it's suddenly so much better so much that it's possibly a little more refined.

Trouble is though that even this seems problematic in the sense that so many people seem to ride the unbroken horses of their emotionality that even being rationally unencumbered, not completely of course, seems to be a threat a lot of people can smell from ages away and start fighting even before the lines of the cage are even drawn.

What I do find though is that hypocrisy seems to be the defining gesture. An unrecognised hypocrisy which seems entirely obvious to me yet seems to be entirely oblivious to the people who brandish it alike their own form of nationalism and patriotic fervour... weird.

Me, I love my hypocrisies, and often go in search of deeper and more vital inconsistencies... they are the emulsifiers of my existence, hypocrisy is that ingredient which allows the disparity of oil and water to mix and have the best of each doing their work together.

But out there in the world there seems to be nothing worse, nothing more demeaning of post modernist development and progress, than hypocrisy. Yet, if theres anything the whole world swims in it is hypocrisy except it's always outside... never can it be inside.

That seems then the catch 22, if I even remember what a catch 22 is (so I better google it) but before I do that I'll speculate... it is the point at which disparity must be faced. "a dilemma or difficult circumstance from which there is no escape because of mutually conflicting or dependent conditions."

So it is then pretty much what I thought it was except I see it as something to be embraced whereas the accepted meaning is it is something to be avoided at all costs. 

Now I come to my own catch 22 and there was a quote a few years ago I read but alike I usually do I just read it, took it on board but forgot about the details of who said it and what was specifically said. The gist of it was though that some enlightened dude said that once you are enlightened you know completely and utterly that such cannot be explained but that the whole and inexplicable reason for having attained enlightenment is to try and do so.

Even then, at the supposed heights of human achievement, what do we find? Hypocrisy.

At this point I think I'll go right back to the beginning, not of my life, but this post. Why? 'Cause I like intellect.

So we have an attack or a defense of something and let's say it's an intellectual stance yet the attack/defense is powerfully emotional. This power, then, which underlines the intellect is drawn from the emotion. This then is the obvious clue. Power.

Therefore, I'm bored now and I want to rap this up, any display of power is hypocrisy in action and what may define it as useful or otherwise is the order to which it is recognised or not.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Train spotting for Grizzlies.

In recent years I've found that the novels I've read and really like are hard work at the beginning and I've learnt that, hopefully, quite quickly though who knows how many really good books I gave up on simply because they were hard work to begin with.

But I'm supposing that if you are taught to write, to make it a way of having a living, then it'd be all about hooking the reader, baiting them right off the bat so they become willing participant in their own catch. So right there is that fishing analogy... with a little side order of clubbing the prey into submission too.

Pop songs too are about hooks and being catchy. Seems just about all our efforts in one way or another allude back to those good ol' days of hunting and gathering. And how long ago was that?

Fifty thousand years ago? Twenty thousand? Sure enough though it was a very, very long time ago and was it such a huge game changer, a complete and utter paradigm shift, that we have so imprinted it upon ourselves that we really have no choice but to look at things that way?

So going back to these books that were really good it was usually a combination of getting my head around the writers set of perspectives whilst often also about setting up a complicated set of circumstances in which the story could unfold. And if that was a form of fishing it would be maybe something like Ice fishing where the set up to even do it in a modicum of comfort required quite a bit of advance planning and setting up and even once all that's done then it wasn't really about catching anything, though I suppose that might be a bonus, so much as a meditative and quiet time to slow things down and percolate in ones own intellectual juices.

Whereas the other extreme end of this fishing thing, this hooking of legless reptiles who still retain their primordial guise, is something like a river when the fish are spawning and some old grizzly bear is just leaning on a rock and swatting the poor tired and half depleted buggers onto a grassy shore.

Now that's done, my own hooks set and cast into the oceans of your relevance I can introduce what I really want to talk about and that's this new programme on channel three “The Housewives of Auckland” and in comparison to Marcus Lush's train spotting epic 'Off the Rails”.

