It’s not so much that I stopped believing in god
As I ran out of things to say
To someone who never speaks
Or at least not in any kind of way
That we would consider essential to a healthy and loving relationship.

But really the idea that the creator of all this
Would somehow desire a personal relationship with the tiny part of this that I am
Is kind of like suggesting
That I should or could somehow have an intimate relationship with subatomic hadrons
Who live for merely 10^-23 second.
Only that comparison actually vastly overestimates
My significance
And vastly underestimates
Any so-called god.
And maybe Christians need a 6000 year old earth
So that their god will be small enough
For them to be noticed.

But as for me
I worship the fungal networks
Who distribute food equally between all the trees of the forest
Otherwise each kind of tree
Would only share
With their own kind.

As for me
I worship the Influenza HA gene
Which has evolved for evolvability
And which exhibits codon bias
Within the amino acids that make up the HA1 epitopes
And in this way
It constantly gives rise to sudden, novel, shocking, and enduring forms of life.

As for me
I worship the Hydrogen
Which was born in the moment the universe burst forth
When nothingness orgasmed
And said that it was good.
And now this Hydrogen makes up approximately 10% of me
It is infused with my consciousness
It is infused with its own consciousness
We now share a consciousness
And when my body that I am rots the Hydrogen while rise
And some of it will exit the atmosphere
And some of it will travel
Back and out and down the Milky Way
(Or what the Navajo call Yikaisdaha—That Which
Awaits the Dawn
And what in Sanskrit is called
the Ganges of the Sky
And what the Anishinaabe call Jiibay Kona—the
Spirit Path)
Perhaps some of my consciousness will go with the consciousness that this Hydrogen
Has had since the dawn of time.
Because where is the line between the “I” that I am, and the “I” that the Hydrogen is?
And if it seems odd to suggest that Hydrogen has an “I”
Surely that is no more odd than saying the same of me.

(And Influenza, too, is both an “I” and not an “I”—it is so adept at adopting various genetic sequence clusters, playing around with its own genes, taking over genes from host cells, and from other Influenza virions that are present in a host cell but who have come from a different strain, that one cannot even properly speak of Influenza as a species but must refer to it as a quasispecies wherein various clades become more or less dominant but wherein there is not enough shared genetic information to be able to speak of Influenza as a proper species—and I think that the “I” and “not I” that I am, composed of so much star dust, so much bacteria, so much archaea, so much gas that has been around since the dawn of time, so many elements that have passed through innumerable other life forms, so many quarks and muons and neutrinos and positrons, that I think perhaps I, myself, am a quasispecies.)

But, anyway, as for me
I worship Jessica
With her fingers in my mouth
And her sweat on my skin
And her hair falling across her breast
As she parts her lips
And breathes.

Listen, children, I’m going to tell you how the story really goes:

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Heiltsuk and a man named Gitxsan and they lived together in the forest. Heiltsuk was an artist, a gift-giver and a boat-maker and, where the forest met the sea, she made large boats that could sail for many days and nights out on open water. In the summer, she would harvest food. In the winter, she would dance and tell stories to Gitxsan. Gitxsan, himself, preferred the mighty river that ran through the forest to the open waters of the sea, he was drawn to the animals and plants of the river valley—the frog, the eagle, the wolf, and the fireweed, all of which he would carve onto long story-telling poles. He felt most at home fishing when the river mist hovered over the water.

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He laughs and smiles quickly
the way that people do
when they want you to know,
at the core of your being,
that you’re lovely
and it’s going to be okay.
All of it.
No matter what you say or do.
You’re lovely and it’s going to be okay.
That’s how he smiles at you.

It took me several years before I began to realize
the scale of his pain.
I think I missed it
not because it’s so small
but because it’s so vast
and with pain like that,
well,
what’s a fellow to do?

He had a mother once.
A father once (of sorts).
A wife

just once.

And at night his heart departs his body
and follows deer-tracks to the underworld
Where he wanders like Orpheus, Lynda
Lynda
Lynda, where are you?
And where am I?
And can it be that I can be where you are not?

His children (of sorts) know that he is wise in the way of fools
who know that wisdom is overrated
so he might as well just sit and listen awhile.
I sit beside him as he doodles.
I watch him paint.
And when we parted at the airport in Los Angeles, I kissed him on the mouth.

I.

before you read any further stop
and breathe
and breathe
and breathe
do this as many times as necessary to still yourself so you can listen
(because I want you to read this aloud to yourself to your lover to your friend)
it’s okay
I’ll wait

II.

listen
we are those who search for words—me
the writer and you
the reader who hears my words in your own voice
in the voice of your lover
in the voice of your friend
but what we hope to find is more than words
(more than letters more than phonemes)
and this is why poems are always written anew
because all writers are failures
but all readers are not
writers seek what they cannot find
but readers find what they cannot be given
so read on

III.

an inability to find what you seek
is not evidence that it is not there
perhaps it is so vast
that you can ever only glimpse it sideways
take a year to travel around it
and even then at a great distance
so that its closeness does not swallow you up

IV.

or again
perhaps it is so vast
that you can ever only glimpse it momentarily
through cloud-breaks
or clearings in the overstory
as you ascend

V.

I knew a man who binged on poetry
the way others binge on food cocaine or alcohol
the way the lonely binge on empathy
but emotional intensity
can only be sustained for so long
and even the most violently traumatized
eventually fall asleep

so stop
breathe
and listen
breathe and listen

VI.

