Skip to content

catching raindrops…

October 17, 2014

Everyone thought I was in it for the sex. Ha! The stories I could tell! But no one has sex like it was 1988 anymore. Not after AIDS. And the environmental apocalypse. Not after thirty years of estrogen-laden water supplies and Ronald Reagan playing the role of the second coming.

Now it’s all post-modern irony. Sex is so cliché.

Who gets excited by anything anymore? – (unless it comes crowd-sourced media approved, like our sports events, or our fashion shows).

Sure, we’ve got 24/7/365 porn, but that’s just a form of naked fascism. Lockstepping to lip-synced orgasms at $2.50 a pop.

The monotony of the full frontal facial like a hammer to the head.

Was it a mid-life crisis then?

I thought about that. Long and hard. (Talk about clichés!)

No, I had not chased.

I have crossed the planet many times. Had more lovers than she has years. I refused her outright. As well as her second and third overtures. It was absurd!

Still, here we are. Seven years later.

What was it?


Does it make me a bad Buddhist because I stole an old Buddhist magazine from our local café?

Do you think the café owner would understand if I told her she never owned the magazine in the first place?

If I plan on returning it, where does my guilt come from?


I don’t understand the woman in the café who wears clogs the same color as her purse – and her purse the same color as her blouse – the blouse the same color as her earrings.

The woman is in her mid-40’s and the color she has chosen is fuchsia.

I don’t understand it.


From the first moment we stepped out of our animal nature, and drew the world as we saw it – 35,000 years ago in the caves of France and Indonesia – we realized that we are both Being, and Becoming.

We emerged out of ourselves and into an observing mind – painting what Clayton Eshleman called “postcards of nostalgia” – feeble, yet mystically beautiful attempts at reconciling our separation from Nature, now irrevocable. At once a part of, yet looking at, the Garden of Eden; restless, dreaming, frightened, enthralled.

Asking “how?” And “why”?


The San People, the original people, the great forefathers and grandmothers of all people, know that the Mother of the Bees is the wife of the Great God who created all things.


The sacred sites are not just the dream-spaces of myth, of our ancestors. The sacred, first encountered, lives in the returned memories of that inner space of the no-time/space of what the Hindus call our third eye of consciousness. That space that is both quantum and exogenous to our being.

A hill played upon on long summer days as a boy.

A creek where the deer came to drink.

Young boys racing barefoot through the forest.


Hunter and I are walking along Bloor Street in the Annex. She is small enough still to sit on my shoulders. I think she was around three or four years-old. We are out looking for a Christmas present when out of the blue she remarks down to me: “You are going to die one day.”

“That’s true” I replied. “But so are you.”

She thought about this for a minute while atop my shoulders before saying, “Yea, but you’ll die first.”

“Ha” I exclaimed, “I sure hope so.”



No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: