Merry Christmas! Thank You

It was Christmas eve around 1979, my two brothers and I were starting to get excited, it was getting close to 1130 and my mother would be getting off of work soon. We all knew that Christmas just couldn’t start without her and none of us would allow ourselves to fall asleep until she got home.

 Mom was a nurse at a local hospital and for a lot of that time she worked in the veterans wing. I still remember Christmases where my brothers and I would be paraded to the nurses desk to be offered Christmas chocolates by the nurses and asked by little old men in wheel chairs if we had been good or bad this year. It always made me proud to say I had been good. I don’t know if it was because it made my mother happy or that I thought that these little old men had some sort of connection with Santa because of their age, but I remember how proud I felt when they asked. We would stand there, almost at attention. We knew why they were there and had heard the stories of the war by one of our grandfathers. To us, even though life wasn’t easy for them, they were heros, warriors, men to be respected. So we would stand there at attention and proudly say, yes we’ve been good that year.

But on this particular Christmas,  things went differently, instead of us waiting patiently for our mother to come home, we were unceremoniously ushered into the car.

“but we got pajamas on” I said

“don’t  worry about it” dad answered back

“We’ll freeze, someone will see us, what if the car breaks down” but all my excuses fell on deaf ears.

My father was busy getting my youngest brother, who was almost 3 years old, ready. Any other day my little brother would just sit there and allow my parents to get him ready, he’d actually be happy he was going out, but not this night. This night for some reason he fought back, he thought he was being taken away from Christmas.

Now normally my dad would not stand for, as he called it,  ”bullshit”. He could always end, whatever stupid thing we were doing, by just yelling “Alright! Enough of the bullshit”, when you heard that you knew it was time to stop and stop we did. We were so sure that the world would end, that we always stopped, I can’t actually say what happened if we didn’t stop, because we always did.

But this night his directions quickly turned towards pleading with no bullshit remark to keep us in line. You could however hear him cursing under his breath as he tried to tell us where our hat, mits and other winter clothing were. This would make me and my brother smile. As boys we thought it was cool that our dad cursed, he said things that you knew that not all fathers would. So when he cursed or got frustrated,  the poetry of sailors, phrases no one but us heard of, would come whispering out of his mouth. We knew they weren’t directed at us, it was just his way of getting through a stressful situation and it always made us smile.

The front door was kicked opened as dad held my youngest brother in his arms. My other brother and I were closer in age and were in competition most of our childhood, who could: jump higher, spit further, hold the other down longer, drink faster, pee longer, everything was some sort of a competition. On this particular night it was, who could jump in the snow the deepest. So here we were on Christmas Eve, passed 11:30 and late picking up my mother, my dad standing in the cold night air with one son crying uncontrollably and the other two standing in snow up to our waists. The curse words I learned at that moment are some of the finest and most profane I’ve ever heard. I’ve never repeated them and keep them locked away for just the right occasion.

So into the car with the youngest, then he had to come back and pull each of us out the snow bank. There we were standing in our under-roos, batman and robin if I remember right, shivering in the cold. Then for some strange reason I decided to say

” see I told ya we’d freeze”

There are many looks a person can have in their life, from the first time you fall in love, to the last broken heart, and everything in between. But on that night my father gave us a look that I never seen before or since. He was stern and upset but the look was almost sad like he was about to give up, and my brother and I both recognized it, so from then on we quietly went along, not only to help keep dad sane, but we remembered it was still Christmas eve and we hadn’t received our gifts yet, so better safe than sorry we thought.

Into the old station wagon we went, heading uptown to pick up our mom so Christmas could start. In his younger years my father would drive fast, regardless of the weather we always went there quickly. On this night as we went across the bridge that spans my city’s harbour at our usually accelerated rate when the car fishtailed a little. This scared me, thrilled my brothers and seemed not to disturb my dad in the least.

“geez dad!!” I yelled

“what, did I scare you?”

“ah, ya” I shot back

“relax, ya fraid you might miss Santa”

 By 1979 I was ten and a man of the world, or so I thought. I was into the rock band KISS, I even kissed a girl by then, heck I smoked cigarettes when a friend could steal some from an older sibling and they would dare me. But to actually say it out loud, I mean I don’t remember speaking about it in school for fear the gifts would stop. So for a few more years I never said one way or the other my true feelings about Santa. So I actually wasn’t afraid of missing Santa.

