Success - Haters Gonna Hate

 

The heavy hush is deafening as the professor makes his way down the rows of desks. Result after result is slowly  handed back, drawing out the painful wait. A stifled scream in the back row. A relieved sigh in the first. Some just stuff their papers into the depths of their bags and quickly hustle out. You hear his heavy footsteps before you even notice his eyes centered on you, picking you out amongst the hundreds. You watch as he places the stack of sheets on your desk, paralyzed with fear or shivering in anticipation. Is it actually bleeding red ink, or is it just you? Don’t even look him in the face, lest he lure you into a false sense of security... or impending doom. What will you do? Open it? Leave it until later? Shred it altogether? Try to ignore it, but everyone knows their Facebook Newsfeed is (even as they think) being flooded with posts of carefree consolation and outrageous outbursts. You’re going to find out some way or another. As you walk out, you overhear a classic conversation: 

 

“Oh man, that one kicked my ass.”

“Tell me about it. Gun-fellatio anyone?”

“Count me in.” 

“Oh yeah. How’d you do?”

“I’m so sick of this shit. A-, man.”

“Are you kidding me?! I barely scraped a C!”

 

What follows next is no secret. Mr. High-Achiever is mercilessly railed on for being an ungrateful git and an asshole. His friends tell him to shut his mouth and proceed to ignore anything he says for the next few minutes. Clearly, his only intention was to make them feel absolutely rotten about their marks and promote his own sense of pride and achievement. Right?

 

Wrong. Newsflash: Not everyone is equal. If that were so, I could as easily model for Sports Illustrated as Kate Upton - fortunately, bikinis just don’t do my curves justice. Each of us has a different set of standards, and we hold ourselves accountable to them. You came to school to study, to excel, and to (hopefully) do something you love. There will always be classes that you intensely dislike - even hate to the very core of your being - but are required to take nonetheless. Students face this in different ways. Either, “I’m going to do whatever it takes to knock this out of the park”, or “I’m going to do whatever it takes to pass and get it out of my way”. Whether you know it or not, you’ve adopted one of these mindsets. 

 

Some may tackle this hypothetical class aiming for the highest grade they can achieve. They may not come out of it with an A. Maybe not even a B. Whether or not this outcome was their fault is another discussion entirely, but what this proves is that people are not equal. So why should we expect them to hold themselves to the same standards? Furthermore, why should others trash them for achieving either higher - or lower - grades? 

 

On that note, I’m not vindicating these Mr. and Mrs. High-Achievers. There are definitely a fair number of them who take some sardonic delight in watching others feel miserable about their own marks, by promptlessly broadcasting their success to all those within earshot. No, this is instead a cry-out to more modest high-achievers: students who needn’t feel horrible about succeeding where others have failed. 

 

Please, for the love of curved-classes, keep your marks to yourself unless otherwise asked. Keep them quiet, because they are for you and you alone. At the same time, if you do ask someone about their grades, don’t self-righteously come out and attack them because they performed better than you. You asked for it, so move on. It’s the plague of all successful people, whether they’re ‘Good Guy Gregs’ or ‘Scumbag Steves’: Haters gonna hate.

 

We Are The Generation

We are the generation.

The generation of invisibility. The youth of older thought. We are the generation of iPods and Facebook. We hide in the weavings of the world wide web, taking solace and comfort in the muted transit behind blaring headphones, watching this human existence pass us by like leaves in the autumn wind - whisking us absentmindedly towards the cold, dark winter of our lives.

We are the sons of success, the daughters of defeat: expected always to do what we cannot, thought always to be less than we are. We are the masked faces of our insecurities, clothed in compensation and swathed in self-importance. Donning designers and bearing brands so that their names may outweigh our own, in the hopes that their outer exuberance will blot our our inner inadequacy.

We are the generation of wasted potential, of admitted defeat and of the road often traveled.

We cling to the pillars of the past, seeking comfort in their established security, though we look desperately forward. Our gaze fall slowly to the ground, for these thoughts of a future within our grasp are left unfulfilled. These thoughts are birds without wings, fish without fins, fires without heat and waters without wet. They may have dreams and hopes, but they haven't the force or drive to bring them there. This is our defeat. This is our end. This is our downfall.

Rise up. Rise against the forces of self-defeat and indecision. Do not doubt our power. Do not simply fall into mutual silence, quiet against the deafening storm of the present - for the future is ours, and it comes immediately after. If we are not ready, it shall slip from our grasp, and we will have no one to blame but ourselves.

We are the generation of hidden stories, lost livelihood and buried burdens. The elders of juvenile ideas. We are the generation of political activism and societal revival. We stand proud before our culture of anonymity and empowered-differences.

I am not only me, but one part of we. We are the generation, and we must stand together.

Constant

Stronger together,

Than we are alone.

Risks and gambles,

Against the unknown.

Constant, this love,

this love that has grown.

Flowing always,

Like river against stone.

A wayward ship,

At the beck of the breeze.

Tossed to and fro,

Upon these high seas.

But where to rest?

No port kept ready.

You are my anchor.

You keep me steady.

This love my dear,

It keeps us whole.

Fills our mind,

Our heart, our soul.

Never dwindling,

But always so bright.

Standing tall,

Set to take flight

Like birds in may,

Soar to new heights,

Through good and bad,

Past pleasure and plight.

So here I scrawl:

Continue this fight,

This battle, this brawl.

Against our might

Obstacles fall,

Day or night

Big or small,

Remember, sweetheart:

Love conquers all.

