All's Hollow Eve

No, it isn't a typo. I'm just really not a fan of Halloween, especially on a weekend. To me Halloween has always been about kids and couples, I don't have one, and I'm not part of one. Nuff said.

I can remember the last time I dressed up for Halloween. I believe I was in grade 12. There was a big party at the local Rec Center. I didn't want to go, but all my friends were hell bent on it, and one of our friends brothers had picked us up a bunch of beer.

I finally agreed to go but didn't have anything to wear. I rummaged around the house and managed to find one of my old football jerseys and one of my mothers wigs from the '70's. I really don't know what my inspiration was, but I donned the jersey, grabbed a tub of my dad's black shoe polish and went nuts. My mom's wig was brownish-blond, I covered it in the shoe polish as well as my face and arms. It was freaking ridiculous. What was I? A Rastafarian football player??

No matter, I was able to dodge my parents on the way out so they didn't see me (we hadn't been getting along anyhow). My buddies picked me up and we were on our way. That night I drank like only a teenager can. I was an absolute mess, through a lamp shade on him, life of the party. I don't even really remember much, just the blanks that were unkindly filled in for me later.

My curfew was 10:30 ( I know, again ridiculous), the boys said they dropped me off around 1 am. Turns out my clever father had decided to install a new lock on the front door in an attempt to keep me out of the house. I cracked my wallet and whipped out my drivers license and was in the house in a matter of seconds. Looking back now, I wish they had woken up. As you can imagine, I used everything I had left to get the door open. As soon as I was in I hit the floor. This is now the time to tell you about the new white carpets my parents had installed through the house. I literally had to crawl up the stairs, resting my head on each step before another pull. I finally reached the second floor and pulled myself across the carpet into my room where I scaled my bed like Sir Edmund conquering Everest. Never took my clothes off or the wig for that matter.

My first recollection was getting a shot to my jaw first thing the next morning. Turns out my folks had found my black swath through the house (a most unremovable swath I might add). I sat up in bed, the shoe polish made the pillow stick to my face which didn't help, it just added to the appearance of me still being drunk. Although I did sense the smallest smile in the corner of my mom's mouth.

That was grounding number 272 as I recall. And Halloween never really seemed the same after. I now know where the phrase painful memories comes from, as I get this pain in my jaw every Halloween like an arthritic waiting for rain.

So the couples and kids can have it. I will stick to my routine....whatever that means.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Man do I feel like junk. Thanks to a hard landing in Cranbrook my backs shot. My shoulders are wreaked, my neck is bent, and I was up sick all night. I'm getting to feel like an old dog that needs to be put down, but enough of that.

I want to talk about one of my favorite poems today, "I know why the caged bird sings" by Maya Angelou. Even though the poem speaks of racism, I think it still reaches all of us on different levels. I think to some extent, all of us have bonds that tie us to a cage.

Loneliness, the longing for a loved one, even the ability to love, can keep us inside that cage. The absence of family, the feeling of abandonment, and even money problems can all lead us to that place.

We all want to spread our wings, we all want our freedom. We want to float on gossamer wings, and feel the warmth of an embrace. There is something that we all long for that is just off in the distance seemingly unreachable. (See the post Green Lights and the Untimely Demise of Symbolism for reference)

And now the poem:

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

Another Saturday Night

Sammy, you died too young.

The Longer the Walk the Deeper the Thought

I went for a kick about the woods today. I love this time of year, some days I think the rain even adds to it. Throws in a little cleansing effect, washing away all that ails you. (I think I need a lot more rain). It was dead silent save the drops of rain falling from leaf to leaf til they met the ground.

I went up through Bridgeman where the colours are thriving, if you live on the North Shore I would highly recommend you go before the end of this week. We don't have many places around here that get that palate of colour.

I've been thinking a lot about New York lately, deep down I think I just want to run away. Normally that leads me to Southern California, but there is just something about this time of year that draws me to the Big Apple. After this morning's walk, I couldn't help but think of walking through Central Park on a crisp autumn day.

It's not the time for that now, Martini Johnny has already been there, that side of my soul that so easily comes out. It's that other John that needs to go there, and he needs to go with someone he can share it with. The walk in the park, that fountain in the meadow, the Hansom Cab to a candlelight dinner et al. Unfortunately that's not in the cards right now....hell, I don't even have a deck of cards.

Maybe next year. Yeah, right.

It Was a Great Thanksgiving.....For Me to Poop On

I keed, I keed. It was a lot of fun. Kinda a ragtag crew. I've been doing these orphan dinner's for about 18 years now, and the dynamic never ceases to amaze me. I always long for that sense of family that I miss 363 days of the year, yet I'm able to artificially create on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I've always found the only downside of the orphan dinner's is that everyone want their dinner just like their momma made. "Can't you put this in the stuffing?? Can't you make the potatoes this was?? Oh, you should cook the turkey like this." My response is normally "Can't you kiss my lily white ass? Homey don't play that." But this year I had the contingent of Irish kids. They had never had Thanksgiving, or even knew what it was. It was like having 8 twenty-somethings over for their first Christmas.

I ended up doing two turkeys, as Pauly and Brad had cancelled their dinner. One was a 19lb. the other about an 18. I had to do one on the BBQ which sorta sucked. You can't keep the temperature balanced on the damn thing and I swear by the time dinner was served I had turned more knobs than Bruce Fairbairn during a recording session. Everything turned out perfect, and it was another Thanksgiving miracle.

As always, nine hours of preparation disappeared in about 15 minutes. Everyone was stuffed, so much so that Philly's $70's worth of pies went neglected, but he seemed to take comfort in whatever he was drinking out of that pickle jar.


We took our spots in the living room, and popped in the holiday tradition. The Best of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. Another first for the Irish kids. My ribs are still killing me. I just luv that dog. So the warm-up is done. Christmas is just around the corner. Ugh!!

But Then....It's Not For Me to Say

Yesterday was my annual drive to the autumn colours. Could'nt have asked for a nicer day, the air was as crisp as the leaves under my feet once I reached my destination.

I found a great spot on some unknown logging road beside a river. The CD of the day was Johnny Mathis Gold. I must have played this song 20 times as I sat on the hood of my car skipping rocks across the surface of the river. When Johnny is on, man is he on.

If I Were a Bird I Would Fly About the Earth Seeking Successive Autumns...My Very Soul is Wedded to Them

Go, sit upon the lofty hill

And turn your eyes around,

Where waving woods and waters wild

Do sing an autumn sound

The summer sun is faint on them-

The summer flowers depart-

Sit still-as all transformed to stone,

Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,

May yet be in your mind;

And how you heard the greeen woods sing

Beneath the freshening wind.

Though the same wind now blows around,

You would its blast recall;

For every breath that stirs the trees,

Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth

That flesh and dust impart;

We cannot bear its visitings,

When change is on the heart.

Words and jests may make us smile,

When sorrow is asleep;

But other things must make us smile,

When sorrow bids us weep.

The dearest hands that clasp our hands,-

Their presence may be o'er

The dearest voice that meets our ear,

That tone may come no more.

Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,

Which once refresh'd our mind,

Shall come-as, on those sighing woods,

The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind-view not the woods;

Look out over valley and hill-

In spring, the sky encircled them-

The sky is round them still.

Come autumn's scathe-come winter's cold-

Come change- and human fate!

Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,

Can ne'er be desolate.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning