And then I woke up ...

Come on in, there's some great fruit and veggies to snack on. Feel free to watch the smoke and follow the images. It's what I'm doing.

You see I woke up and felt very satisfied, and yet there was something missing. Reaching to the side I felt an empty space and you were gone. Strangely I wasn't bothered ... just disappointed. Seeing those gorgeous eyes of yours when I wake up always makes my day. I heard noise so I went down the hall, scratching and stretching out the stiffness of sleep. I came into your studio and there you were, a large painting propped up, you sat on a stool, gloriously naked, spatterings of paint from your enthusiastic art techniques covering various parts of your body. You hadn't heard my footsteps so I helped prop up the doorway and watched.

Watching you move is always something that makes my mind kick into gear and my soul to stir. I don't think you understand your hidden grace, but when you paint it makes me wish I could watch you all day long. There is slight hesitation, a beginning stroke and suddenly you move with purpose, paint is pressed to canvas and an image starts to develop. You're so into it you don't notice the minutes as they pass. I am so enthralled by you I don't notice the sun move through the window frame.

A moment of frustration passes your face and you make a little noise back in your throat, it signals the end of your current session and without looking at me you say 'You know I'm hungry, you could have stopped staring for a while and made breakfast.'

I can't help be laugh and step up behind you. Our naked bodies slowly touch as I hug you and kiss your ear. 'I thought we'd go for some food. I know you want to hit the art supply store.' For some reason you get up and bounce about like a little kid. Of course, no little kid moves like THAT when they bounce. My eyes are riveted to that magnificent chest, and you laugh as you notice my reaction. 'I'll get dressed so you can stop being distracted, and then you can take me to breakfast.'

At the art store we act like a couple of giggly teenagers. I don't know how else to describe it. There is a certain comfort that belies description and we keep making stupid jokes about words as simple as easel. It'd be pathetic were it not so fun. The front clerk seems annoyed for some reason and barks at us 'Quit fuckin' around, buy something or get out.' Without a noticeable shift you turn and suddenly you lay into this poor kid. I've never watched someone so sexy and beautiful utterly destroy another human being with their mouth in such a fantastic way. It does nothing but make me happy. I try not to laugh because I know if I start you will too. It's almost a game, like a cat with a mouse. He pales and starts to stutter out an apology, you finish with the line 'Oh and since I plan on spending about five hundred bucks today and the same for the next few weeks, I want you to say three things to me: Yes ma'am, right away ma'am, and please ma'am don't use the big dildo.' That sets me off. I start laughing my ass off and the kid chuckles briefly because he knows he's off the hook ... for now.

It's too late for breakfast so we hit someplace that let's us eat lunch outside. You start to describe your comic idea to me and I can't stop being fascinated. You don't want to do anything beyond tell stories, every day stories, things you hear from friends and things you live through or watch. Nothing but that. We talk about it, I give some suggestions on possibly layouts, mostly just spouting back what I've heard you talk about. That you know so much about a subject that it makes my knowledge of it so small really turns me on. My mind wanders and I can see you naked on the table and everyone watching as we fuck. Whoa, back to reality. You've got that smirk on your face that says 'Oh great he's thinking about me naked again.' It's not mocking or annoyed, it's amused and fascinated. Someone might ask why I can find you so beautiful all of the time, and my only answer can be: because I can.

We spend the afternoon in the closest gallery and they're showing my favorite sculpture. Twelve figures in a sphere touching each other with delicate touches. I start to talk about it and my mouth just goes. I talk about the materials, the subject, the details, the meaning. For fifteen minutes I prattle on like some study hall lecturer giving a briefing on the next test. I stop and cover my mouth and look down to you, your body close to me as you hold my right arm. 'I'm so sorry, I should just let you enjoy this.' You don't say anything, you just reach up and grab my neck, pulling me down as you reach up on your toes, our mouths mash together in a passionate kiss. I can see everyone in the gallery watching but it isn't in shock or outrage. Raw passion is something rarely seen and anyone near it must see it. Must note it. Must mark it. Must witness it and be called on to say 'That is passion.'