For Shalina

The House (part III)

As he walked, he noticed that the trees on either side of the road grew smaller and smaller, younger and younger, barer and barer. Eventually he came upon the oldest tree on the road. As far as anyone could tell, it was one of the oldest trees in Dover. Even ol’ Mr. Peasley could remember it from when he was a “strapping young lad”. The townspeople had insisted it be preserved against any and all construction, so that it would live and become a part of their childrens’ lives just as it had been in theirs’. For generations and generations, the old tree (which everyone had come to fondly call “Old Father”) had been a meeting place, a climbing point and place where people would come to just relax. There was something about that beautiful old tree that cast an aura of serenity over everyone and everything around it. But when James grew closer, his expression of admiration and love turned to one of horror. The tree was bare. No leaves. No birds. No bark. It was doubled over, almost as if in pain, forced to bow to some unseen foe. James slowly approached it, reaching a quivering hand towards the tree’s withered body. Where there was once life and vitality, he could feel only pain and sorrow coursing through the tree’s trunk, leaving him with a feeling of emptiness and drawing any last trace of hope and happiness from his heart. He slumped to his knees, still trying to cradle some life into the old tree. His head bowed, the tears started welling up and began their race from his eyes, down his cheek until they fell to the cold, dry earth surrounding the old birch.

What was that? James whipped his head up and around, quickly scanning the area. He got to his feet and wiped the tears and trails from his face with the sleeve of his jumper. He could have sworn he’d heard something. Maybe a rat? The little buggers seemed to plague the city during the warmer summer months. But no, it sounded… bigger. He spun slowly around in a circle. The thing, whatever it was, seemed to be circling around; waiting for the perfect time to strike. His eyes jumping from shadow to shadow, James could never be sure where it was. It seemed every time he shifted his gaze, it was just a step ahead of him.

Finally, the padding noise stopped indefinitely. James straightened up, leaning against the Old Father for support as he drew in a few breaths. He looked up: he’d made full circle around the tree and was now facing the house. That same mysterious house that none of the boys could remember ever having existed before. It stood out against all the small cottages and shacks that lined the small crescent, towering above them, overshadowing ever inch of the quaint homes. It stretched out to meet James, grasping his very soul in a grip that he couldn’t find the will to escape. He didn’t want to.

Slowly, step-by-step, he moved towards the great gate that offered only a glimpse of the massive estate. It stood stern and silent, despite the wind that still howled around it. Its hinges well-fixed and oiled, the gate look down upon the boy, taking in every thing it could. James could only look through the strong bars, across the front lawn, at the face of the house. It stared him down, its massive three-story windows leering at him in the most curious way – as if he were as strange to it, as it was to him. James stared deeper into its eyes, as it did the same to him, drawing him in deeper and deeper until suddenly, the long maroon curtains were thrown back. A blinding light was thrown out with such force that James was knocked onto his back, shielding his eyes into the corner of his elbow. Then, as quickly as it had come, it vanished – imprisoned once again by the long curtains that swept back out to contain it. James peeked out from behind his arm, and once he was sure that it was safe, got to his feet. He turned to go, determined to leave the house far behind him, but then heard the heavy padding noise from before. He stopped dead in his tracks, and turned his head slowly to look back at the house. It stood as it had before, no different than it had looked before when he had been standing at its gates only hours ago with his brothers. He turned completely, walking towards the barrier once more. Its metal so smooth, glimmering in the light of the moon, drew him to it. He reached out his hand towards it, closing his eyes, waiting for its cool touch beneath his fingertips. But it never came. He opened his eyes, and the gates stood wide open, inviting him to follow their path. So silently, so quickly, so swiftly – he had not even heard them swing open. The small lanterns swung in the wind, beckoning him to follow their soft motion. He looked back through the gates behind him, his eyes falling on the Old Father, lost, forlorn and weak against an unseen force. James took a step. Then another. And another. Before he knew it, his right foot had risen to the first step of the front porch. The roof loomed above him; a comforting, yet overwhelming protector. He blinked, and the massive black door stood before him, gleaming with its own light against the darkness of the night sky; deprived of the stars and the moon fled. He looked at the strong, stern face of the door knocker; a giant goblin with a ring through its hideously grotesque and pointed nose. He lifted his hands, and suddenly, from far behind him, he heard quick, hurried footsteps and the sound of Flynn’s voice rang through the thin, night air: “JAMES! What’re yeh doin?! COME BACK! DON’T D-” But James didn’t shift his gaze from the door. He reached out, Flynn still screaming at him to stop, and grasped the ancient door knocker. Its eyes grew wide in terror and its mouth opened in a silent scream, before they were all plunged into darkness.

Flynn awoke with a startled cry, his eyes pouring with tears, his voice hoarse and sweat flowing from every inch of his body. His head whipped around, scouring every corner of the small treehouse, jumping from Ronny, to Keith, to… “Where’s James?!”

Fin

The House (part II)

James’ eyes flew open. Sweat poured from every pore, and he shivered in the cool, summer night. The small treehouse spun around him as he tried to steady himself with both hands, propping his arms against the wall. Panic subsided as he realized it was only a dream, and yet the longer he thought about it, the less he remembered. Images and split-second frames flew in and out of his mind, before he could process them and decide what they were. Eventually, he gave up and discarded them altogether, instead trying to focus on the room itself.

The small lantern they’d left on shone confidently in the middle between the four boys, its flame dancing with the soft breeze. Although its light wasn’t bright enough to reach every nook and cranny in the treehouse, James could still make out the forms of Ronny, Keith and his older brother; their chests rising and falling steadily with every breath. He tip-toed across the padded floor of the tree house, opened the small trapdoor and crawled out onto the rope ladder that creaked with every step he took. He dropped the last few steps to the ground and turned to look at the small home. Every light was off, so he knew his mother had gone to bed already. He looked at his bare wrist, and realized he’d left his watch up in the treehouse. He turned to climb back up, but thought better of it and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Spinning around, he walked out from behind the house and onto the street. This part of town, one of the oldest in Dover (ol’ Mr. Peasley would say Mr. Dickens was inspired by “this same road”) still had the old street lights, whose circuitry was rather faulty and were prone to turning on and off with a mind of their own. But if one had ever gone off, another would’ve brightened up to take its place. James couldn’t remember a time when they’d all been out completely.