But for my two younger brothers this was the worst thing they could have heard.

“Miss Santa!!!”  they both screamed

“we can’t miss Santa” the youngest began to sob

“can’t miss” the sobbing turned to crying and then to the constant cry for

“MOMMY”

And my dad drove faster.

We pulled up so quick to the hospital I thought orderlies were going to be waiting at the front door with a gurney. But they weren’t, instead it was my mom. Can people still remember how nurses used to be dressed totally in white, with the nurses cap. To this day it stills make me smile when I think of how she looked when we picked her up. My mom was a nurse and like any child with a close bond with their parents this made me proud. Children think so much of their parents that we tend to look at their jobs as honourable or noble. It didn’t take me too many more years to realize it was their love and character that made their professions lucky to have such honourable and noble people.

It didn’t take my mom too long before she had my brothers calmed down. You could still see the fear in their eyes, but at least the crying had stopped and the drive  home was pretty uneventful. That is until we were actually home.

Mom walked in first with my little brother, and I heard some excitement. Then my other brother went running in closely followed by me. What was in front of us left us speechless and shocked. I’m pretty sure that was the first time I actually used a four letter word correctly.

Every present and gift we had asked for was laying under our tree. Some were wrapped others only hidden from view by the branches on our christmas tree. We didn’t know what to do. To us it was still christmas eve and we never had our gifts on christmas eve. The three of us stood frozen, staring back and forth at our parents for some direction. At that moment all the worldly knowledge I had acquired in my short ten years went out the window. Santa Claus actually existed he was here, there was no other explanation. Oh how quickly we could change our minds back then. As we approached our presents we distinctly heard sleigh bells, then the unmistakable HO HO HO of Santa Claus. This froze us in our tracks. Oh joyous day he really does exist.

“get at em ” dad said

And at em we went. I don’t think I was finished unwrapping my first gift when my grandparents came in the house. Right away something wasn’t right. My grandparents were elderly and normally we didn’t see them until later the next day, but here they were. What happened next showed me two things. First, changed my belief in Santa Claus forever and second showed what extremes my parents would go through to give us the gift of  christmas spirit.

I spied my father and grandfather in a back bedroom with a large tape player in my dad’s hand. My grandfather had his arm around my father’s shoulder and they were laughing and smiling. It was then I knew what had happened. My grandparents came over and put out the presents while we picked up my mom and my father had pre-recorded the Santa message so we would hear it ten minutes  after he pressed play when we got home. At first I felt like I had out smarted them, was one up on them. But as time went by and I thought of my poor father trying to get us out of the house on time, my elderly grandparents putting out the presents and my mother forgoing any rest after working all night. Because of their love they tried to give us more than just gifts, they gave us the christmas spirit.

It is memories like these that make me love Christmas so much, it’s the memories of my children opening their gifts as their dreams come true. It’s the feeling of reaching out and others reaching back. It’s because of these and so many other reasons that I wanted to say thank you all and Merry Christmas.

Geez I wonder if they still sell under-roos, I feel like being Batman once more.

Daddy Christmas Toes

Of all the things that I’ve been, presently am and will be, none mean more to me than being a dad. I can honestly say that it’s the one thing in life that I’m happiest being.  I am the father of two girls, daddies girls to be exact. I was changed the moment my first daughter was born and the change was only reinforced into concrete when my youngest  came along.      

My world perspective was also forever changed when the girls came into my life. I thought I needed to learn at lighting speed, what it was like to be surrounded by and living with girls. Since I came from an all boys family, except for my mother of course, I thought that I wouldn’t be able to relate my childhood, with my daughters’. You soon learn and quite quickly too, that this just isn’t the case. In fact I’ve learned more about myself from my daughters than I ever thought I could.      

There are certain traits that we as parents pass along to our children, the same way our parents did for us. Now I recognize that not all these traits are positive. Also I tend to think that some are inherited while others are learned. Now this is the twist. First, how to cultivate these traits and second, how can we help our children exercise their weaker traits into strengths.      

This is what I really consider to be my full-time job, everything else comes a distant second. There are times when I’m asked what I do for a living, I want to say that I’m a DAD, a full-time card caring member for life. Everything else I do, whether for money or not, I consider to be my life choices. These choices I make are the examples I show my children. I love talking with my girls, trying to explain things through with them patiently and with dialogue, I may not succeed every time but I always try.      

