What is Next?

I don’t know if there is a sign in Revelation about the oncoming Apocalypse but this should be.

Just recently, an Italian restaurant in Vicenza was fined 688 euros ($855 US) for displaying live lobsters on ice to attract patrons.

This ruling came about because of an strong anti-cruelty law in Italy. You see, Italy has some of the world's toughest animal rights laws. The city of Rome in October banned goldfish bowls, seen as cruel Up in Turino, they passed a law last year that would fine dog owners 500 euros unless they walked their canine friends at least three times a day.

It seems this case was brought about by Gianpaolo Cecchetto, a former environmental activist, who took his two young children to the Vicenza restaurant in May 2002.

According to reports, Checchetto said his children were shocked by the display and he immediately got in touch with the ENPA, which is a national animal protection entity in Italy. For course ENPA took care of this horrible and despicable abuse of animals.

The court ruled that the display was a form of abuse dooming the crustaceans to a slow death by suffocation.

And I thought only in America did the legal system go wonky. Absurdity lives in other countries. Once again misguided intentions become retarded.

If Rome banned fishbowls, then aquariums can’t be far behind. If I could be fined for not walking my dog at least three times a day, this leads to a scary scenario. I can see the misguided nuts setting up a hotline for anonymous tips to catch the nasty pet owners who don’t take Fluffy out enough times.

Thing is, I am not being flippant here. How would the authorities know if you didn’t take Fluffy out three times a day. Someone would have to keep tabs on that. That would be for family members and neighbours to do.

Now to the yummy crustaceans. What is the most absurd thing about this whole thing is Checchetto and/or his children were shocked by this display. Why? They are coming to a restaurant to eat. And eat meat.

If the lobster display was a way to attract clients into a furniture store or book store, then I can see something wrong. But the display is there so if you want lobster, you know they have it and can chose which one you would like to fill your gullet with.

And then the ruling. The display was dooming those poor crustaceans to a slow death by suffocation. Well, I hope not.The goal is the hot, boiling water. And then it is a fast death by scalding. Yet that is okay.

Once again, here we are seeing society with a skewed sense of reason. Women are out there being brutalized by their partners. And some men. People are living in abject poverty. Sick people are stalking kids on the Internet. Politicians focus on their personal gain, raping the people they represent. Old people have to stop taking meds because they need money just to eat.

Yet making sure an owner takes his mutt for a walk three times is important. Making sure crustaceans don’t slowly suffocate is court worthy.

Peoples’ priorities are becoming completely fucked up. All the money groups like PETA make, the money spent by celebrities to stop the seal hunt, the money wasted with this court case could have been all used to help our fellow man and woman. But no. I am seeing more compassion for the little seal pups or lobsters than I am for the people living on the street or for the woman trying to escape the abusive world she is in.

I said it before and I’ll say it again. If we can’t be kind and love each other, how can we do the same to the animals that live on the same world we do? But a homeless person or a battered woman doesn’t make a good poster and bring in the money, does it?

On the mend...

What I hate the most about being sick is not being able to concentrate. Having a crappy paycheck coming up ain't too hot either, but that is not what frustrates me.

The past while I have been hit by a nasty bug. It started off like the flu but by Friday degenerated. Sniffing, sneezing, being lethargic, no problem. But the bug hit me in the gut and I was completely useless.

If I wasn't on the can, I was in bed with no energy. And if I was up, I couldn't focus. Last week I had finished a new short story and tried to edit it on Saturday and Sunday, but couldn't. And I was on urbis to do reviews and couldn't focus.

It is this thing where my brain is active but things are so scattered I can't do anything with it. To make things worse, I only have 3 channels on the TV and no mindless fluff to plunk into the DVD or VCR. And no new simple reads in the apartment.

For someone like me, this is frustrating. I wanted to write. I wanted to get some more credits. I wanted to attack the next chapter of my novel. But all I could do was run back and forth from my bedroom to the can & back. A prisoner in my own mind. And because of that, I couldn't shut my brain off so I had a hard time to sleep.

Late yesterday the fever broke and today my trips to the can were less frequent. And food actually stayed down. But as my luck would have it, today, urbis is down. So all I had was 3 channels of TV.

I had forgotten what a waste land TV is. We have bubbly, moronic Regis and Kelly. The shrill sycophants on the View. Different shows on how to improve your house and yourself. And the ever pompous Oprah and trite Dr. Phil.

Lest we forget the soap operas. One utterly pathetic one, Passions, has a plotline where one of the characters is in the catacombs under the Vatican being prepared for some sort of sacrifice. With an evil looking monk around. Must be evil because you never see his face.

In many ways, I wished I was at work. I can be mindless there and get money. But I couldn't risk it today. Yet now my system is starting to settle, I can go back and mend there.

It will be a couple of more days before my system is back to normal and I will be able to eat like a pig again. Argh! I hate being sick but then again who does?

Thus ends my rant.