But as he wandered onto the street, he was ambushed by darkness. Even the stars had sought refuge deep in the sky’s folds, and refused to come out. James’ breath grew shallow and a long, cold shiver ran down his spine, he quickly spun around in a full circle, expecting something to come from the silent blackness that had enslaved the lonely street. He groped around helplessly, forgetting where he had come from, and in which direction the street ran. His heartbeat pounded through his chest, echoing it seemed from every direction and deafened the young boy. Void of sight, sound and too petrified to even focus on what he could smell, James’s mind dashed back and forth in fear from idea to idea, from what he thought might have brushed past his arm to what he thought might have been a breath on his the back of his neck. He whirled around, his arms whipping through the darkness, trying to rip down the black curtain that robbed him of all sense. Something jumped up and grabbed his foot, as he quickly lost balance and tumbled to the ground.

He lay there, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg and hoping with every inch of his soul that someone or something would save him. Then, as if in answer to his prayer, the moon silently crept out from behind her cloudy prison and the street was bathed in a clean, pure white light. James lay there for a few moments, not altogether sure of what to make of all this. He waited, the silence interrupted only by the pitter-patter of small feet near the sewer and the soft, flapping of an owl’s wings. His eyelids clamped shut and his body locked in a fetal position, he awaited his doom. But whatever had tugged at his foot had not come to finish the job. He was quite sure he was still in one piece, so he let his hand slide down to his legs. He sighed, Yes, they were still there. His older brother’s words echoed in his head, from years ago:

“Yeh know James, the evil creatures of the night? They’s smart. When they getcha, make sure yeh protect yer legs. They go fer ‘em first, yeh see, so’s yeh can’t run away.”

Finally, quite sure that everything was safe; he got up, brushed himself off and looked for the source of his fall. An old, gnarly root slithered out from the feet of one of the giant oak trees lining Curious Crescent that kept guard over the neighbourhood. He looked up into the branches of the old guardian as it towered over him. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he suddenly felt safer than he had before, in the presence of the giant tree. Suddenly the cool night air, that had been still not a moment before, picked up a quick gust of wind that sent leaves and newspapers tumbling down the road out of the key. The tree stood majestically, unflinchingly against the wind and James took one last, admiring look at the old tree before following in the wind’s wake.

As he went further, the old, rusted lampposts grew dimmer and dimmer until the light of the moon and her children were all that remained. Although the darkness seemed to cluster around him, almost drawing out his every breath against his will, the celestial beacon shone loyally down on him. He was filled with a sense of courage, that he was not alone on his venture. He took in a deep breath and pressed on.

The House (part I)

The house seemed pretty new. In fact, none of them could remember it being there the day before. But as the four boys stood there, gazing up at it, they could only wonder in awe. Had you been standing there, you wouldn’t have said it was beautiful. But you wouldn’t have said it was ugly either. It was rather puzzling; this massive house standing on the exact spot where there had been nothing but a few trees and some grass the day before – that’s what the boys would have crossed-their-hearts and sworn to you, at least. And yet they stood there, and the more they stared up at that giant house, the more interesting they found it.

Why it was interesting, none of them could have told you. It just was. The wide, red cobblestone path that made its way from the pavement was guarded step-by-step, side-by-side by small hanging lanterns, until it reached the front porch. Supported by four colossal pillars, the entire house seemed to be hunching over the covered portal. Tall, arched windows grew several meters high on either side of the front door and porch, with long maroon curtains that fell from top to bottom; drawn shut to lock out light… and spying eyes. The house stood three stories tall, its shadow looming over the garden that stretched out to meet them – were it not for the gate. Before house, path, garden and all stood an enormous wrought-iron gate, adorned with gold-crested leaves and thorned, ivy vines that wound their way around the gate’s height. A strange gust of wind swept out from behind the boys, blowing the small lanterns on the path back and forth; their tiny lights flickering teasingly. It was almost as if the entire building were beckoning to them.

“I like it,” said the smallest of the four.

“Shut it Ronny, you like everything,” said James, not taking his eyes off the house. Ronny scowled, but turned back to stare at it again; mesmerized.

They were silent for another while, before the tallest turned to the other three and said “Alright lads, s’more than enough. Let’s head back in. Mum’ll have supper set out.” But the words had scarcely left his mouth, then a shrill cry could be heard echoing from the crescent’s key.

“Buggerin’ hell,” said Flynn “There she goes, didn’t I tell yeh? Now we’re gonna get it!”

The three elder boys quickly sprinted off towards the impatient cries, leaving Ronny still rooted to the spot and staring at the house until Flynn had run back and tugged him painfully by the ear.

When the four boys arrived, out-of-breath and red-faced at the front porch of number 27, they were greeted by a short, plump woman in what must have been at one point, a white apron. She was wielding a rather long, wooden spoon and was tapping her foot impatiently. She ushered the boys in quickly, rapping each of them sharply on the head as they passed through the door. A few bowls of beef stew and some dishwashing later, the four boys rushed outside to the old birch tree that stood solemnly in the corner of the garden. Climbing a fraying, brown rope ladder, they crawled into the small wooden house that sat nestled among the old tree’s strong arms.

“Keith, are yeh sure yer mum won’t mind yeh stayin’ here with us ‘fer a while?” asked Flynn.

“Nah, she’ll be just fine, dontcha worry,” said the young boy with the flaming red hair.

“Well, alright. What about you Ronny? Won’t yer mum be worried with you stayin’ out so late? I mean, yeh’re only 10 after all,” said Flynn, turning to the little golden-haired boy.

“10 ‘nd a half,” grumbled Ronny “I’m 10 ‘nd a half, and my mum can’t tell me what te do anyways! I’m old enough!”

Flynn looked to his younger brother James, who shrugged and laid back on the pillows and blankets that were strewn across the tree house floor.

The cool, July air that came in from the south breezed through the tiny town of Dover and the four boys could smell the faint sea-scent of the ocean, as they sat up in their little tree house, isolated in their safe-haven from the rest of the world. Swapping stories, jokes and laughs, they lay back on the cushioned floor of the tree house and by the time they looked out the windows, the sun had already sunk beneath the horizon, leaving the sky streaked with brilliant shades of orange, yellow and red. Soon enough, stories ran out, laughs grew thin and one by one the four boys nodded off to sleep.