Now if you read my previous post, you would have learned that I had a gambling problem. This was a life choice,  even though I may have been addicted, it was still my choice, just like it was my choice to quit, just like it is my choice to not gamble one day at a time. Now I can wallow in self-pity, go through life, full of regret and guilt, or, I can nut up and be the man. I tried to the best of my ability not to allow it to effect my children, but I do know that it did effect my family. But we are a very close and loving family and were able to come through, all things considered, quite un-effected. Me, personally well that’s a different story. I’m not looking forward to the conversation with the girls on this one, but it will happen one day soon. For now, I do try to explain the past and the changes I’m going through, to the best of their ability to understand. So far so good, they really are two wonderful, intelligent little girls who surprise and surpass their father everyday.      

But just because I made mistakes, doesn’t give me a reason to stop trying to be better. I, along with their mother, must make sure we teach our children what we, the parents, consider the important lessons. We strive to cultivate the traits we believe our children need to become stronger, happier and healthier individuals. Every parent is different, every situation unique. There are no Holy plans to show us how to raise our children. Suffice to say I’m not going to try to explain mine any further, but I do welcome all tips, experiences and stories you my want to share about your kids or your childhood. Sharing of opinions and listening to these opinions is, I believe, the first step towards a wiser society.      

I began this blog not long ago to have a platform or an outlet if you wish, where I can work towards living a creative life style. By visiting other artists online and reaching out to the community I live in, I hope to cultivate and grow my creative tendencies. But some times you don’t have to go far to find a muse. I truly enjoy watching, doing and receiving art and crafts from my kids. I hang it all in my house, this is the only art I have at the moment. Because of my gambling, money had to be saved for other things, bills, food, you know all the expenses of running a household, which was always on the brink of collapsing. The problem quickly became that there wasn’t the extra cash we would use for art or extra decorations. This is another mistake I am going to remedy. By buying and supporting our local, talented pool of artists, I can reach out to my community, decorate my home and enjoy a life with creativity in it.      

youngest's drawing

But I will always be the biggest supporter of my daughters and their talents. We tend to appreciate our own children’s art because we know that it comes from the heart. The “I love Dabby” notes (and yes, I know there are two b’s and not d’s), to the extreme,“this is what I did to the wall while you were napping art”. I love and cherish every one of them.      

I like it when my kids try to jump out of their comfort zone and experiment with being crafty/creative. My youngest has decided she is now my hair stylist. This works out fine with me, since I don’t really have much hair left and whatever mistakes she my make will always grow back (I hope), plus those who know me, know that I like to wear a hat most of the time anyways. But lately she has a new way to express herself while maintaining me as an active participant.      

oldest daughter's drawing

My youngest daughter enjoys painting my toe nails every once and awhile. It’s no big deal to me; it’s quality time with her, it helps break down gender stereotypes, everyone in the house gets a giggle out of it, she gets to express and share her creative side with me and hell I’ll admit it I kind of like it. I mean who wouldn’t want to dress up their ugly old toes, you know make em feel special, christ your on them all day. The only problem is that during this time of year it’s hard to let anyone else enjoy the art we created together, so I thought to myself, how can I help my daughter express what she was saying when we created this masterpiece. So here it is, I am pleased to present to you, a piece entitled “Daddy Christmas Toes”      

This all started quite innocently a couple of nights ago, when my daughter asked me “hey you want me to paint your toes?” It was the way that she asked me, not really for permission more a statement, kind of like I needed them done and to say no would mean I was a complete fashion boob. So who am I to go against the fashion sensibility of an 8-year-old, I mean really what the hell do I know.      

Well this is the statement I came up with to define our creative experience together:    

“The beauty, the creativity and the bond of two artists, when each is walking  a shared path,  can, through thoughtful inspiration and love, breakdown walls set up by society, walls like gender stereotypes”     

Or as my daughter said once she was completed her task, “there ya go, you’re all decorated for christmas, Daddy christmas toes.”      

I definitely love the simplicity of the second statement.      

