It is I suspect, what I remember least.

To have been young, with all that energy and possibility; and no money with zero opportunities. What a waste.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…

There are 3 things we must get into balance:

Sleep, work and play.

There are 3 principles that we should prioritize above everything else:

Spiritual, Physical/Emotional and Financial.

I have heard people say who are far wiser than me, that anything we put ahead of spiritual… we will lose.

The prevailing wisdom according to Billy is: One generation makes the money through generally hard work and the next 2 generations spend that wealth through the general malaise of laziness.

Of course there are exceptions, however there is much truth in Bill’s theories.

I have been looking at this phenomenon from a different perspective. Less judgment of hard work versus laziness and more of what type of parenting is created by those who have to work so hard to be wealthy at all costs.

Coming from the Anglican mold myself where we have been accused of trying to work our way to heaven… my general experience with this behavior is parenting by ‘do as I say or bare the fucking harsh  and severe consequences. ‘

No shortages of horror filled testimonials from this model.

Balance appears to me to be the missing ingredients in these failures of sustained wealth and family harmony.

All work and no play… came from somewhere real.

The road was clear and uncluttered. No promises existed here. This was the road less traveled.

Stay where you are and you have hardships.

Go with the herd and you have what the herd has.

Take the path less traveled and you will have hard work and responsibilities and a chance… No promises.

In retrospect I don’t miss the herd however I do think of them often.

A man in his 60’s shrouded in a blue parka screams obscenities at other pedestrians he meets on a blustery cold March morning, 2022.

I don’t know why he’s angry however I imagine it might have something to do with poverty.

I see them out here, the young native girl in the wheelchair struggling to get up the sidewalk to somewhere. The binge drinker Philapino Paul passed out on the sidewalk. Alexi the Mad Polish Man flicking cigarette butts at passersbys. The old woman with white hair picking up cigarette butts off the side walk in front of a local watering hole.

‘There but for the grace of God go I…’

This chant goes up in the rooms of A.A.

These cities chew them up and spit them out… And out of this comes art. Hard to believe.

Whenever I was younger and homeless or living in a sketchy rooming house; I always found enough money for a 24 hour gym membership.

This provided a reasonably secure locker, a place to shower and work out.

He stood outside the gym on Young Street for hours at a time, day and night with a sign around his neck which read… Literature For Idiots.

He was tall, between 40 and 50 with impeccable posture and straight black shoulder length hair and pitch black eyes. He wore a smirkish grin on his face and stared straight ahead. At his feet was a green army style backpack filled with multiple copies of his self published books of short stories. In his hands he held 2 of his books in front of his chest and waited for the Idiots.

I watched from a distance on good weather days to see how business was and although he received much attention; it appeared that sales were not good.

He noticed me watching him which seemed to please him.

A young man stopped and stared at the sign.

“Are you calling me an idiot?” His voice trailed as he stormed off without a response.

“Fucking moron!” He said, arms flailing in the air as he left.

I walked over to the man with the sign.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m good.” He smiled. “And you?”

“I’m ok… You seem to be getting them riled up with your sign. Anyone ever attack you?”

“Not yet. However I have been nervous about it a few times. That is the common response ; Are you calling me an idiot?”

“I have to ask. Why do you do it?”

“It started out about selling books… Now it’s kind of a social experiment. I have a tape recorder running and I record and edit the best responses and sell that too.”

I bought 2 of his books for $5 each. I never read them, however I did give them to a man who was living in the rooming house I was at and he read them.

The next time I saw my neighbor he was furious with me.

“Those fucking stories were awful!” He said.

“I never read them.” I answered.

“Then why the fuck would you buy that trash?” He screamed.

“Just wanted to support a writer is all.”

“Fucker wrote about a landlady woman on Wellesley he killed and cannibalized. I know that woman!”

“So she’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

” I think that is called fiction... idiot. “

The Missus has retreated. To her dark and shady lair.

Lights a candle for the mirror. So she can sit and stare.

In the eyes that hold the secrets. That no one can ever know.

Alone dancing at the shadows. Smoke swirl tween ash and glow.

“Ain’t nobody’s business… There’s gonna be hell to pay.”

After all the cryin’s done. The Missus is gonna go away.

She will be the burden, and carry one more tale to tell.

Details might be sketchy, don’t ask how this Martyr fell.

Being made to flee …

Taking what you can carry.

Praying for mercy!

Hoping to escape with your life and your children…

The Horror

I have lived in times of trouble.

Only troubles without war.

Is a little bit like saying.

I had less but wanted more.

I have lived a life of leisure.

From the hallways of the poor.

Complaining was the curse of voice.

Only laughter was the cure.

I experienced ‘ordinary madness‘ at an age that many are burdened with childhood.

The disadvantages of playful banter with friends and family were for me too awful to even imagine.

They went to great efforts to ensure I not spend too much time in the childish pursuit of play. The urgency fo me grapple the joys of adulthood as soon as humanly possible were not without transitional malfunction.

Only after reading Bukowski did I realize how common this condition was and I was able to settle in and dissect this infirmity of emotional instability.

I got lucky I guess. To be in procession of such insights and understanding are from what I can see; not ordinary.