It's not then particulary difficult to define which is ice fishing and which is merely swatting tired spawning fish out of rapids. There is the meditative individual who has worked to secure a place of maybe even a form of worship whilst the other is a big old bear seeing a very easy way to stock up on fat reserves before a big long winter and a vast and easy slumber under the snow.

So yes our brains might be hard wired still in the primordial hunter gatherer vein of how to harvest the natural world and be content and full but surely this technological age we find ourselves in has somewhat abetted the need to store fat reserves for long and hard winters by reaping easily some tired and struggling resource almost at the edges of it's ability to renew it's species?

And thats what 'The Housewives of Auckland” seems to be for me. Big old lazy bears getting fat so they can sleep soundly through the long cold. Moribund network executives unwilling to even try coming up with something interesting and simply importing an idea which is already depleted. And the Salmon, well, they would be those trophy wives and trust fund princesses struggling up the rapids of their own declining physical assets... wooh! Did I say that?

At the very least, within nature, it is spectacle. It is a profound truth of existence in the wilds so when a learned man, say like Attenborough, gives us a commentary... we are moved, we are interested and we are reminded of the stringencies of life to keep struggling on.
But what kind of spectacle is it when the rich and the proud are paraded before us as early evening entertainment? I actually think it's really sad that those big, and very soon to be fat, network executives seem willing to swat struggling salmon onto the grass so we can see them gasping for air as their guts are sprawling alongside them from having their guts ripped open.

The thing is I'd like to see myself as a bit of a renaissance man, that having had vacines and schools and all kinds of technological breakthroughs given to me as convenience, that all this has been quite enlightening and as such I have a willingness to raise the game, as it were, of humanity.

So before I go on with the ripped carcasses of trophy wives and trust fund princesses, which yes, we all still do enjoy a kind of tragic carnage, it's that hunter gatherer brain enjoying the splendours of spring and fall, isn't it somewhat behoove of us to get a little more introspective within our entertainments, to embrace a little more, actually a whole lot more, the character of our species aligning ourselves with the possibilities we do have as we fall, supposedly, into this new age of information?

Could we please acknowledge that train spotting of the technological soul might be better entertainments?

Monday, August 22, 2016

Artists colony?

What was I thinking?

I worked with a woman a while back who lived in her own house all by herself and she had an idea that once her mother died and she had real access to money that she would buy up a big bit of land with as many old buildings on it as could be utilised reasonably easily and start an artists colony.

And my working for her, as in she would define what she wanted and then I would do what I figured out, as I went along, what was best and this created all sorts of problems because she would have to confront her need to control what I did... in the sense that I would basically ignore her and do what I thought was the most appropriate.

It seemed somehow to make sense that my attitudes towards art needed somehow to be incorporated as a reality within her idea of what art making was especially in regard to her having control of this ideal made concrete, eventually, as an art colony. I suppose it was that I was one extreme, as in just intuitive and no figuring out, and she was over the other side in intellectual and planning and whilst I mostly came to terms with the way I saw it, my being there, it was also good for me to encounter her ways of being especially now that I've actually decided my place is going to be an artists colony.

The thing was that as soon as this woman did get her hands on the money then everything changed. World trips and doing up her house using pro's became the thing and I was somewhat shuffled off to the edges as a struggling artist in need of care... which was weird and then wasn't so weird once I cottoned on and began to question, albeit humbly, the choices she was now making... and soon enough I was cast out.

Here I am then this morning going in to tidy up one of my own messes and in doing so the ideal of my own ramshackle assortment of ramshackle shacks ever becoming useful as regards something to hand on to other people, in parts, for their own uses has come into question. Not because it isn't a good idea I'm well inclined to favour so much that I have so much collected odds and ends which fill almost to brimming over in all my spaces that emptying them all out so others can use them just seems an inordinately difficult task.

In this regard then I am apt to see that while I thought I was training this particular woman what was actually happening was that I was training myself. Or more honestly what I thought she needed to learn was much more specifically what I needed to learn.

This brings to mind then the sense of visionary and whilst I don't think I'd call myself visionary I would tend to the idea that what such ideas encapsulate describes quite nicely how I actually work. What that means is that whilst I wander about in life and see things and meet people I often get a sense that I know what needs to be done. And not only what wants done but that I'm the fellow to do it.