Reviewing

One of the toughest things about be an artist, is the reviews. People you do not know end up commenting, criticizing, or sucking up to you. This is patently obvious on the writer’s website I am submitting to. I wanted to share one in particular with you, on a short story I wrote, The Sacrifice. Here it is, in full:

I applaud your effort in writing this piece. I think this was a good writing exercise for you. Writers don’t like to hear that, and especially after writing 7,000 words. When you’ve written about one million words you’ll get the hang of writing. I’m not being condescending here; it takes that long.

The sentences structure was very staccato. Usually I have to tell writers to cull out their adjectives and adverbs, but you need to add a few. Color the scenes a little more. A few suggestions on grammar:

`I hope to be as him when I reach his age.’ Single quotation marks are only used inside of double quotation marks(in fact most all of these single quotations marks are misused)
Too many obscure reference “An áfÿlan echoed…” Just use a sprinkling of these words.

“Before eating himself…” dangling modifier. Was the king eating his own body?
Don’t fool yourself into think a publisher will fix all these problems because your idea is so great. He will not; in fact, he will throw your manuscript in the trash bin and move on to the next manuscript that is better prepared.

This is your best paragraph
“Every night, as he [lain] laid…. were extended to his hounds.” I really got a sense of the character of the king here. Write more like this.

I would write a few more of these short stories before tackling the novel. A short story is the best way to hone your writing skills. Do keep wring; it’s the only way to improve. Best of luck.

Tom

Denver, Colorado

Now, urbis is meant to be a place where people review other people’s stuff. When I review a piece, I focus on the strengths and weaknesses of the piece. For me, the reason we are there is to improve our craft.

Whereas he had some points about the story, it was wrapped with this condescending tone. What immediately irked me was the comment about writing one million words, and then I’ll get the hang of it. I have passed that point some time ago. I have written over 45 short stories and about 1000 pages for Tangled Threads. Of course then there was the comment on publishers. One of the reasons I am on urbis there is to improve my pieces so I can submit my stuff to a publisher.

True, he has been published through Ghost Road Press, an independent publishing company in his home town. Which has a catalogue of around 18 books. I have yet to be published. And he most likely has more time to focus on writing, I don’t.

As I said, I take reviewing seriously. And I do not make asides like that. Even my most critical reviews focus on the work, not the person (save one). The only way an artist can get better is by receiving constructive criticism.

In a previous post, I mention the importance of a mentoring system. People like me really want to help other writers improve their craft, take them under our wing. Let them learn and grow in a nurturing environment. Of course, we cannot protect them from the harsh reality of the real world, but we can temper it.

And I want to have people help me. Over the past while, it has been interesting to see how a small community of writers have formed around me. Of the five or six people in this circle, the minute a new piece is available, I review it. And they do the same for me. A great camaraderie is evolving.

I am not naive about the publishing world. I know when a publisher gets an unsolicited submission, you are lucky if they read the first whole page. You have to grab them, fast. Then you have to be consistent because the minute they put the manuscript down, it will be forgotten and sent back.

That is how I approach reviewing a piece on urbis. There have been pieces I’ve finished only because I need the credits. And then I will let them know about setting up a hook. And if it doesn’t make sense, I say so. Here is an example of one of my reviews:

Whereas your piece starts off interesting, it veers off into directions which make no sense. At the end, you don’t pull the threads together in any way.

I have no problem with going off on tangents but what does graven images and Islam have to do with a bleeding rectum? Or the Red Sox? In the end, I didn’t get it.

For me, reviewing means one must put aside one’s ego and focus on the piece. Does it work or not? Are there structural problems? Does it flow? Are there other problems. And then provide suggestions or points for the writer to ponder when revising the piece.

I have had many excellent reviews for all 5 pieces I have placed on urbis. Many of them have pointed to mistakes or problems with suggestions. It has allowed me to revise Morbid Angel into a better piece. Here is a good example of a constructive review, for Sédanta:

My suggestion is that you invest in a Thesaurus…not just any old thesaurus, one you will be comfortable enough to fall in love with. A book so second to your nature you carry it with you – can’t imagine life without it, use it.

I offer this advice to you because your story-telling capabilities are sound and kept me intrigued but your consistent and repeated over-use of the same words completely turned me off. It was a struggle to continue reading.

For example: At the very beginning of your story, you used gaze four times within two paragraphs. I was already losing interest by then (thinking – OH Man, does he do this all the way down…and sighing).

Let me know if you post any revisions. I enjoy the re-drafts!

-Paula

Paula pointed out a few things I have to work on. And when I went back, I could see her points. Because of this review I will be able to tightened the chapter and maybe entice a publisher.

Finally, a review can also be words of encouragement. And voices of an audience you did not think of. Here is a review from a British 16 year old:

a brilliant story! have you planned on writing another story abou the evil that will decend?
And i love all the names (both people and place names), they help set the scene just as much as the description does

or a 46 year old who writes pulp fiction style novels:

Very Good, there is some very interesting backstory here just waiting to be revealed! Are the druids behind the former king’s dementia? Who is this second son, a rogue bastard prince? Your style reminds me a great deal of George R.R. Martin and his Games of Thrones series. I look forward to seeing more. I believe you will be a writer to watch for.
Bill

Reviewing has two functions: help the writer improve his/her craft and give him/her encouragement to continue. And anything personal should be left at the door. If you can’t be objective, don’t be a review. Become a critic.