A Lovely Lie (part III)

The rain started to fall slowly, lightly. More lightning lit up her face beneath her hood, and I noticed that those eyes no longer held their usual lustre. Something was wrong. The rain fell harder. I went to throw my arms around her, but she backed away. I was at a loss. I wasn’t sure what to do; my thoughts were streets behind my emotions. I reached my hand into my pocket, but she just shook her head at me. I couldn’t make out what she said, her voice drowned out by the thundering skies, and the rain was falling so hard I could barely keep my eyes open. She seemed so calm in her long black coat as she spun on her heel and walked away, leaving me standing there cold, alone, bewildered and soaked to the skin. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t know what to think. So I slumped down underneath one of the street lights, and sat there with the rain pounding down upon my bare head, lost in the empty expanses of my mind. Until daybreak, when the sun’s sweet rays shone through the depleted clouds, I sat underneath that street light. No ideas, no thoughts and no ideas came to me.

I finally picked myself up, ran my hand through my hair, sweeping it out of my eyes, and walked back to my car. I revved the engine and wheeled out onto Main Street, onto the highway, towards the beach and the present moment where I find myself now.

I sit here in the sand with my back against my trusty Ford, looking out onto the waves. The deep blue sea stretches out its frothing arms towards me, beckoning to me again. I realize that I was living in a dream. I was a prisoner of my own design, incarcerated in an illusion of my own making. In creating such a flawless image of Love, I had doomed myself. I had built a wall of lies to shield myself from the hideous truth: this was not Love. I was my own worst enemy. I can't even remember the web of thought I had disentangled last night - I don't care, either. 

Did I even know her?

The sky gently lifts the sun from her bed beneath the horizon as the morning sky welcomes her arrival with warm tones of red and yellow.

Why did I love her?

The gulls squawk as they flap into formation, heading south for warmer seas, for new adventures and new lives.

Was it real?

The milkman’s truck races down the highway behind me, his rusty beloved Chevy late for its old, familiar routine.

What was the point of it all?

The sweet smell of the morning dew wafts down from the meadows and the fields of Old Man Pidget’s farm, mixing with the spray of the incoming tide.

What is Love?

I look down; I’m unconsciously fiddling with the little box. I had forgotten all about it. I flick it upon and closed, its contents wink at me through its velvet pillow. I get up and the Ford groans under the support I’ve asked of it. I have to lean against it for a few seconds until my balance returns to me, before I start towards the beach again. I kick off my shoes and wade out into the water in my jeans. I flick the box upon one last time, sigh and grin. The box clicks shut as I wind up and whirl it out to sea. I don’t hear its trivial splash among the deafening crashes of the tide against the rocky shore.

I walk into Mike’s a few minutes later, my jeans still dripping and smelling of sea salt. He knows better than to ask. He nods at me and smiles: “Don’t worry ‘bout it”. He knows. In all likelihood, the entire town knows. It’s not a big place. It was probably Ronnie’s fault; he can’t keep his bloody mouth shut. “One root beer float, comin’ up…” yanks me back to the present. I lean over towards the tiny Italian and grin: “Mike. I’m twenty-three for Christ’s sake; make it a shot of Bourbon.”

Fin

A Lovely Lie (part II)

Every odd day, every stray night, every bottomless hour I spent thinking of her. She consumed my every thought. Every song I wrote, every note I played, every word that left my lips was for her and only her. We’d meet in the dead of night, and we’d drive as fast and as far as we could. I had lost all logic, all rationality, and all sense. It was for those brief hours with her that I now lived. My life had new meaning, and I embraced it with all my heart’s ardour, never once looking back. We spent the night in my car, overlooking the ocean, the city or the forests, awaiting the dawn’s early gaze as the sun peeked her head above the horizon, giving new life to our love. Our kisses would last hours, and we would never grow tired of each other’s company. I would pack a picnic basket and we’d drive down to the beach, steal a yacht from the marina for the afternoon, and I would serenade her with my guitar’s gentle chords as the beckoning waves swept us out towards the horizon. I never felt so at peace as when she lay sleeping in my arms, the only sounds that pulled us back to reality being the gentle lapping of the waves against the yacht’s hull, the squawking gulls overhead and the firm, steady beating of her heart beneath her chest. The first time we made love, the night never knew such passion. The soft, smooth, warm touch of her skin brought out the rough, coarse and calloused skin of my hands as they held her tight. I hated my hands, though she would never cease to tell me she loved them. Every little detail of myself I despised, she seemed to rejoice and take comfort in, leaving me with a sense of fulfillment. I felt invincible, as if no evil, no sin and no wickedness could touch me. As our getaways grew more and more frequent, I began to think past them. My mind’s eye turned to the future and to the wonders it too would hold for me and her, together. I asked her about her family, but she would quickly change the subject and I, being too weak to push the matter further, let her. I would bring it up from time to time, but she’d toss it aside, finally asking me to just leave it alone. I did.

Patience has never been my forte, and so one afternoon I popped in to see my pal Ronnie. Ronnie’s family owned a small jeweller’s shop at the corner of Hall and Oates, and we’d been friends since primary school. But this time I wasn’t there to chat: I was in and out in less than twenty minutes. I gently slid the small box in my right jacket pocket and stopped by Mr. Johnston’s garage to fill up my car with what little money I had left. A few hours later I was standing in front of our customary rendezvous, the car still running, waiting for her. I drummed my fingers on the dashboard, tapping my foot in anticipation. Why was she so late? It had taken four hours in line, an hour of bartering, arguing and thirty dollars to bribe Mickey at the movie house for two tickets to that new Humphrey Bogart picture with Ingrid Bergman. Maybe she was waiting there for me, so I kicked in the clutch and the Ford roared to life. I pulled into the Jackson Theatre parking lot a few minutes later and decided to wait at the front door. The sky darkened, clouds rushed onto the scene, blotting out the moon, the stars and the night sky. I saw lightning light up the heavens before it bellowed through the streets, shaking the street lights and causing them to flicker like candles in the wind. It must have been so loud that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me, so when I felt a hand tap my shoulder I whirled around, my heart in my throat.