It used to actually be visions as in fully rendered ideas would pop into my head and it was merely about shifting things about, clearing a space as it were, and then just making whatever it was that was supplied as what to actually go toward. Now though it seems deeper, a kind of knowing without knowing, and that makes sense with what might be my understanding of how these things work as regards energy content and transference into transformation.

It's like the God's speaking and trumpets blaring as Angels sing is just too big a show. Needed maybe if we're not paying attention... to get our attention but that once we attend to how possibilities actually work then that energy which before went so much into just getting our attention is lessened to a degree which allows it somehow to be spread further.

Anyway, that all said, I even wonder why I'm here writing about it and the simple answer to that is that the mess I've to get through just gets slightly overwhelming so I take breaks and this is one of those.

The other fairly cognisant point about this whole visionary thing is that while the idea of an artist's colony is somewhat my driving force it also doesn't mean that that's actually what I'm doing. It's like the vision or whatever is the motivation to get started on anything, it needs to be held loosely, because often once you actually get started on something the doing opens up new directions and so it pays then to be able to let go of that which was only the inclination to start.

Monday, August 15, 2016

My Dad.

I went to see my Father the other day. I haven't seen him for ages and I have no idea why. He's out in Howick, in place overlooking the sea, and when I do go see him I prefer that lounge with those views than sitting in his bedroom with him as that space just looks out onto a wall.

The first thing, after pleasantries, Dad remarked on was a bruise on my cheek. It's seems now that I'm older the skin where I find pimples that are worth the effort doesn't like me doing so and bruises easily. He thought it was just dirt, which is more likely I suppose with the me he knows, and I'd forgotten it was there so it was either me painting or working on cars or machines and then just going out into the world not thinking of approvals. This then might have been why he asked me how old I am now, 54, and this surprised him. "Well, Dad, if you're 82 then it stands to reason I'll be 28 years younger as that's how old you were when Mum had me."

And Dad is the oldest man now of the family that issued from Mum's side and even those on Dad's side of whom we didn't have much to do with. I went back to Canada in '95 as the Matriarch wanted to see me and she payed for it except I wasn't so interested in her and hung out with the old men dying. My uncle Ralph had Parkinson's and though he shuffled about he wanted me to meet Indians and take store of that lands needs as if this coming closer to his God, and I smoked my pot out at his altar in the Garage where he smoked his cigars and ruminated before his Pope, gave him access to deeper streams he knew I swan in.

Uncle Ralph had a model A pickup that he couldn't drive anymore so Uncle Davey, who was dying too, came 'round and took me for a drive and while we rattled and chugged he too spoke of his dying as if he too, being close, somehow understood my way with ghosts.

And it is, this town by the lake in Southern Ontario, a steel mill town and Uncle Ralph spoke of a dumping of Cobalt out on the edges and how it seemed to be taking all the Men and maybe that is why my own father has age because we left that place and went way across the earth... I don't know.

And now my Dad is walking again which is rather amazing though he has a toughness even the doctors find somewhat miraculous especially after their cousins, the psychiatrists, fed him willingly quite the huge doses of anti-depressants over many years. So Dad getting walking again isn't really surprising and it seems this toughness he has way down has just gotten bored with being a victim of the after-effects of these tranquilizers and no Doctors being able to do anything about it... so he will.

Dad was the youngest son of his fathers wifes second man and that family was the poorest of the poor in a shipyards attachment of tenement housing in Glasgow and though they were Irish Protestants, the blackest of the black, they finally had accrued some money and so he was sent to a Catholic school and there my tough but thoroughly sensitive father was scared out of his wits, or into his wits, as the case might actually be.

And maybe it worked because as luck would have it he was given an apprenticeship in plumbing after leaving the Nuns and the Priests though, my father, still at a tender age didn't see his life as shovelling shit and maybe that, somehow, was too alike the racial slurs those Scottish neighbours seemed far too willing to heap upon him and his as if five to a bed and a shared outhouse weren't enough.