The Dangers of a Community

When I saw this picture, it captures the mood and point of this post (I think).

Well, I read this interesting piece on urbis today. I wanted to share the pearls of wisdom catherinethegreatdammit wrote and my response to it. And then some comments. The piece is called: I like the Circle Jerk of Friends... I am going to watch until I go blind.

You know, I joined Urbis at the urging of a friend. Since joining I have come to realize that this is nothing more than a circle jerk of writers, by writers, for writers. It makes me giggle, but at the same time, I want no part of it.
I care less about any of the shit on here.

I write because its in my blood. I care less if I get published and I care less if anybody from the dumb fucking site with its ghey pictures of wanna-be publishers giving wanna-be editors handshakes likes any of my shit.

I write for my friends. And, because they hear what I am trying to say, they urge me to get published and all that yadda-smadda. You see, I write about how my life has been affected by bipolar disorder and alcoholism. I write about being a mother and a woman who is true to herself, regardless of what others may think.
They need my voice and I give it to them because I love them.

But, as for making my writing meet a criteria set by other amateurs, I think its laughable.

I abuse commas…,,,,a,,,a..as and spelling and pucntuation because I see the words as my craft they are as malleable to my hands and my imagination as I want them to be.

I care less if anyone understands or reads this, because I have already had my say. I am just getting my rocks off by posting this.

I am fulfilled beyond measure and I feel sad that this website panders to the same ego-stroking dumbfucks who buy into vanity publishing.

So…No, I am not going to read your shit and comment. I don’t care two dicks and a dogfart about your damn credits.

I have my satisfaction.

And, it responds to the stroking of my fingers on my keyboard like a lover who hungers for my touch.

Now, go fuck off all of you.

I am going back to staring at the sun.

My response to this piece is as follows:

I hope one day to get your Zen attitude, so I can also look down from your lofty heights. I’m here because I was hoping to get some tips so I can get published, but not via vanity publishing. Maybe I am just naive or misguided. Or just delusional. I suppose I just don’t have in my blood like you, chasing a zephyr of a dream that I may never attain. Sigh!

I suppose I have a long way to go before I can be like you, only see myself as being important. Putting everyone else beneath me. Living in a little space where my rules dictate and everyone else is subordinate to me. Where I don’t have to listen to anyone else because they are all inferior to me.

I wish I could achieve that Zen loftiness you have achieved, being able to push reality away, for my own little safe verity. But instead of being like you, I am just a credit whore that this place has turned me into.

You hit the nail on the head with some of your points. It is just that, in my humble amateur opinion, your tone takes away from the points you are trying to make.

It just seems to me that they don’t have you on the right meds; you may want to check with your doctor. Or you are failing your anger management courses & need new ones. Once that is taken care of, then you can touch up with piece and give it the punch it really needs.

But I did notice one thing, at the very end. You write I am going back to staring at the sun. That could be the problem. The sun can be extremely damaging to the eyes. In the end, affecting and clouding your vision. Possible leading to blindness.

I left the mistake in the last line on purpose, since I can write using my own rules when I want to!

Obviously, this person has issues. Yet the sad thing, you will always have assholes like this in a community. And that is the point this post.

Urbis is a community of writers. Each community, be a church, pub, painters, bowlers, whatever will have their share of sycophants, those that only want their ego stroked, the assholes, the doom-sayers. And they revolve about the real people who make up a community.

Agreed, an artist community has more vocal extremes. The sycophants are more cloying. The ones that want their ego-stroked ignore any and all critiques. And the assholes, well will be assholes.

I've seen, be it at Hurley's or Brutopia, people who are 'special' and the cloying groupies around them. These groupies catching each word dripping from these people's mouths, for their little sacred chalice to hold close to their heart. Not seeing through the flimsy veneer that is in constant peril of becoming ripped at any time.

For me, on urbis, over 90% of the reviews I have received have been constructive and pointed things out that I didn’t notice. Or gave me encouragement to continue. It has helped put a fire back in my belly that was missing for some time. This long weekend, I plan to revise a short story, a non-fiction piece and try to finish a new short story. So urbis can't be half bad, in my humble, amateur opinion.

Unlike other times, we have lost the mentoring system for artists. So communities like urbis become more and more important. Inexperienced writers, painters, etc. need a place where they can experiment, learn and grow. Throughout history circles of artists were important to the growth of artists. Experienced artists would take inexperienced artists under their wings. We really don't have that in great numbers today.

A good example of a recent writer’s circle is the Inklings. They were a literary discussion group that met between the 1930’s and the 1950’s. Some of the books that came out from this group include Lord of the Rings, Out of the Silent Planet, and All Hallow’s Eve. I wouldn't say that group of about 19 writers was a waste of time.