 

Kitchen Counters

I walked into the office, sat down and began to unload. For the past couple of months I’ve been attending therapy and normally feel almost serene when I have my sessions. I’ve gone through years of wanting to talk to a professional, since I always thought I needed professional help. Now I have someone to talk to, to help me place the puzzle pieces I call my mind into some sort of order. But yesterday was different, I just let go, well as much as someone can in one hour.

Lately I’ve been feeling out of sorts, maybe it’s just Christmas stress but I don’t think so. Over the past 2 Months I’ve come to a life changing decision, I must live a creative life. It’s that simple. All I have to do is just quit my job to write and take photographs, hey maybe I’ll even do a documentary or two, it’s that simple.

NOT!  REALITY CHECK!!

I’ve heard people say that reality can be like a slap in the face, for me it’s more like a kick in the balls. It can drop me to my knees and send me crawling for my Ativan and questioning if I took my daily Paxil. Reality fucks with my emotions and the sheer enormity of the situation can mentally tailspin me in all directions leaving me not sure or able to start down the proper path.

Don’t get me wrong, I do function and I do have joy and love in my life. But I function by trying to do what I think is the proper or the adult thing to do. For years I tried mimicking people. Going to school, getting an education, getting a job and living a life derived from all that work. But that doesn’t work for someone like me, it gets mentally exhausting to try all the time because I’m just not wired to be like that. I get so tired feeling different, it gets overwhelming at times when you feel that you just don’t fit the social mold, that it seems everyone else is so comfortable and content most of the time.

Now, I know that everyone have their own problems, that life is just as hard for the next person; work, love, bills, kids, sex, fear, health, food, fuck the list goes on and on, each situation can be just as difficult for the next person. I’m a big believer in the saying “walk a mile in my shoes”. So therefore I won’t begin to speak for or about others, I can only speak for and about myself.

One of the consequences of my failing to function to the standards I choose, was to become a compulsive gambler. Those who aren’t to familiar with a gambling addiction may think that it’s a money or a thrill thing, that people get addicted to gambling for the joy/excitement of the game, but more than not, that just isn’t the case. Speaking for myself it was completely emotional. It would numb me for hours. I was addicted to the idea, “what was about to happen is out of my control”, and the more I gambled the more I gave up my control. When I won, I was up, sort of high and the world was mine. But when I lost, which most do, most of the time, I would try, in desperation, to win back my loses throwing me into a deadly mix of depression, regret, fear and extreme anxiety. As funny or as sad as it sounds this was one of the ways I coped with my problems, by creating more problems. But I was able to get help and quit gambling “one day at a time”. But it wasn’t my own strength that helped, it was the love of my family that guided me on a new path. Simply put if I didn’t stop when I did, because of you, I know that I would not be here today, thank you, I love you all so much. I would also like to mention Gamblers Anonymous, which has been helping me since the day I walked through the door.

That’s all I want to say about that for now. There’s enough material on that subject alone to keep me typing for quite sometime. But it was changes like that, that me brought to this point today. When you’re in a program like GA or some other addiction program, one of things you start doing almost right away is to work on any defects or flaws that would tend to return you to gambling or using, whatever. But trying to change them all at once, and believe me I’ve got plenty, would be a bit to difficult. So I started slowly and diligently, deciding to make positive changes.

This how I came up with the name “Karmic Rhythm”, I know it has that 1970′s karma sutra sex position ring to it, but that’s not what I was working towards. I just figured that in order to live a creative life I need to begin by making some changes in my life, positive steps forward. I was hoping that if I could make positive changes (Karma), then positive things should start to happen. As far as the rhythm part, we all march along to the beat of our own drum and I just decided to change my beat a little. Now on a lighter note if anyone does know of some link between karmic rhythm and some position, please let me know, I can always use something new in my repertoire.

What the hell does all this have to do with Kitchen Counters you may ask. Well one of my greatest flaws is procrastination, something I work on everyday and have my entire life, normally not well but I’m trying. Today I finished my kitchen counters tops, by finally grouting the tile my father and I layed a couple of days ago. A wait of a couple of days isn’t that bad, but it isn’t too good when you consider I started renovating the kitchen last year, good thing my family is extremely patient. Anyways Dad I just wanted to show you that I can actually accomplish something, ha ha. Seriously though thank you so much, the kitchen would not have been started or completed without you, I love you.

Now  I only have to change the door, hang the rest of the shelves, make the corner bench, hook up the range and then I can start in the bathroom. Oh well there’s always tomorrow.

