The morning was in darkness.

Halloween had come and gone.

I was betting on the chances.

That something bright had shone.

Mist was drifting on the highway.

It was coming from the lakes.

Soon the cold won’t go away.

And we’ll be shivering with the shakes.

But today there will be blessings.

Might not know just what they are.

The dreamers are still dreaming.

In the hopes that they’ll go far.

She wakes me to say nothing… She doesn’t come by anymore.

I am tired of this dance.

“What are you doing she asks?”

‘I am waiting for you to grow up. ‘ I think.

I stay mostly silent.

What would be the purpose of words?

I love her smile and to watch her walk is like great song. There were brief moments of something long gone. I tried, but relationships are in in the rearveiw now.

In 1966, I was 7, and misunderstood that I was invited to a birthday party being hosted by a girl in my school. Clarification of my faux pas was delivered as I stood with gift in hand, by the shrill voice of a 7 year old host, who informed me that I wasn’t invited and the party was only for girls.

My daughter got an invitation to a Halloween party and she only hangs out with boys and was delivered a retraction to this invitation; a day before the party.

The similarly in both of these events besides the obvious is that in each instance, the mothers of each of the party hosts intervened and saved the day.

I think this is quite possibly where life’s problems begin. The Problem With Party’s.

At least that’s possibly true in my house.

The Challenge was in the heavens.

Our feet were on the ground.

There was this kind of silence.

Just a wind the only sound.

We kept on looking skywards.

Saw some clouds and flying tin.

Then a voice came out the shadows, said:

Might they have meant to look within?

“No… they said look towards the heavens.

And the heavens are in the skies…”

The words were spoke, doubt was cast:

And someone new, is now the new wise.

The zamboni whirled around the ice sheet making shine. The skaters waited. This is how we begin our Saturday’s these days. The Tim Hortons coffee shop is across the street. She took a bite of her blueberry muffin and explained.

“It’s soft with a crunchy surface; savory yet sweet… it’s really the perfect muffin.“

“You would make a great spokesperson for Tim Hortons. ” I offered.

She nodded and smiled.

I told her there are 3 things she should learn to do. Before I gave the list I added: You are not doing anything wrong. It’s all part of the learning curve. We all need to learn these things or learn how to suffer. She nodded.

1. Learn to mind your own business.

2. Listen more than you speak, and

3. Keep your hands to yourself: unless you have to defend yourself.

She nodded again…

I thought this was enough for 1 day.

‘This is the bottom… nothing could ever match this.’

Zach MacIver was only 11 years old, so really who could blame him for being so naive?

He was traveling in a hearse with his mother’s body in the trunk space behind him… 3 cardboard boxes of comic books layed beside her coffin and her only suitcase leaned against the comics that held everything else he owned.

The undertaker Carl, was dressed in black from head toe, and was driving them from his former home to where Margaret would be buried. Crying seemed no longer an option. Carl stared at the road emotionless. This was old hat for him. Death was just another day.

“The trip will be 3 hours.” Were the only words Carl spoke.

Zach wondered where he’d be living after Margaret was buried.

Decades later he was sitting in a crack house with 5 others in a moment of unbelievable silence. No one was jonesing or yapping or sharing nonsense. They were all it seemed strangely and silently satisfied. Zach sat in awe of this rarity of this moment and instinctively knew something spectacular was about to happen. He looked around at each of the faces and realized that he knew all their stories. There was rape and murder and incest and abandonment and tortured and Zach…

The realization came to him all at once. They all had one thing in common. Each of them had lost their immediate family. They all were alone even when they were together.

Zach got up and left silently. He knew he’d never be back and no one else was getting out alive. He now knew what bottom was.

Someone, not me said “No one is hated more than he who tells the truth.”

I have always called people on their bullshit, which means: I Am Difficult.

I think this part of my life is over because I don’t really care anymore who believes what.

I am now entering a new phase of silence and solitude. These are early days and I suspect there will be growing pains.

It’s the strangest thing watching the delusions of others… No matter what you say or show as evidence they say “no” or “nope!”

They would rather die it would seem then try something new. Just keep doing the same thing over and over, and fail at everything except being miserable.

Usually I don’t care. Sometimes I just observe. This time I was invested. To what end? You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make them sing the blues… or something like that.

I grew up in a place where it appeared to me that everyone I knew was like this, so this human trait is nothing new. I just find it The Strangest Thing that not everyone has received the memo that this is a losing hand.

World Peace

Domestic War

We love our Squabbles

That’s For Sure.