Yet you get people who look at the idea of community as a waste of time. They will not learn from anyone else. They don’t need to. That is what I find unforgivable about this piece: the sheer arrogance that is behind something like:

But, as for making my writing meet a criteria set by other amateurs, I think its laughable.

I abuse commas…,,,,a,,,a..as and spelling and pucntuation because I see the words as my craft they are as malleable to my hands and my imagination as I want them to be.

This, for me, encapsulates catherine. She most likely can’t write for shit so when people point out mistakes, we becomes amateurs that know nothing. To abuse commas, spelling, etc., you bloody well know the rules. James Joyce was able to do his thing because he knew the rules and how to bend or break them. catherine wants to play in her sandbox and only allow people who let her play by her rules in. And only her rules.

And she says:

I write for my friends. And, because they hear what I am trying to say

Boy would I like to live in her little bubble. Just from my own experience before coming out. I wrote some gay-themed stories, about the pain I was going through. No one got it, save one person. It was only once I was out, my friends went: oh, it was about you?

Most friends say they will be honest but often they are not. They don’t want to hurt your feelings, so they couch what they say. And no matter how close you are, there are things they don't fully know about you.

One thing I can’t leave alone is:

You see, I write about how my life has been affected by bipolar disorder and alcoholism.

Oh, oh, oh, I have problems with alcohol and raise you three nervous breakdowns. And living on the street for 8-9 months. But now I am being silly!

Yet she has some valid points. One is:

ego-stroking dumbfucks who buy into vanity publishing.

There are those there. Yet every community you find yourself in, there is the dangers of panderers or people who want to tear you down. There will be those who ignore your advice or think you are full of crap. And then there are the genuine ones there that want to help you the best they can.

Life is rough. You need a thick skin to survive in any kind of community. You have to roll with the punches. Whether catherine is bi-polar or not, the vitriol and arrogance in her words shows someone who is not happy and doesn’t want to be out in the real world. To come out and play with us.

urbis is not perfect. What community is? You just have to know the good parts you want to use from it and ignore the rest. And a hissy fit isn't going change things.

I’ll leave you with two things. The first is a review catherine wrote on a piece my buddy, Jason wrote:

I am sorry to say but this whole piece was so utterly was superfluous in the wording and the dialogue that the storyline came across with far less impact then it could have.

And if you want to check out her blog, the site is:

http://blog.myspace.com/catherinethefookingreat

Peace!

A milestone...

The past while, I have been a bit slack when it comes to this blog. When I started back in February, I had something to say almost every day. Yet over the past few weeks, I have let days go before coming back with my opinions and propoganda.

This is my 50th post. As I wrote in my 25th post, I did not expect to last so long. But the reality is that I wasn't writing when I started. I have now gotten the fire back, which means this little sliver of cyberspace doesn't rank as number one in my focus.

Yet this place is one of the reasons I started to write again, and of course urbis set the water boiling.

At times, it is difficult to explain the passion I have for writing. I love to write. It is amazing when you come to the end of a piece and you are stunned that you wrote that. Yet there is a sense of loss because it is finished. Be it an hour or nine months, you are absorbed in what you are trying to say. The energy is high when you are creating. So when you get to the end, it sluices out of you. And you feel empty. So you eagerly jump into the next idea, hoping to fill the blank pages in front of you, to grab that energy again.

I have not had that in a while. Agreed my life has been a little fucked up. Things like nervous breakdowns or living on the street does hamper the creative spirit. But now I am back in the saddle.

The past couple of weeks, I have written one brand new story, Morbid Angel and have a second near completion, I Thought while a third is lingering on the pages. Plus I am now reediting an old piece, Remembrance. It has been a while I have had this kind of a creative rush. And I'm riding it for all it is worth.

Yet this has made a little orphan of this blog. I'm not closing up shop, just focusing my energy. I would like to keep the pace of a post a day, but I can't. I still have tons to say, and plan to say it. It will just be sporadic over the next while.

Then again, who knows? I never expected to hit the 25 post, let alone the 50 post milestone. But if I am not around for a couple days, gentle reader, don't be surprised. But know that what energy was poured here is being poured into an equally important thing.

A Personal Recollection

After spending a couple of days, at the beginning of the week, in silly mode, I have been kicked back to Earth. The reason is a story I reviewed on urbis, called Benevolent Curse and it deals with rape. I’ll give you my opinions later. Yet the piece opened a flood gate which I am going to share with you.

I was hoping to get it on earlier but I have been going over it a couple of times, fiddling with it. Ah, fuck it, I decided today. This is raw, let it be. And word of warning, this is going to be a long piece. So if you have them, smoke them, if you have a shot glass, get a highball, if you’re low on coffee, brew some before you start.

Back in the summer of 1984 (or 83 I honestly don’t remember), a good friend of my Patty was brutally raped. That act of violence not only scarred Patty but her friends like myself. And I hope to express some of that today.

Before I start, I need to give some background. Patty was from Coral Gables, Florida. She was a breath of fresh air in Mechanical Engineering at McGill. She was a little flighty, bubbly and at times way too sunny.