The Beat of the Drum

” IT’S PRESS TIME BABY!!” I yell with my arms pumped high like a triumphant olympic athlete ! Now that’s a proper proclamation, but maybe not the smartest or most sane, because now everyone in the coffee shop is staring at me.

Time to sit down idiot. The voice in my head whispers . Not that I’m inclined to listen to the voices anymore,  anyways not since the condom machine incident of “89″, but this is one of the few times that I and my voice would both agree. So sit down.

Ok relax, smile. Not too much teeth! They’ll think your nuts.

Ok good, good. Now just a little nod. Add the old shoulder shrug.

Good everything is alright, everyone is relaxed and going about their own business. They may all still think your nuts, but the good non threatening kind of nuts.

It’s hard to not be so excited because this is the day I start my website. I almost feel a little like Ebenezer Scrooge on christmas morning screaming out the window like some deranged lunatic not really knowing what day it is, throwing money at strange little boys and calling it “goose money”. But here I sit with my laptop in hand all juiced up on double shot lattes writing my first actual post for everyone to enjoy or not, whatever (I’ll take any reaction right now). Its been a long time coming but finally it’s here and what do I have to write about, what bullshit pseudo philosophical rant on the merits of writing this blog did I come up with. Now I could go on and on working this like some sort of Seinfeld knock off, you know a site about nothing, but I think that it’s been done many times and to my knowledge it was really only done right once.

I know how important the first post can be, I’ve been thinking for some time now about what I wanted to say to any readers I may get. I knew it had to be more than “just ok”, this is my foot in the door. It’s sort of like an opening line in some cyber bar of singles and swingers, lookers and seekers , old friends, old enemies and strangers I have yet to meet. I’ve been pining about what to say  for weeks and weeks. Then like a bolt of lightning the words echoed down to me from on high. I finally knew, it was crystal clear.

“ IT’S TIME TO SHIT OR GET OFF OF THE POT”

Now you’ll have to please forgive the vulgarity, but this advice was given to me by my mother, I think that it’s actually ancient celtic derived from some gaelic text left by the druids, you know the tree worshippers, so it must be good. Although it may seem a bit simplistic, once you break it down and really listen, I mean really tear into the meat of it, you’ll find that it can help in a multitude of situations. It helped me grow up and make decisions, maybe not always the right one but a decision none the less. It has helped me right now. I realize that, although I don’t have what some may call important things to say or that at the moment have a certain cause to champion, I do have a opinion. This opinion may not be the same as yours or you may not even consider it intelligent but who said it had to be. 

It’s important to note at this time that my father routinely shares with me a certain variation of this phrase, maybe not so much a variation but half of the phrase anyways. (I’ll be sure to discuss that later)

I want to ensure all of you, that if you do continue to visit I definitely have a couple of good ideas or stories for you to read. One or two great epic stories of  love and lust just waiting to be shared with the world. Maybe a tale of intrigue just waiting to be woven or a good old fashion screamer, a white knuckle horror story that will  give you nightmares. But you’ll have to wait because at the moment it’s “shit or get off the pot” time. 

It’s this little lightening bolt of knowledge that made me string all this words together, made me go onto the net and make this site. Hell! It helped me decide it was actually the right time to propose to my wife.  Shit or get off the pot!! Do you go left or right? Shit or get off the pot!! Do you keep on the same path or is it time to change? Make those decision big guy. Oh don’t get me wrong I don’t believe that all of life’s problems can be solved by turning everything into black or white, good or bad, left or right but you have to admit sometimes it’s just ”SHIT OR GET OFF OF THE POT” time. 

For quite some time I’ve been telling family and friends that I want to write, to unleash, let go, get creative, blah, blah, blah. Well fuck here it is with all the pomp and circumstance of an intervention, a bit surprised, confused and grateful it’s time to make the decicion. I hit the wall and came  the conclusion; to write and be happy or not to write and continue on the same old path, shit or get off the pot time. So Kelly pull up your socks, dust off your old notes, you’ve made the decision to get off the pot (ha ha). To walk to the beat of a different drum. To be creative and more of a positive force for your friends and family. To walk along the path of life to the sweat beat of some sort of Karmic Rhythm.

So hold on, fasten your selt belts cause it’s gone to be a bumpy ride.