I Want To Give

For Shalina. Merry Christmas, baby.

A few days ago, my girl and I drove downtown to donate some non-perishables. We loaded two cardboard boxes heaped with cans of beans, soups, corn, fruit and peas into the back of the car, and headed out. Traffic was terrible and the icy roads didn't help, as we watched cars helplessly slip n' slide through intersections and in-and-out of their lanes - their winter tire investments coming up short. But the weather was beautiful. The morning sun shone effortlessly through the sparse clouds that littered the bright blue sky, bathing our little city in an ironic December warmth. The drive was lovely and it set the mood for what was to come.

We pulled into the closed school's parking lot a little while after, but it was almost full. I squeezed the car into a spot near the back, lodged between two giant Chevy Suburbans, and hopped out. Popping the trunk, we took the first box and began the long trek towards the school's doors, but before we could make it even halfway the doors swung wide open. A young man (couldn't have been much older than me) burst from the opening and tried to keep his balance on the icy pavement as he sprinted out towards us.

"Hold on!" he yelled out "Lemme help you guys with that!"

We were a little taken aback, so we froze.

He didn't stop to catch his breath in the brisk morning air as he skidded to a halt in front of us: "Let me take that from you! I'm Bobby, by the way." Before I could say another word, he gently took the box from my arms, smiled and nodded his head in the direction of the school. "Follow me!" he grinned and, have first made sure that we were in fact following him, began walking back.

"This looks great!" he said over his shoulder, "Thanks so much! I just know the family this is going to will be absolutely thrilled!"

I could see the smile spreading on my baby's face as she gripped my hand tighter in hers. There was even a noticeable skip in her step. It made me smile too. She piped up:

"We've got another box in the car, actually."

Bobby spun around suddenly. "Another box?!"

She nodded.

He looked down at the heaping contents. "Well, that's just… amazing! Thanks!" Shifting the heavy load in his arms, "As you can see, we're rather busy, but I'll go put this inside, if you wouldn't mind grabbing the other one?"

I shook my head and smiled. "No, that's entirely out of the question. I've never heard such insanity."

Bobby looked taken aback, but my girl lifted her arms and cut in. "Oh, don't mind him. He's got a weird sense of humour. We'll be right back!" She grabbed my arm, spun on her heel and tugged me back towards the car. Bobby smiled, shrugged and continued walking on.

"Don't be silly." She smiled, "Not everyone knows you're an idiot."

I swung her hand back and forth like a child. "Can't help it. It's in my blood." Grinning, "Besides, I do it SO well."

She laughed and playfully nudged me with one shoulder. We got the second box out of the car and started walking back towards the school once again. I hadn't been entirely delighted about getting up early, but seeing the smile on her face, I would do it a thousand times over. And a thousand times again. The warmth in her face, the light in her eyes, the bounce in her step and the song in her voice. I mean, she's already one of the happiest, optimistic people I know - but this kind of joy and cheer was special. I'd be a damned liar if I said it hadn't already rubbed off on me.

We finally reached the school doors, but we weren't alone. Shuffling from cold foot to foot, stood an old woman. Her withered face hid under an old grey hat, but the piercing blue eyes studied everything around her from its shelter. Confident? No. Uncomfortable? Possibly. Shy? Definitely. In an old knit-green sweater that hung like a drape on her short form, she tried to avert her eyes from the couple that now approached her. She eyed the box we carried, but wouldn't dare look us in the eye. It was as if she'd been here before, no stranger to the school's shelter, but felt an outsider all the same.

"Merry Christmas." we said in unison.

She kept shuffling uncomfortably, but we managed to make out a small "Merry Christmas" from underneath the hat and through the tattered scarf that wound its way around her neck. The awkward silence was shattered as the doors banged open and Bobby walked out.

"You weren't kidding!" He said gladly, looking at our cargo. The old lady caught his eye and he turned his head towards her. "Oh, hi there! I'll be right with you!"

But, being the person she is, my girl spoke up again. "That's alright! We've got time." And we stepped back to give the lady some room.

She finally looked at us, locking eyes with the pretty girl at my side. She didn't say thanks, but her eyes did the talking. Even my blithering mind could see it. She turned to face Bobby and in a frail voice, started to speak.

"Well, I don't really have a call-number you see… because I haven't the money to buy for a whole family." She shifted in that old, sickly-green sweater and shoved her black gloved hands into the ratty canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Pulling out two lone cans of soup, she went on. "This soup's all I have to give, and I was just wondering if you could add it to the other carts?"

Bobby broke out into that contagious smile and laughed. "Sure, of course! Thanks so much!"

She nodded quickly and gently placed the two cans in his outstretched hands. The shy look on her face never dwindled and she kept her eyes near the ground. She almost bowed a small 'thank you' and, turning around slowly, she began walking away.

We were all taken aback, our jaws on the ground. She looked so hungry herself, and was probably one of the people that came here each year to collect some food for the holidays. Yet, here she stood giving what she could simply for the spirit of giving. Eventually, Bobby called out to the old lady as she reached the edge of the parking lot: "A very Merry Christmas to you!"

The rest is pretty standard. We left the second box in the school, wished the volunteers a Merry Christmas and began the drive back home. But I could feel the true spirit of Christmas that day. It wasn't how much you gave, but how you gave it. It's true, we had donated two whole boxes rather than two cans - but there was so much more we could have given. We weren't lacking in food. We hadn't known true hunger (except for when my girlfriend actually cooks). We had never been forced to swallow our pride and ask for help when it came to our basic needs. I couldn't even begin to imagine what that would be like, neither of us could. Giving is not a number, it's a feeling. It's not a means, it's an end. It's not consumerism, it's love. Love of the truest, most basic and fundamental kind: love for another human being. Not someone you know, relate to or even like - but love for someone who you know needs it.