In contrast there was Kathy, who was also American. She was hard as nails, in your face and took not shit for anyone. And didn’t really like Patty. The two personalities were radically different. And I loved them both. Each touched different aspects of who I was at the time.

Well, it was a hot summer and Patty was living in a small apartment in the McGill Ghetto. Her windows were open and she was not wearing any clothes. She had a sheet over her, but that was it.

She was awakened by someone coming into her apartment. Of course, sheer terror came over her. But the guy just grabbed some stuff like her stereo and disappeared. Some time later, she called the cops.

The next morning, she came in to tell us about what had happened. And because of her personality, she started to make light of the situation. She even commented that she was surprised the guy did not attack her. I was stunned when she wondered if he left her alone because she was a ‘fat cow’. She got quite a earful from Kathy about making light of the situation. Kathy was horrified Patty could make take rape so lightly. Patty just fluttered her hand and ignored the jibe.

The police had warned Patty that she should move her stuff and not stay in her apartment for a while because this guy was known for returning to the place he had previously burgled. So she organized to move in with a friend a couple of floors down.

At this time, she was working on a project and had my father as an advisor. Being the erstwhile guru of the lab, people like Patty relied on me for help. Especially if they needed to come in early.

I have always been a morning person. Up at the crack of dawn. It also didn’t help that living out in the armpit of the universe, Chateauguay, I would have to leave home by 6:00 to be in the lab by 7:00. That is during the summer. During the winter, taking the 6:00 bus might mean I would miss my 9:00 class.

Anyway, I was helping out Patty with her project. A week or so after the burglary, she asked if I could come in early. She needed access to equipment & the computer and a deadline was looming. So I said no problem.

I got to the lab by 6:45, because traffic was light. I unlocked the lab and I set up the coffee maker as I always did. And waited for Patty. By 7:30, I was starting to get concerned because she wasn’t there yet. We had agreed 7ish. By 8, I was worried.

By 8:30, my gang had started to roll in. They were quick to dismiss my worry because Patty is a will-o-wisp. She most likely forgot. She decided to sleep in. She’ll saunter in around 11, with a sweet smile and say she was sorry. And then I would forgive her. But, for me it didn’t ring true.

My father was a task-manager with the students he advised. Patty knew that. She needed to organize some initial results for the report he wanted soon. No, something was wrong.

It was around 9 when she came into the lab, escorted by a female police officer. Her hair was dishevelled. She was pale, her shoulders hunched. And there was something wrong with her eyes. They seemed to be lifeless. Distant.

She came in, all apologetic. She was sorry that she had not shown up. Hadn’t called. Please don’t hate me. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to say, I had no idea what was going on. Then she asked if my father was in.

He had arrived a little earlier, so I told her he should be in his office. I need to talk to him. I’ll be back. And she just bolted out of the lab. I, as the other people in the lab, were stunned and confused. But I do not if any of them caught the look on the policewoman’s face. The look of sadness, of anger, of impotence. I still shudder from that memory.

I cannot remember how long she talked to my father but when she returned, she once again apologized. All I could do was stammer and told her not to worry about it. She then came over to give me a hug.

The hug was shattering. It was not a Patty hug. She and I are huggers. When I hug, I hug, as Patty did. We barely touched. Our bodies met but there was an invisible barrier; something separating the two of us. She then said she had to leave and we would talk later.

My mind was in chaos. Immediately it went back to what happened earlier. The guy had come back. He had attacked Patty. Total visceral anger started to course through my veins.

But I needed information. Ignoring my gang, I bolted to my father’s office. There was no preamble, just what the fuck is going on? Which put my father into a slight hissy fit. I had no time for his control-freak antics. He grumbled and started to tell me what Patty and the policewoman told him.

My personality split completely in two as my father confirmed my suspicions. Sheer utter fury competed with waves of grief.

My father had been told that Patty had gone back up to her room because she had forgotten some of her research stuff. Instead of returning to her friend’s place, she stayed in her place. Because of the deadline, she had been pushing herself so she was tired. And fell asleep at her desk. To be awoken by the guy from earlier and be brutally raped by him.

Each one of us, in the lab, went through our private hells when I told the gang of what had happened. The swear words flew, the anger was projected out impotently. The disgust clung to the air like a thick fog. This happens to people on the news or in the papers, not to someone we know. I remember Kathy looking shattered.

The details of the whole rape took time to be told. It had not been just the physical act of violence but also psychological acts of violence. Yet the details are of no import here. She was brutally attacked.

And now the once bubbly Patty was now a completely shattered husk of a person. Her female friends had to stay with her during the night because she could not sleep properly. A palpable distance separated Patty from her male friends for some time.

Yet one thing that is often ignored is the devastating effects on the friends of a rape victim. Patty actually lost some friends. They believed she brought this upon herself. She should have known better. And look at how she reacted at first. Maybe she was teasing him and she wanted it.

I do not know what was going through their minds, just supposition. Yet those who stuck with Patty had their own emotions to deal with, be it about the friends who abandoned her or seeing Patty in the state she was in.