When we get home we're both hungry again, it's late and the fridge unfortunately is rather bare. Using bizarre ingredients you let me make something mixed of mayo and veggies on saskatoon jam on Ryvita crackers. I take one bite and it is horrible. I spit it out and laugh as you smirk at me again. You knew it the whole time. You knew I was making a mistake but you let me make it and just smiled as I did it. Then said 'You dumbass. Maybe you want to snack on something else ...' Your robe slowly opens ...

As do my eyes. The house is different. I'm back in this reality. Glimpses of a cosmos parallel to this yet just different enough that we both fell into each other's eyes.

Birthday Theory

Come on in, enjoy the fire, the fresh air and the beautiful weather. Oh yeah the cat accompanied me for this little trek, apparently she knows it's my birthday too and now won't leave me alone. Either that or she's just being her normal retarded self. Oh wait, there she goes to get stuck behind that book case ... yep retard.

Anyways, a few years back I had a great series of birthday moments. For some reason over the day, a half dozen different women showed me their fabulous chests, both enclosed in underware and out of it. Was a great day.

I liked it so much, the more I think about it, the more I would like to introduce this as my birthday policy. If you know me, are of age, and have a touch of exhibitionist you should show me your boobs. I'd love that.

Yes, feel free to get pissed at me by my completely blantant desire to see female mamaries. But it's my birthday and I get to do whatever I want. (Sticks out tongue and goes nyeah!)

I'd go back.

Come on in and grab a seat. The fire is up cuz it's a bit chilly and the skins are down cuz of the rain. Don't worry I've got the back ones open to get that fresh smell in here, the wind is coming from that direction, blows in the fresh air and pushes the old stuff up out the cave vent. See it up there? Normally that's where the bats roost but they're out right now.

I'd go back to 16. I've heard so many of my friends say they hated being a teenager. That they didn't come into their own until they were an adult. Well while I wouldn't say I came into my own as a teenager, I certainly had a lot of fun.

The funny thing is I'm not normally a reminiscent time of person. I don't pine for the good old days. Sure I like to tell stories, but they're usually laced with a touch of humour or sardonic wit. I recognize my Al Bundy-ish tendencies with my football stories. I know what I was is not who I am. But I had a lot of fun at 16.

I remember going to the All Star dinner, and when they got up to discuss who would be top lineman of the year, my head coach doing the presentation. It was hilarious. He listed all the nominees, and spent more time talking about me as the runner up. I got referred to as a 'Poor Man's Roger Aldag.' That is still one of the coolest compliments I've ever gotten. The guy who did win deserved it. I was the only grade 11 on the list of nominees. So many weird thoughts whirling through my head. I loved playing football.

But here's the thing. I would only go back if I could just visit. Re-experience. I wouldn't want to change anything, just ride along. And I'd have to be able to come back to now without missing a beat, because right now, I love it.

Life might be difficult with me in some areas, but for the most part, I'm so thrilled just to be where I am. I'm going to be 34, so 16 is more than half a life time away. I'm gladly writing and doing what I can in my chosen goals. I have fantastic friends. I have incredible and surprising kids. I even got two of the best compliments I've ever gotten recently. Someone told me talking to me made their day better. And one of Little Bear's friends, a girl who needs someone to just love her like a parent should, said she thought of me like a second dad. That means more to me than any awards dinner or compliment comparing me to one of my favorite athletes.

Because when it comes down to it folks, right now ... right here in this place we share ... in the middle of all that could be and will or won't be ... right now is pretty damn great.

Memories

The den smells of you. I can hear your steps and the rustle of the blankets as you sleep. The fire holds your image.

I go around, I enjoy things, but still there is a ghost of you. It hangs there. Staring at me and I stare back and muse on the might haves and what could have beens.

Do you remember when you were pregnant, and I almost got into a fight because some retard started to shake his ass in my face while I was trying to sing a song to you? I remember your face when the first shoving started. It was startled yet pleased. I remember your words before we went to sleep. 'I kind of wished you'd kicked his ass.'