I knew a man who looked for the words
That would make his body remember all he had forgotten
of innocence
beauty
hope
he wanted words to touch the heart of grief
which he could never find
or uproot
although he felt it
everywhere
he wanted words to say I love you and
I’m sorry and
I’m scared and
I’m tired
in ways that would make others listen and say
me too oh my god me too

I knew a man who wanted the word that would put an end to all our speaking
endless pleading endless noise
prevarications arguments
explanations concepts theories
he wanted the one word he could speak
so that having spoken it
he could forever after be silent
and disappear
into wonder
by which he meant
contentment

VII.

everything
every nothing
every(no)thing
no
no( )thing
in the space right there
the space between the thing and nothing
the word is there
( )

VIII.

.
`
.
`

Introduction: Jesus and then Christianity

[L]et everyone who can, smite, slay, and stab, secretly or openly, remembering that nothing can be more poisonous, hurtful, or devilish than a rebel. It is just as when one must kill a mad dog; if you do not strike him, he will strike you, and a whole land with you…

For baptism does not make men free in body and property, but in soul; and the gospel does not make goods common except in the case of those who, of their own free will, do what the apostles and disciples did in Acts 4. They did not demand, as do our insane peasants in their raging, that the goods of others—of Pilate and Herod—should be common, but only their own goods. Our peasants, however, want to make the goods of other men common, and keep their own for themselves. Fine Christians they are! I think there is not a devil left in hell; they have all gone to the peasants. Their raving has gone beyond all measure.

~ Martin Luther, “Against the Robbing and Murdering Hordes of Peasants.”

I confess that I have had some strange bedfellows and traveling companions over the years. I’ve kicked it with Evangelicals trying to spread the so-called gospel on University campuses, I’ve chilled with old men drinking cooking sherry in back alleys, I’ve partied with “low track” sex workers, I’ve attended charismatic big tent revivals, I’ve visited real estate millionaires in penthouses overlooking English Bay (in Vancouver, unceded Coast Salish territories—I was friendly with their coke dealer so I sometimes got invited along), I’ve studied Greek and hermeneutics at Bible college, I’ve been a regular at many a dive bar, and I’ve participated in ceremonies with self-identified shamans and witches (psychedelic plants may or may not have been involved). Suffice to say, it has been an interesting ride. However, in all these interactions over all these years, two things have remained constant: an abiding interest in the early days of the movement that coalesced around Jesus of Nazareth in the first 60 or so years of the first century CE, and the constant friendship of and rootedness within communities of people who have been oppressed, abused, abandoned, and left for dead in the cities of the territories occupied by the (illegitimate, genocidal) Canadian state. Along the way, I came to the following conclusion: more often than not (far more often than not), those who have no upbringing within Christianity are much better equipped to easily and intuitively understand who Jesus was and what he was about, than those who were raised in some kind of Christian home. I remember as my perception of Jesus slowly began to transform based upon my studies, experiences, friendships, and allegiances, I would share ideas or thoughts that seemed “radical” to me (as a post-Evangelical, post-Christian person), and friends of mine who had no experience at all within “the Church,” would respond by saying, “well, yeah, that’s kind of what I always thought Jesus was doing.”

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I was meeting with Ruby and her teacher yesterday and so I gave you the house keys and you went home alone and let yourself in. Sometimes, during the lunch hour at school, you and your friends walk to Pizza Hut before racing back to beat the bell. This is all occurring so nonchalantly now, even though only a minute ago this kind of activity seemed unfathomable to me. You’re a boy now—no longer a little boy, you’re a boy boy—silly, and playful, and thoughtful, and kind. We banter now. But we still get our cuddles in. The other night I stroked your forehead and lay beside you in bed awhile. When you were sick with the flu last weekend, I wrapped you in a blanket and held you in my arms until we both fell asleep on the couch. You snored. I might have, too.

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And it’s that time of year again—time to select the best of the best and the worst of the worst books, films, and documentaries that I reviewed in 2019. As usual, I will begin with the books, turn to the movies, and conclude with the documentaries before providing the comprehensive of list of what I read and watched.

The Books

This year was a record setting year of reading for me—I finished a total of 119 books! As usual, good ol’ story books dominated (34 fiction books read—and I tried to prioritize reading a lot of African lit this year), but poetry moved well up the list (15 books read), and graphic novels still hung around (only 4 read… but they were all solid… I would read more but the price versus the amount of time it takes me to read them is hard to justify… goals for 2020: use the library more). I read less Science & Nature books than I intended (only 10) and my number of Indigenous studies books also dropped (down to 7). Readings related to the psy disciplines, as well as more therapeutic stuff in general popped up out of the blue (sitting at 11), and I really engaged in some sustained readings pertaining to sex and gender (13 books) as well as dabbling further in some matters related to race (5) and fascism (also 5). Picked up some more “religious” type books for the first time in years (3), and also knocked of some stuff related to gentrification and urban studies (2). Social theory and philosophy was lower than some other years (10) but I read a good mix of some classics that I have neglected as well as some fun new things. All in all, I’m quite happy with this although I plan to step back from all media (including books!) at the beginning of 2020 to spend some time thinking about where I go from here, and doing a bit more writing. January 2020 will likely be the first month I don’t read a book since, um, 1987??

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Discussed in this post: 13 Books (Conquest; Theology of Money; The Body and Consent in Psychology, Psychiatry, and Medicine; Women in Dark Times; Black Flags and Windmills; A Secure Base; Invitation to Responsibility; This is Your Brain on Parasites; the heart is deceitful above all things; Veniss Underground; Return to My Native Land; Anya’s Ghost; and When I Arrived at the Castle); 2 Movies (Force Majeure and Silent Souls); 3 Documentaries (Aquarela; We Breath Again; and Hail Satan?).

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