For me, I ran the gamut of emotions. But what scared me was what I became for a couple of weeks. From the vague descriptions we got, the man who raped Patty was black, around 6 feet tall. She could not remember what he wore. Even his hair was non-descript. It could have been a short Afro, but she wasn’t sure.

Yet based on that description, a group of us started to look about the campus and the Ghetto for someone who might fit the description. We were looking for blood. When we didn’t have classes or obligations, we were out, searching.

For myself, I was not out to kill this person. I wanted to castrate him. Put his balls in his mouth and let him live a long miserable life without his jewels. There were even times I thought about going for all of it. Leave him completely without balls and a dick. Then he would never be able to do what he did again.

Every black man on campus became a suspect. I would walk down, though the campus, toward Sherbrooke and pass by a black man who vaguely fit the description and stop. And find the dark spectre of fury welling in me. Was it you? Did you do this to my friend? I’ll make you pay. Going down Milton, I had my radar out, in search for this one non-descript black man. Be it during the day, or in the shadows of night, we wanted to find this man.

This was an ugly mirror that was thrust upon me that I had to deal with. I have never had thoughts of violence toward anyone before, in the extreme I was thinking. Even worse, I was targeting any black man between 5’6” and 6’2”. Based on little or no evidence.

I was shocked by the welling in me. I was ready and willing to do serious, major harm to a human being. That reflection of me shocked me. I never thought I could be capable of what I was thinking, letting my fury become my guide.

But I was not the victim in all of this. Patty was. I do not want to take away from what happened to her but all too often those around a rape victim are ignored or not discussed.

For me, one episode stands clear as today in my mind to show what damage this act of violence does to a woman or man. The steps they have to take to rebuild their demolished lives.

It was a some time later. Patty could not walk about alone. All of us became shadows for her. When she left home, someone was with her. If she went into town, one of us would be with her.

With the therapy and help she was getting, this was one thing that had to be addressed. I was part of the first experiments of being able to walk alone.

We were walking down Ste. Catherine, and Patty said it was time she should try to walk alone. For one block. But her eyes did not reflect what her mouth was saying. A thin film of cold sweat came to her forehead. She was trembling even though it was hot. Sheer terror welled in her eyes. We stood at the corner for a moment before Patty finally decided to try.

At first her stride was strong but once she was on the south side, she was alone, me on the north. She stood for a moment at the corner, unsure. But the light changed. I had to wait for her decision: go forward or return.

I have no idea what was going through her mind as she decided to walk that block alone. I only have a visual memory. I matched her stride and kept looking at her. She tried not to glance at me but occasionally snapped her head violently, to remind her I was there. At times she walked as if she was drunk, other times as if she was walking against a strong wind. Her whole body was straining from the excursion. And when we reached the end of the block, she almost bolted back across the street, back to me.

This scene, for me, encapsulates the damage rape does to someone, be it a man or a woman. Here was a once vibrant woman who could not walk down the street, for one block, alone. Her free spirit was chained by fear and other emotions she could not share with us.

Some of Patty did return before she graduated. And just before she left to return home to Coral Gables, she vowed to keep in touch. But I knew she wouldn’t. Once she was home, she would have to put Montreal away. Heal and move forward. Montreal would be a source of pain for a long time and I would have to be forgotten. I was part of that pain she would have to get past.

Twenty years later I am still saddened by the loss of this friend. Many of my McGill friends moved away and we lost touch because of distance. But I lost Patty because of an act of violence. And I lost her the day she came into the lab.

So what started all of this? A short story called Benevolent Curse. It deals with a rape victim, for the first time after a rape, trying to be with a man again. And the male protagonist says that the narrator was given a benevolent curse because what she went through has given her inner strength that many never find in their life.

I can see what the writer was trying to say. We often don’t think we have the inner strength to get through a major crisis. I didn’t think I had it in me to survive living on the streets.

Each rape is different. The rape the writer presents is nothing compared to the violence, both physically and psychologically, that Patty experienced. And the writer of the short story did not make light of the damage rape does. Being a male, I have idea of the damage this act of violence does to a woman. I only have what I saw and heard. I could never understand what a person having gone through how they truly feel. Yet I cannot see rape being a benevolent curse.

I was a bystander through all of this. I don’t have any friends about me now, who have gone through a similar situation to get a sense of their reaction. All I can do is react from what I feel and have learnt. What little I went through has made me more sensitive about rape. As some people have found out when they have joked about it. Trust me, you don’t ever want to be around me and make light of rape!

God knows if Patty is now a happy person, living some of the dreams she had back in the heydays of the McGill lab. I really hope so. I hope she has found some peace.

Part of me wants to know, yet part of me doesn’t how she is now. I really want to have a happy ending to this tragic story. But the realist in me dreads finding out because all too often there are no happy endings.

Catkins

This is a male catkin on a willow.

This is a male catkin on a common hazel in January before opening.

But what is a catkin, you may ask. I will let Wikipedia tell you:

Catkins, or aments, are slim, cylindrical flower clusters, wind-pollinated and without petals, that can be found in many plant families, including Betulaceae, Fagaceae, Moraceae, and Salicaceae. They contain unisexual flowers. Often one plant has only male catkins, while another has female, but it is also possible for a plant to contain both male and female catkins.