To watch that old lady give a day worth of meals away, her hunger eating away at her body and mind, drove me. It was that tiny tinge of being outdone, watching someone give so little, yet give so MUCH. But with that sense of competition and loss, came a surge of power: to know that whoever received those cans would be more grateful than I had imagined. To me, two boxes of food was pocket change. To someone in need, it was new life. It was hope. I felt a hunger to feed hunger. A need to quench need. Desperate to quell desperation.

We sat in the car driving back, as Peggy Lee drifted out of our radio and filled the car: "It's that time of year, when the world falls in love…".

My girl gripped my hand as I kept my eyes on the road: "Baby?" she said.

"Mhmm?" I replied.

"I want to give to the world."

A Lovely Lie (part I)

I gripped the steering wheel tighter and adjusted my mirrors. It was just so unnerving; I tried to focus on the road. I looked out the window at the sun as it finally dipped its head beneath the horizon, shedding its orange hues across the incoming tide. The waves lapped at the beach sand, coming in and going out, beckoning to me… the way she beckoned to me. Damn, I thought, it’s not working. I shuddered and turned on the radio, as Frankie’s words floated out on the cool night air: “Strangers in the night… lovers at first sight…” I cursed loudly, as I flicked off the box; nothing was working. I took the next exit and parked the Ford off on the beach. It was getting darker, and the stars had started to blink their eyes open, twinkling in the celestial darkness, awaiting the moon’s arrival. I stepped out of the car, slammed the door shut and shoved my fists into my pockets. I walked out towards the shoreline, kicking stray pebbles, trying to focus on anything, anything but her. I felt around in my pocket and pulled out my velvet kerchief. Opening it up, the number and name that had been scrawled on it so many weeks ago at that diner were barely visible; “Lily” and then an outline of red lipstick. That had been so long ago, before the doubt set in. I muttered to myself, turned and began to stroll down alongside the lapping waves. I could remember it as clearly as if it had been only been a few hours ago, rather than a few months.

The couples walking hand in hand, laughing and smiling as they walked down the streets, sharing kisses and sunsets together, nights in each others’ arms, left me only able to hope for such bliss. A novice in such matters, almost a mere babe though I’m already 23 years old, I knew next to nothing about Love and its fickle whims. I walked into Mike’s on Amorous Street, took an empty booth all to myself and pulled a tattered book out my pocket. It’s binding weary with age, its pages far from crisp, scarred with hours upon hours of constant flicking and handling: The Great Gatsby. The light from the window was suddenly dimmed as she stood next to my table. I looked up and tried to squint through the bright sunlight that outlined her frame. I couldn’t see her clearly, so I gave up trying and just ordered my regular; a root beer float with extra ice cream. It was childish, I know, but it must’ve appealed to her because she sat down across from me when she brought it to my table. I finally got a good look at her; the window bathing her in the sun’s warmth, her hair done up in a ponytail. She stared at me, a boyish grin spreading across her face as she reached back and pulled her hair out, letting it cascade down in rich golden curls to her upper back. I had only been peering up from the book now and then until that point, until I finally decided to look up altogether. Her eyes struck me first. Dark blue sapphires gazed back at me, their centres fading into a comforting grey, like the sea after a storm. I felt like I should be more subtle, or at least more polite, but it seemed almost an insult not to stare. I must have looked so pathetic, trying to avert my eyes, but staring all the same. They weren’t just mesmerizing, they were imprisoning, and it scared me for a moment that such power could exist in so simple a thing. Yet I leapt into it willingly, without a second thought.

Things only went downhill from there. She asked me for my handkerchief, to wipe the oil from her hands, and I obeyed like a small pup; already putty in her hands. She took it, turning it over and stroked it, feeling the velvet embroidery of my initials between her thumb and forefinger. I shivered and shuddered with every gentle stroke of her fingers, every smooth caress, as if she’d captured my soul within that small fabric. She looked up at me, smiling all the while, and began to fold it neatly. Her eyes still on me, she lifted it to her lips; those lush, soft-as-petal lips, and gently kissed it. I took in a sharp breath, as she placed it on the table and slid it over towards me. She took a small sip of my float, flashed her devilishly seductive smile, that boyish grin that captured me so, got up from her seat and walked away. I let loose my breath, feeling reborn; as though every shade and every tint of colour in the world had been amplified a dozen times over. The orange walls bloomed like a pond of tiger lilies, the red ford parked outside blossomed like a bouquet of roses and the yellow doors down the street sprung to life like a row of daffodils. I sighed and looked down at her parting gift. Handwritten in a dark blue fountain pen were 7 digits. They might as well have been letters spelling my “despair”.

The Written Word

The written word is freedom. Where this world has limits, it has none: it can be anything and everything. From a field of endless possibilities to a sea of unchartered waters, it revises, refines and reshapes into anything it needs to; adjusting, adapting and altering its very being to achieve its end.


It is strong, it is fearless and it is proud. It knows what it wants, it knows what it needs and it asks for nothing.

It is unselfish and ungrudging, offering only life and light for those who will hear its voice. Never forget it, and it will never forget you. It will serve you with undying loyalty through the good and the bad, the light and the darkness with all the passion and devotion it can afford. 


It is an ally to be loved and an enemy to be feared. Learn it, love it, live it and you will know true immortality.


It is a friend of the truest kind, and it is beautiful beyond the boundless reaches of the imagination.

Blossom Of Our Knowledge

Age and damage have not withered this bloom,

As long as words live, reality's doom

Cannot touch it. It lies in kept fields.

Untainted by today, Respect is its shield.

It gathers its spores as time rushes ahead,

Until it is plucked for some light to be shed.

Forever generous, so willing to share.

A task so eternal, its vast knowledge to bear.

Step in through the portal, the petals reveal

A new teeming world at your feet does kneel.

The overwhelming beauty of a place unknown,

A unique view of the world is sown.

A mirror to the past, of beliefs and ideas.

A look to the future, of thoughts and fears.

Leather's coccoon, within lies Beauty's devotion,

Binding its pages, my mind and emotion.