The memories pale to the real thing. But they still are sweet at times. Thank you.

Practice Makes Perfect

Come on in, the den is cosy, and well ventilated. Good breeze coming through and I've found some nice cedar to add to the fire. Ooooh and sausages and perogies!! So I thought while we munch I'd give you the highlights of my first week of practice.

I had to give up one of my returning vets, and the biggest guy I had to the defensive line. This upset me kinda. But I know Brandon, the vet I was giving up will be a much better defensive lineman if they can train some agression into him. Taking the big guy was ok and what not, they really do need the size to counteract the lack of experience. So I'm ok with it. I did end up with 7 guys who all have the right demeanor and mindset to really excell at being linemen. And this above all else makes me happy.

So far all the parents I've talked to are happy to see me coaching their kid, even tho I scream, rant, rave, and push their children to insane new levels of performance, and they come home sore, and grumpy and hating me. Strangely this translates to the kids. I'm the 'bad cop' but I'm also the coach they all talk to and ask questions and tell stuff to. Hmmm.

The player who I had the biggest problem with last year is back as a volunteer coach. He and I get along great. There is no problem and he watches as I put the kids through the same paces he went through, and then ENCOURAGES them to try harder because it really does pay off.

I've pulled several muscles, mostly just from doing things I'm not used to. Like running a 40 yard sprint (6.2 sec, not bad for a fat smoker) or holindg blocking positions. So on and so forth. However I did pull muscles in my shoulder rather badly. Y'see I was showing the kids how NOT to do something because they might hurt themselves, and while demonstrating, I hurt myself exactly how you can be hurt when you do it wrong. Oh the IRONY!!! And it's really fucking annoying because I can barely move my left arm!! Lucky that's not the 'lovin' arm.

I know how to coach technique. Two days!! TWO DAYS and my oversized 13 year old is kicking ass!! I love it when that happens.

I am confident that were we to have to play tomorrow my line would fufill their duties with a good deal of skill and carnage. Love it.

That's all from the football field for now folks. Check back for more updates!

Zen and the Art of Football

Come on in, I need some help. We're doing some remodelling, and well, it's far back in the dark. But before we go back there I have some words to say. They're very personal, and will be spoken very softly so you might have to listen up. Oh and this post has little to do with football.

I s'pose anytime that your life changes drastically that it causes a number of feelings, mostly disorientation, but even the dizziness can be exhilarating if you watch it. And I s'pose that at the end of the day what I have to say in the overall scheme of things is little more than the smallest of sounds in a vast universe, but these things, they need to be said.

Goodbye. I wish that those things that hurt you might become like grit in an oyster, and create strengths you never knew. I take with me those memories, lights surrounded by soundsmelltaste, that will always mean so much. The Antakens will be so blessed for it all.

I'm not leaving, I'm just changing. And while there was a point in my life when I wanted our paths to continue together they won't. But again, all things, all connections are one more point on an ever expanding web of creation. Heaven really is too far away for the likes of me.

I had a dream last night that I was coaching, but I was also playing, football. And without a lapse of time I was lined up next to my boys, my linemen, and we all fired off, and while they stopped, the opposing player was no more than smoke who burst into tiny tendrils floating away, and I stepped further down the field, my strides growing because I was growing. I lost my uniform and carried forth my sword. It wrote on the sky in great letters of flaming brilliance, but because of the size of them I was lost from sight, as universe girding giants looked down and read. With a blink I disappeared, and new giants appeared, and they didn't write, instead they walked with each letter, like a Shepperd and showed them to all who would look down at them. Within another two sweeps around the world I watched how the letters had broken into smaller and smaller letters, carried beyond the original bearers, yet the giants shrunk and my boys carried my sword. It was huge, large enough to crush them all under the pommel but they bore it on, grim smiling faces, almost rejoicing in the effort. Because lineman, offensive lineman are always the one who work hardest, do the most and get the least recognition.