So what profound and deep post is in store today? I think I have uncovered something major here. A major problem deep in the forest. And I had to share it with you.

I came onto the word by accident looking up the proper spelling of a word in the dictionary. I just loved the sound of it. Catkin. It just sort of flows off the tongue when you say it out loud. Well, it does for me, anyway.

Yet I do find it interesting that one plant may only have male catkins while another will have only females. And some of the luck few get both. Sounds almost kinky. I can just see the plants out there whispering to each other, so do you have a male or female catkin dangling there. Oh, you have both? Lucky you! I wish I had both!

But then I started to see the danger that lurks deep in the forest. Something wikipedia dare not mention. Willows and hazels have catkin envy. What they don't have a catkin? What would the other plants think? I can see it now, in the middle of the forest, a willow standing tall and proud with both male and female catkins while the grubby little willows without any being relegated to the fringes of the forest.

And of course, we cannot dismiss the pain of having a small catkin compared to having a large catkin. Think about it. Would you would want to be caught dead at a tree function with a dinky catkin, while others parade around with big ones?

This is an area we need to investigate. What are the profound, psychological damage catkins could do to the well-being of a willow or hazel? Are they really necessary or just an appendage used for status? Right now, as I type, there could be severely depressed willows or hazels, preparing themselves for the chain-saw. With no regard on how their death might affect the balance of the forest. This is something we need to look into.

I thought the look of those innocent baby seal's eyes begging me to let them live was a cause. I am seeing a bigger picture. I think I have just scratched the surface here. There may be a black market for catkins out there. Maybe spam advertising catkin enlargement. My mind boggles at the potential abuse here. Then again, my mind just boggles!

And Now For Something Complete Different (4)

The last in this series, for now, is still in Erlangen, Germany. This took place during one of the roughest weeks I had there, November 28/1994 to December 4/1994. To get to the Monty Python part, we have to get a little heavy first. Bear with me.

It was then my good friend, Johnny died. Johnny was the father of one of my best friends, Brian. Yet his parents, Johnny and Blanche never treated me as just Brian’s friend. I was Loekie. I was, whether I liked it or not, part of the family.

I had known Johnny since 1979-1980. He was a gentle man with a mischievous glint in his eyes. And when he asked you how your day was, he meant it. He wanted to know.

Anyway, Johnny died late on November 28th, 1994. He was bowling with his wife & friends and had a heart attack after having a strike. They tried to bring him back a couple of times, but the family decided it was best to leave him in peace.

Because of the time difference, I did not find out until Wednesday. I came into work to find an email from a friend at work back in Montreal. All it said was there was an emergency and to contact him or my friends Errol or Brian. The first thought was something was wrong with my mum.

I had to wait over an hour because I was the only one on the floor and did not know how to dial out international numbers. When my co-worker, Wieland came in, I finally was able to call and found out Johnny died. I was stunned.

My grief grew worse because I wanted to be there for the funeral, the wake, for everything but I couldn’t. I was stuck alone. But be my mates at the Institute or the Dartmoor, I had support.

The next day, an idea came to me. If I could not be there for the funeral or wake, I would do something in Erlangen. And that is when a PBS show called Andre’s Mother came to mind. I won’t go into details about the show, but at the end, after a funeral, the crowd release white balloons as a symbol of starting to let go and guiding the dead person’s spirit upwards. And I decided I wanted to do this for Johnny.

And now the Monty Python theme music kicks in...

The plan was to do this Friday at sunset. It would about the time the funeral would be over and the wake would be starting in Montreal. I choice two balloons: a red for heart, a white for peace.

Friday morning was the adventure to find helium. My co-work and mate, Wieland knew many people around campus. So he organized to get helium for me. And off we went to get some at the physics department.

It took some time to get it. First some of the tanks weren’t working. Then we didn’t have the right helium. The helium they used was pure and the molecules would go straight through the pores of the balloon. We needed dirty helium. Which took forever to find. Now I will let my own words of that evening speak for me:

Wieland drove me out to the highest point around Erlangen. It wasn’t the place I thought we were going to. We pulled off the main road, to a parallel dirt road. As the trees cleared, I saw a cross, with Jesus, lit up by our headlights. Across the street was a cylindrical tower, which had an old, Roman look. It was like a turret of a castle without the castle.

Before Wieland went off to leave me alone, he handed me a small shot bottle of something, to fortify me. It was something like schnapps. He walked away down the dirt road and I was left with my thoughts.

As I walked from the car, I opened the bottle and drank it. Didn’t have much taste to it. Then I stopped and I stood there in the dirt road, for a couple of minutes. I couldn’t think of what to say or think. The wind was picking up, so the lines of the balloons became intertwined. I finally thought a few words and it was time to say good-bye. I decided not to untangle the balloons since, for some reason, they were now together. It had a nice symbology to it. Heart and peace together.