To the high seas then my father went and still young he signed on as a cabin boy in those rusty old hulks that crossed the Atlantic to Islands in the Caribbean where just two dollars bought more than enough alcohol to forget and lithe young dark skinned woman for the whole of a night even if they were only forgotten and sweating warmth alongside.

Then at the opposite end of these rolling and huge swaying through the Atlantics high seas were the ports of Europe where the same occurred except more silver was needed and the grasses of mattresses more refined but still it was the same heathen crawl.

By this time too I think his own father had died, of a cancer in the stomach, and a step brother too morose from a war spent in bombers killing wholesale the innocent and the guilty, so it was only then my father and his slightly older brothers in a whole family of older women who altogether made flight to Canada to leave this bitter place.

Within all that which was so hard and crushing my father remembers high summers spent fleetingly at Lochs and a small and intensely loyal terrier which had a penchant for attacking and trying to kill old mens long beards so even in the Northerly place not quite North enough in it's mass to be really cold there seemed just enough sunlight, just enough warmth, to keep him knowing that smiles and laughter were precious.

And he knew tenderness too. Somehow as still a youth and on those rolling seas he saw the life almost completely beaten out of a man whos love was the kind not spoken of, that love which is furtive and secret but still just wants to be love. He saw this and he knew somehow it was more honourable than the rage that would kill it, stamp it out and leave it bending upon which ever surface it fell.

So I'm glad my father is walking again for the truth is he was boring me. It was just, when we sat in that small room, stories of his time in the Army. Stories of more drunken days and the stealing of trucks to go on binges where he was always freed of time in lockup because he wore his uniform well, his body filled it out and stood straight, so he was pulled early and shined up and stuck out the front to grace the high born.

And it was as if this trolling back was an invite to dementia alike his two sisters who have completely forgotten. That it was the years crying down to his green eyed soul and the flamed head was left shining that the recourse to a doctors easily prescribed advice had made the flames of his red locks engulf his legs and make them burn as if he stood waiting in some inner clarity aligned to his toughness that whilst others walked quickly upon flaming coals that my father stood still and waited for permissions none, it seemed, were willing to give.

So even Dresden and it's bombed out glories could hold him for long and bring him to forgetting. And me, it's taken me years and years and years to piece together all these fragments, not even necessarily because they were offered but because I too have chosen my own narrative. That somehow it was less about the grist of the stories, the chewy bone ends of the telling, and more about the changing perspectives somehow, despite worthy traumas and any significance that made the choreography a set of juxtapositions, that it was about choosing our own camera angles, directing our own scripts to even see beyond them.

In then comes the Canada days and me the first squalling infant who as soon as I found my legs whacked a head throbbing father across it's cranium with a bottle emptied the night before that ended all his drinking days. That my father who drenched his history had now to wake up and set things out for my own methods of undoing. For by this time my father had become a socialist, a man of union hopes, and that dull surge of righteousness called McCarthyism was instilling a pernicious and loathing  pride in it's adherents in the Maple leaf lands and men aligning with the carmine of Rus were disappearing in molten vats and under the crushing wheels of trains though mostly it seems that that matriarch who called me years later back to that land was a bitter rival for the now owned daughter, his sway in those circles about not having freedom in men so we found a plane willing to carry us far away.

I was seven and already far too old, already bitter somehow as I have found photos of this time and my eyes are much too distant and calculating. New Zealand became straight away an adventure and a forgetting place with my first freedom being finding myself alone, making sure I was, and climbing a very noble tree and jumping onto a high roof then scrambling up it's steep and dangerous to get atop the ridge of Parnell and having the whole magnificent harbour before me and knowing this was a place just for me, that calculating could end and the boredoms of the slow cast aside for real adventure.

Now I've lost the thread. It could be that the New Zealand story is so completely a new thing it cannot be joined to this. That all this clumping of the old world is such a different set of colours it demands it's own canvas... or I've simply had enough for one morning and the hot is here. I felt it on the cat, Tutti, as I rubbed across his silken back, him back in wondering if food has appeared. These are the things I trust... that cats become silky with heat, especially the new sun's grace, and so being lazy and soaking is a worthwhile thing.