But now my friend, this tale is at its end.

Leave this world and let another transcend.

 

 

Never

I had always been a deep sleeper, but not entirely unobservant. Heaving my heavy eyelids open, the first thing I saw was the rain on my window pane. I quickly looked over at my brother's bed. Empty.

"Huh." I sighed. There'd been a thunderstorm.

I lay on my back a while. I didn't wanna go back to school. The second week of 4th grade was off to a rocky start, but at least it wasn't Monday anymore.

"Four more days til the weekend..." I thought, staring at the ceiling.

My bed and blanket was wrapped around me like a coccoon and I tried to roll back into the comforting warmth. Instead, I ended up rolling off the bed completely and hitting the floor, winding me as the air was driven from my lungs with a groan. I struggled to my feet, tending to my sore back and pulled on a pair of worn jeans and a Sex Pistols T-shirt. Groggily dragging myself into the bathroom, I finished washing up and slumped down the white carpeted stairs with only one thought on my mind: Breakfast. I walked past my parents bedroom, passing long enough to glimpse my baby brother sprawled all over their covers. Lucky bugger didn't need to get up and go to school. I kept going past the kitchen and into the living room.

My parents didn't even turn around to say 'good morning'. Odd. Instead, they were sitting on the edge of their seats on one of the sofas. Mum was close to tears; her face turned away and tucked into my dad's neck. Dad had his giant, tree-trunk arm gently wrapped around her - keeping her safe. Mum began to sob, and that didn't happen often. It was only then that I noticed the tele.

I slowly drew closer to the couches, careful not to make any noise. I let my hands slowly grasp the sofa's soft, supple leather and watched as a pair of jumbo jets flew dead into two towering sky-scrapers. Watched as infernos erupted and piercing screams rang out. Watched as clouds of smoke billowed from the two dying giants. Watched the ensuing chaos. The fear. The terror. The horror.

"Make it stop, Ollie. My god, why? Why?!" sobbed Mum into my dad's royal blue shirt. He said nothing - just held her closer, flinching each time the planes crashed and re-crashed, as the nauseating clips was played over and over.

Something yawned behind me and a small, dazed voice managed to say: "What movie are you guys watching?"

They finally turned around to look at us. "It's not a movie, baby. It's real." struggled Mum.

My eyes never left the screen.



It's been ten years. Ten long years since that day. Some of us remember where we were when it happened, some don't and some of us can never forget.

The opening ceremony of the 9/11 Memorial is a testament to that fact. The two cascading waterfalls, moulded into the once-lost footprints of the two towers, were visually stirring. The rebuilding of of one tower - as of yet not complete, even after ten years - kindles hope. And the aloud-reading of the victims' names lended an emotional hand to their families and friends.

However, when now-Mayor Michael Bloomberg said people should no longer refer to this place as "Ground Zero" because "that's in the past", I shuddered. Why? Why the hell shouldn't we call it that? Why the bloody hell should we forget that this was not a simple tragedy, nor a natural disaster, nor a tragic accident? This was pure, unmitigated evil. There is no other word for it.

Yes, this memorial now stands to commemorate the dead - but history knows no better commemoration than Justice herself in all her beautiful glory. I say, never forget what happened here. Never forget why these innocent people died. Never forget what we still fight for. Never.

Expunging the reason and the truth behind this beautiful testament, this magnificent memorial, is to forget our reason. To forget this reason - while hundreds of thousands Americans and Canadians continue to lay down their lives each day in chilling courage and bravery - is the true travesty. We can never allow this to happen. Never.

We are still neck-deep in this war. It is not over. Churchill didn't tour London during Hitler's blitz with a comforting hand, trying to brush the dirt and debris over the whole mess - he called for victory! Roosevelt didn't just pat the surviving troops on the back after the destruction at Pearl Harbour - he called for triumph! Finish and bring the boys home, I say. 9/11 must never cease to be a day of remembrance and empowerment. Never.

This war is not about gold. Not about god. Not about glory. Not about resources, faith or vengeance. It's about Justice - something we must remember.

A decade it's been now. History will never forget, just as America never has and never should. Never stop remembering. Never.

How Dumb I've Become

School's not cool. Whoever said that?

Must've been a fool, some smart-ass brat.

Books, studying and wide-eyed nights.

Already wishing for my own last rites.

Missing the summer, the clear warm days.

The good times, great times, now all a haze...

And yet here I lie, awaiting the sun.

To hear some black-tie tell me how dumb I've become.

Burns & Bruises

Her awkward, tiny steps down the street set her apart, but nobody bothers to notice. She passes in and out of our peripherals, like a blindspot we've grown accustomed to ignoring... to forgetting. Time has bent her now crooked back, weighed down under a lifetime of trial and tribulation. Drab, floor length skirts barely hide the worn sneakers that have taken her back and forth across the city a million times, and a million times again. She gathers her shoulders inside the frayed, royal blue cardigan, somehow drawing her arms further into its lengthy-sleeves - thin protection from a cold world. Thick, horn-rimmed bifocals sit perched on the bridge of her nose, but she keeps her eyes on the grey, unbiased ground in front of her.

When she does speak, her voice is thin and frail, yet with a lighter tone. Something that might have once held a music of its own - a symphony lost, a composer forgotten. She stumbles over her words, unsure of how much to say at any one time, as each trips out. It's not the language itself that's in short supply, but the confidence and poise. She doesn't care for it anymore though. It holds no meaning, no necessity for her. It has become but a means to an end - and not the end itself.

From a far land, she made the journey to this land of promise and dreams. She invested her hope in a new, better life for her and her family. One without political turmoil. Without social limit. Where the only limits to what you could achieve was what you could believe - and where, for once, what you believed could set you free.

Over 50 years later, she is alone. Her husband died long ago. Granted a small room in the basement of his house, she lives under her now wealthy, successful son - happy for his prosperity. She loves her quickly-growing grandson with all her heart, even as he makes his way to leave home. But she is alone. To everyone around, she has served her purpose: an archaic staircase for a machine that resorts to elevators. She is obsolete.