There was a line of trees and bushes on my left, so I move away from them. I released the balloons and they rose into the air. Only to be pushed, by a sudden wind, into the trees. Damn! I went up to the trees and pulled the balloons out. They had hit the branches, just at arm’s reach.

Moved down and away a bit and let them go again. Once again as they started to move away, the wind shifted. Only to get tangled in the trees again. This was getting a little ridiculous.

This was not going the way I envisioned it. It was starting to look like a Monty Python skit. This time, the balloons were a little higher and further in. So I had to get into the bramble, to get near the string. And there were quite a few thorns about.

I shook the branch, to get the balloons loose and scrapes over my exposed skin. After a bit, the white one shook loose and rose up into the sky, unencumbered. I shook the branch again, to get the red one out. But something happened, with the branch and the red one popped. I stood there, in the bramble, watching the white one rise in the air. The wind didn’t pick up this time. It quietly rose into the air.

Was this some sort of sign? It was Johnny’s heart that stopped. Why was it that the white one, for peace, was now floating freely in the air while the red one, for heart popped? In the end, I stood there and finally said good-bye. The white balloon slowly disappeared into the night air. Where it would end up, who knows? But it was free to go where it was supposed to.

I walked back to the car, feeling a little strange. At the car, I didn’t find Wieland there. I walked down the dirt road to where we had turned off the main road. He had gone around the corner, hidden by a row of hedges.

In the darkness, Erlangen spread before us, as pinpricks of little lights. Like the stars we could see in the sky. The night was clear and the moon wasn’t marring the sparkling lights.

When I walked up, he asked me how I was doing. I told him shaky but okay. He pointed toward Erlangen. “What do you see?” I looked at the twinkle of the town lights.

“Erlangen”, I responded.

“No, life” was his response. The glow of the town showed life. “The living are down there.” I stared at the lights. With the lights were people. With people was life. He grabbed by shoulder and hugged me. Then we walked back to the car.

When I called Montreal, I got Blanche at home. I told her about the balloons and she started to pee herself. Her comment was only Loekie could make letting go of balloons an adventure.

And when Brian came on the phone, as I was telling him what had happened, I could hear Blanche telling other people my adventures, filling the kitchen with laughter.

A fitting celebration for someone like Johnny. Someone who loved life and had that mischievous look in his eyes. I know he appreciated what happened and in the loss I still have, I can laugh.

Friendship

I have been getting some interesting feedback on the stuff I have posted on urbis. The most interesting had been some of the responses on my poem, A Precious Few, especially the last stanza:

True friendship
Few and far between.
True friendship
Cherish the ones you have.

More than one person has commented that I am being cliched. That has stopped me and made me think.

When I first wrote the poem back in the mid 80's, it was a statement about the sad state of affairs with people. People are all too quick to classify anyone a friend. Someone is nice to them, they are a friend. Someone bought them a beer, they are a friend. Someone invited them to a BBQ, they are a friend. But that is not friendship.

I have known many people. Almost none would be classified as a friend. They were buddies or acquaintances. When times got rough, they weren't around. Their idea of support was to get me drunk or be pedantic and say things will get better.

I am not an easy person to be with. I have way too many demons haunting me. Some go back to my teenage years with my father. Yet those I call friends take me for what I am. I am moody, I have hissy fits. I pull back and don't talk to them for weeks. They know that and don't care.

But when I need support, I get it. And it is honest, unflinching support. They have no problems telling me I am being an asshole and get over it. Or drive me to the Douglas because I am having a breakdown, without judgment. Hug me when I am down and mean it. Revel with excitement when I make a positive step.

And when you lose a friend, it hurts, I mean hurts big time. Over ten years ago, I lost two friends, Mario and Colette because they broke up and I got caught in the middle. They demanded I chose sides but I couldn't because they were both important to me, so I lost both. And I still miss them.

Friendship is an intimate thing, just one step down from a marriage or partnership. You don't have many of them. True friendships are precious.

At work, I know and work with a lot of people. Yet none of them are friends. There are a couple of people where a friendship may develop, but they are co-workers. None of them will cover my back or be there is things gets fucked up. We'll go out and have a drink, play some pool. But that is as far as it goes.

It is the same at my local, Brutopia. My gang are great. We have a laugh, a few drinks, help each other out with a free DVD or hard disc, but nothing deeper. We're just buddies.

But in our current society, with the blurring of context and PC warmth, what a friend has been lost. Everyone is our friend, let's have a group hug. Argh! I don't need the immediacy they see what friendship is.

A friend is there, through thick and thin. They are a lighthouse you can rely on. They are there for the good times and bad. That is my take on friendship. And how I am as friend. I do not get pissed off when they call at 3 in the morning because they need talk. I don't admonish them when they throw-up all over my bathroom, hitting everything but the toilet. I will take a day off from work if a friend is in trouble. I will give my last 20 bucks to a friend, even though I won't get paid for another four days.

So, yeah I know a lot of people. And that is great. But I can count the number of friends on one hand. That is why I consider friendship precious. Buddies come and go. Friends don't.