Thursday January 24th 2019.

Losing specific memories isn't just a protective act.  Sometimes our brain holds on to things, in secret - to surprise us with them later.  And in truth - I like that.  For someone whose brain chops out large parts of their past events, it is good to believe that perhaps my brain likes to balance that remembering out.

Recently, I was leading a discussion on Resiliency and self-care.  The discussion turned to giving space and time to other peoples' self-care acts - and I told this story:

I am no stranger to insomnia.  As a child, I would suffer from the worst sleepless nights.  While some children could knock themselves out with a mere pillow, I could never sleep.  Oddly enough, even at the age of 10, I caused myself the worst anxiety about it.  The resentment I felt toward my sleeping friends and family is something I still sometimes feel.  (though I love the sound of snoring - oddly)

At that time, our family lived in Germany.  We lived there for four years.  Those years appeared to be the happiest time of my parents' lives.  Something about life there seemed to ignite something in them that I'd admired in them since. 

What was also noticeable about Germany was that Canadians and Americans had more of a disposable income - or perhaps the tax rules around things there made stuff cheaper there; Canadians and Americans collected more stuff in Germany. 

Part of what my dad collected were component stereo systems.  Reference sound amplifiers, CD players, Reel-to-reels, large, ugly (though sometimes beautiful) speakers - and all of it seemingly cheaper than back home.  

And he was protective.  With good reason.  A 10 year old child had little appreciation for the fragility and cost of such things.  (though it didn't stop my sister and me from singing duets together when they weren't home)

One rule was that we weren't allowed to turn the stereo on, without permission or accompaniment.  It was delicate and expensive stuff.  My father even had a science to turning each component on. (Pre-amplifier, Amplifier, components, Television.)

For the most part, I tried to follow Dad's rule.  I did break it, though I felt sufficiently guilty for doing so.   I think. 

But I never hesitated whenever it came to my insomnia.  Through all the years of rocking myself to sleep, talking myself to sleep, getting up and sneaking out into the town at night, no technique worked as well as cartoons at that time. 

The problem was that we had to turn the stereo on in order to get sound through the VCR.  .

At any given night around 1 or 2 am, I'd spend minutes on each button.  First, the Pre-Amplifier - listen, wait.  Then the Amplifier, listen, wait.  Then the VCR, listen, wait.  Then the television. Listen. Wait. Then put the tape in, listen, wait.  

After about an hour of sneaking around to do this, I would run the tape, lay on the couch, and wait for sleep to catch me.  Then when sufficiently tired, I would get up and go to bed.  

Only that I don't remember ever going to bed.  

Or how I got to my own bed.

When I was 38 or so, My sister confirmed that Dad would find me, and carry me to the bedroom.  Nearly every time.  He never gave me shit about it - and he always let me do what I could to get to sleep. 

This - this is my favourite picture of him, my dad.  It's of him carrying my nephew, Jonathan - roughly 5 or 6 years later.  It was always my favourite - 

Only now, I finally remember why.

Sunday, Jan 6, 2019

In one of my poems, I ask - how many people follow their dreams?

This is a trick question, because the question can be answered multiple ways, depending on your culture.
I see two ways to answer this.
The first, (as I have been raised) sees dreams as a goal, as something to attain, complete with struggle, difficulty, and a goal of some kind.

Want to become published?  Work hard.  Struggle, stay up late at night.  Work Harder.  In the end, you may or may not succeed.  In this, you are the product ... of your product.  Your hard work made this possible.  Because, after all - it's a hard life, living in this world.

This is - of course, a lie.  We know that if my skin colour were any darker, I would have to work harder than others to maintain the same reward.  There would be opportunities not available to me.  I write this knowing that I'm an Indigenous person from another territory, not easily recognized as Indigenous here in Ontario.  I write this having had some of the privileges of being educated and raised in a European dominated world.  While the statistics won out, and I had a difficult time (as they say Indigenous people do), I did have access to things that my blood cousins and siblings did not.   In the very least, who I am (as viewed by others) determines my chances of 'success'.

The question then is - who determines my identity, and how?

Am I a bunch of nominative forms, where labels point to information of how 'those people' live?

Does OCD doom me to a life of cleanliness and compulsive locking/unlocking behaviours?

(The answer is no)

Does Complex PTSD ensure I'll never have meaningful relationships?

(hell no)

Does my indigenous blood ensure that I will be moulded only by the tragedies in my life?

(You should be smart enough to answer this on your own)


The second cultural interpretation of dreams is this - that dreams are an expression of your existence.  They are a naturally occurring phenomenon, a product of you and your place in the natural world.

 If you live, you dream.  Cease dreaming, and ... well-



I'll tell you a story:

When I returned home to my parents after a year away, severely underweight, involved with the wrong crowd, and generally being a fuckup, my father's daughter arranged a small sit-down so that I could come clean.

I told him, "Dad, I'm a vegetarian, addicted to coke, and I'm gay."

His response was to accept two of those things, and to get pissed off about one of them,

"In my house you will goddamn well eat meat.  Even if I have to force feed you, you will eat meat."  I love him for this, and still smile at that moment.

The lesser known part of this story was how I witnessed my dad work very hard to incorporate me into his world, in his own way.  Through tears, and many incomplete thoughts, he said:

You are my son, and I love you.  My door will always be open for you.  You will always be welcome in my home.

Later, I heard that he still struggles with understanding it.  But he never harms me - and he never asks me to not be myself.  He is, quite simply, my father.  And acts no differently toward me.

That's acceptance.  He doesn't challenge who I am.  He accepts me.

My queerness is as natural a thing as my hair colour.  Is as natural a thing as my dreams.

Dreams are not something to be won or fought for, like any other aspect of identity.

Rather, they are something to accept.

Someone once told me that you never disparage a naturally occurring thing.  Ever.  Which makes me wonder ... which of these is better?  The world of challenge, or the world of acceptance?

So when I ask how many of you follow your dreams, how you view that question is a testament to the culture you're in.



Knowing this,
...



How many of you follow your dreams?