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.
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 ( )
[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.”
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.
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??
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?).
I remember driving home from our grandparents’ house in the early dark of Winter evening, passing over gravel hills, frozen fields to the left and right of us, I didn’t know that this should all have been a forest. My younger brother and I in the middle seat, counting all the houses shining in the night with Christmas lights. Red, yellow, green, and white. Haloes of colour, signals of warmth, in a void that was dark and c-c-c-c-cold enough to freeze any Indigenous teen grabbed by the cops and ditched outside of town without shoes or coats or hats or mitts or scarves or snow-pants and all the other things we bundled on then, when we were children, and I tried to fall asleep, hoping that my mom or dad would carry me still half-sleeping (or more than that) from the van into our house when we got home.
Neil Stonechild
was only seventeen when he froze to death northwest of Saskatoon one Winter
night when the temperatures had dropped to -30 or so (Celsius—that’s -22 Fahrenheit).
Bashed in nose, cuff marks on his wrists, and one shoe missing altogether (the
Saskatoon Police, who dropped him there, did an investigation into his death
and concluded there was no foul play). That night, the sky was clear and full
of stars, although, given their distance from us, no matter how fast light travels
and how long stars live, a lot of them are already dead. Their deaths just
haven’t caught up with us yet. Dead stars shining down on a dead boy whose
life, however brief, was also composed from stardust and whose death, I
sometimes think, has also not caught up with us yet. November 25th,
1990. I was ten years old. I may have been looking at the same stars on a sleepy
car ride home.
And Winters come and go, just like the rest of us, and these days I don’t count houses with Christmas lights, I just try not to count those whom I love and who loved me, too, who died around this time. I could never bring myself to count the dead—those I know who died in shelters, or on the steps of shelters that kicked them out; those who died in public washrooms hoping to please, God, for just a few minutes, feel okay; those who died when the hospital disconnected them from heart-and-lung machines after fruitlessly searching for family or next of him; those who bled out on the sidewalks of cities (that also should have been forests); those who jumped in front of trains; those who were seeking a little warmth, a little safety, a little privacy behind a garbage dumpster; those who died of blood infections after being kicked out of hospital; those who just couldn’t take one more punch to the head; those who only needed a door handle and a belt to hang themselves; those who simply disappeared, vanished, were gone, erased, voided, missing. I could never number them. They are too important to me. They won’t allow that. And I don’t want it, either.
And the
biggest lie about Christmas is that there’s a god who will come and save us.
And the sickest joke about Christmas is that all these rich Christians pretend
like they’re longing for salvation but, really, they know that god has ever
only been on their side as they look on children never stolen from them, in
homes never invaded by the Children’s Aid Society, social workers, cops, bed
bugs, drunken violent neighbours who push their way in, or slumlords who like
to sniff around, and they pretend they are longing for god to come but, really,
they’re thinking, “not this year—this year I think I want an iPhone 11, that
bathroom renovation I’ve been putting off, and maybe a trip to Bhutan.” Because
they sing, “O come, O come, Emmanuel,” but they’re faking it—wallowing in a
passion play that involves them pretending to feel lost so that they can
pretend to feel saved—because already they have all they need (including the
judges, security guards, politicians, bankers, and whatever number of pussies
they want to grab).
And me? I
bought my children seeds to celebrate the start of the holidays. In the Spring,
they will each be able to grow a flower garden. Until then, when we’re out
driving in the dark, I see the way the houses with lights—all red and yellow
and green and white—reflect in their eyes, and I see the special excitement
that flushes across their quiet features as they nestle down in their seats and
Ruby pretends to fall asleep so that I will carry her inside.
Discussed in this post: 13 Books (Occult Features of Anarchism; Lacan and the Political; Jesus and the Politics of Mammon; Whipping Girl; Virtuous Violence; Wolf in White Van; The Earthsea Trilogy; Hustling Verse; Bright Dead Things; Ghost Of; and Eyes Bottle Dark with a Mouthful of Flowers); 2 Movies (Suspiria; and The Banishment); and 3 Documentaries (Quiet Killing; Qallunaat!; and nîpawistamâsowin).
I was talking with some Christians the other day and somehow the topic of sex came up and they mentioned how happy they were that they “saved themselves” for marriage and they told nostalgic, humorous, and affectionate stories about their “first time.”
And it made
me remember other conversations about this topic.
And it made me think about how the way I feel when this topic comes up is so different now that I remember more about what my dad did with me when I was very, very young. Because if I choose to join in to such conversations, I will talk about the first time I chose to have sex as a young adult—not all the times when it was forced upon me as a child. Before I even knew what it was. Because ain’t nobody wants to hear about that.
Discussed in this post: 7 Books (On Becoming a Person; Promises, Promises; Boredom; Endland; The Carrying; Don’t Call Us Dead; and The Whitsun Weddings); 6 Movies (Capernaum; Joker; Morvern Callar; Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark; Kubo and the Two Strings; and Anna and the Apocalypse); and 2 Documentaries (Learning to See; and Drokpa).