I see her now, as I leave the house to fetch the mail. She tends to the tiny garden with a giant house all to herself. A 9-5 housesitter. No friends - her family was the be-all, end-all of her life. She treks each day to her daughter's home, to take care of her younger grandchildren while she's at work. Nobody picks her up or offers her a ride - she does it willingly. Taking the same bus every morning. She lives for others, to feel needed, to escape her isolation.



Have you ever seen loneliness?

Humanity. Unlike any other form of life on the face of the earth in one, single, unique respect: our ability to communicate.

We are social beings; creatures of communication. We thrive on interaction - from a smile and a laugh, to handshakes and sex. We need others. Others to care for and be cared by. To love and be loved. To understand and be understood. To lean on and be leaned on. To live. A life without that kind of connection, that kind of tie, that kind of bond... is to be without that which gives us our fruitful existence. It fulfills us in ways we can't imagine being without.

Try to imagine a world without any interaction. Where day and night pass like cars on a freeway - countless and meaningless. Where every hue of every colour in every tiny, natural detail was lost to the depths of your mind - passing each rational barrier and every logical strain. Why? Because there would be nobody to share it with. No basis upon which to think, to learn... to grow. And if we can't grow, we can't live.

No man is an island, true enough. There's a reason 'Solitary Confinement' is the next-to-last resort in federal penitentiaries. It can drive you insane: alone with your thoughts, bereft of all human contact. We cannot do without it. Like a drug, this connection has its highs and lows, bringing pleasure - but always with the risk of pain. And not all pains are burns and bruises.

As this connection grows stronger, we feel needed. And to be needed, in even the smallest way, is something each of us craves. We feel purpose. We feel motive. We feel important. It's true that our relationships can weaken us and expose our vulnerability, but they can do far more than that. Our resolve to remain in another's life, to help them, mend them and be with them can make us powerful in a world where Life's own crux eludes us.

"Our prime purpose in this life is to help others." - Dalai Lama



I grip the shifter and throw the car into 'reverse'. Looking over my shoulder, I slowly roll back down the road towards the old woman. She doesn't look up, keeping her steady pace on the pavement. She doesn't see the beautiful summer blossoms nor the colourful billboards up ahead. Doesn't hear the whistling wind nor my car's rumbling engine. Smell the freshly fallen rain nor the propane from my neighbor's BBQ.
I roll down the passenger window and lean towards the opening:

"Do you need a ride?"

Brave the Fear

"It's really not so bad once you get up there, you know."

Caleb strained his neck to see the top of the towering structure. Just looking at it made his head spin.

"I don't think I ca-"
"Then don't think! I've done that for you." laughed his older brother, slapping his back. "This is just one of those things, bud, that you can't think about... until it's too late."

Caleb's head whipped around. "Too late for what?!"

"Ermm, to... uhhh..." Calvin struggled.

"To realize how much fun you're having." supplied their dad, stepping in and shooting his eldest boy a look that said "Just keep your mouth shut."

"It's OK, Caleb." offered his mother, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Take your time and do it when you feel ready. There's always next year."

The little boy looked down at the ground, then back up at the giant structure. Massive neon letters blared red, green and blue all at once. And it always seemed to go the same way for him. Walk up, look down, walk down - rinse and repeat. Why do people feel the need to do something so dangerous? Strapping yourself into a rickety metal body and then shoot high and low through loops and falls... it just didn't seem sensible. Hell, didn't seem sane. Looking around, names like 'The Obliterator' and 'Killing Machine' didn't make it seem any more appealing.

A dad carrying his little boy on his shoulders waltzed through the entrance; the tiny youngster laughing the whole way through. That kid couldn't have been older than seven or eight! Damnit!



"I can't." he said, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Before Dad could stop him, Calvin crouched down and looked his little brother in the eye. "Look. It's ok to be afraid."

Caleb looked up. "You're not afraid."

The older teenager grinned. "Everyone's afraid, bud. But the only way to deal with it is face it."

"I'm not as brave as you are."

Calvin laughed and put his hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "You think so? Why?"

Keeping his eyes on his feet, he mumbled "Because you have more courage than I do."

A slight pause, as his older brother ran his hand through his hair. "What is courage, Caleb?"

"Not being afraid." he answered, eyes still on the ground.

"No." Calvin replied, shaking his head. "Courage is choosing to face the fear. Choosing to overcome it. It's the feeling. Being brave is just sticking with that feeling, going through with it - the actual act of facing fear wherever it might be."

Caleb lifted his head to look his brother in the eye.

Calvin continued: "Whether it's slaying a fire-breathing dragon..." He nodded his head at the entrance. "... or bunging it out on a roller coaster."

Caleb thought for a moment. "How do you know?"

Grinning, the teenager looked up at their dad. "'Cause a very wise man told me that when I was your age."

Two parents beamed down at their kids, and Caleb followed his brother's inspired look.

"Now." started Calvin, taking a breath and getting to his feet. "Whadyeh say?" He held out his hand. "Let's put 'scary' to the test."

Caleb smiled shyly, shoved his fists in his pockets and walked ahead of his brother. "Put that hand away, everyone'll think you're some scaredy-cat."

Calvin shot his eyes to the sky, but jogged after his brother and through the coaster's brightly-lit entrance.

Powerless

The colours faded,
Their luster gone.
No darkness nor light,
The twilight's eager dawn.

Our heart's hollow,
Our mind astray.
Senses clouded,
As the heavy fog's Grey.

We seek, search, forage,
For something hidden and lost,
Yearn to feel its comfort hold,
No matter what the cost.

But it's no item, no useless trinket,
That belies our aching mind.
Like a summer breeze t'will come,
To its will; resigned.

No power, nor say,
To forego its seamless right.
Veiled; your soul it seeps,
For all the endless night.

Question your heart, your longing lust
And all you that hold dear.
So then you see, what you want
Is really not so clear.

That thing worth finding,
S'not to be found at all.
Til we cease the search,
And heed it's timely call.