So many horrible and bitter things lay under my tongue, and I could spew them out at you, but they wouldn't stand and blaze, instead they would fall to the ground and sputter and spew forth noxious smoke, starting small brush fires through the fields we must occupy, leaving them blackened and poisonous. I could wish you what you have wished on me, and demand the universe step on you in the times as it has stepped on me. Instead I wish you hope. Bitterness has passed, I have no need to claw you and gnaw on the bones of those parts I might sheer off with my anger. I am instead going to do what I do best. Watch and learn from my dreams and smile as I find my path.

I don't say goodbye to send you away, you left the path I was on a long time ago. I say goodbye so that you know I recognize it. My heart just finally caught up to my head.

Anyhow, that's the words. Come help me take down a picture, it's on my phone but around here perspective is kinda wonky and the damn thing is HUGE. Thanks guys. Love you all.

Fuck I could really go for a drink. I think ... I think tomorrow I might try one.

The Universe Conquered

Come forth to this den of shadows and thought, lay yourself beside the fire and take ear and heart to my tale. Such a tale that might stir with in your soul memories of your own struggles and dare I say ... epic moments? As such for this to truly attain the stature it so deserves I stand before you, a humble story teller, clothed only in his talent. Instead I call to those greater than I who might guide my fingers so that all those who might take forth this tale will give it a home in their minds to inspire their own lives. As such might Thalia push forward my goal and give grace to Euterpe as her spirit lay among all who live within this story! O muses come down to this humble vessel and give rise to words too simple without your presence!

Follow shall we a modern soul, gripped tightly by those great works of modern music! He finds drive, meaning, and solace in the melodies and rhythms of a band who speaks in simple prairie ways, and tells stories dark yet comforting. Like young gods they straddle the imagination of our hero, these Men who Watch. It is to them he gives sacrifice of time and soul, to them he listens when life has troubled him, and to them he cries out and screams along in pain to their words when they rip open the scarred wounds of his soul.

Three times our hero has attempted to worship directly at the temple of The Watchmen. For 18 years he has struggled, through lives and times, children and several families. He has grown and faced fearsome demons, become one himself and yet through that he has clung to that simple mode of worship. The slide of a thin plastic shelf, the laying of another piece of plastic holding encoded and etched foil. The light press of a button, and then the hammering driving sounds of drums, base guitar and a voice howling out from the cold wind of desolation. Letting the music fill his mind, soul and body. Crashing waves of sound that move the physical into ecstatic praise, raise shouted notes from his throat. Yet all from a distance.

He has never been at the foot of the gods, this young hero. Instead this man of animal made has been denied a more intimate setting, a more personal touch by circumstance, theft and timing. All the universe has decreed that this man shall not make his pilgrimage to the steps of the temple to lay himself before the crush of sound and fury. But not now.

18 years since the first chance, 18 years and so many leagues. 18 years and here in a simple prairie celebration of light and commerce, the young gods, perhaps not so young, have come and our hero shall place himself amongst the throng and cry out his worship to them directly! Oh so beautiful.

Yet still the universe turns, and still the miles and miles of change and distance reach out and slowly one last tendril of denial reaches blindly out to entrap our hero, grasp him and yank him away from his worship. It is past time for the gods to take their stage, and a small chirping leads to the reaching for pockets. All in the small knot of people who have gathered look and then point almost accusingly at the hero, 'It's you!'

He answers, and there is hesitation. The young bear phones to tell our hero she has lost the password. She is trapped in the ground between home and outside with her friend and little sister, a bright and loud crow. 'WHAT!?' and the crowd turns. They stare at our hero as the pain erupts in his mind. Not again, oh no not again. He is to be denied a fourth time! 'You lost your key!? You can't get into the house?!' His mind races, because it is not so simple as merely missing out. His children are not safe. And even were he to leave it would be forty minutes to an hour of them waiting.

Wait!! Inspiration, Euterpe calls out and whispers in our hero's ear. So a call is sent out amongst the ether, and a voice answers on the other end. 'Boardwalk, Wascana Estates.' Quickly our hero outlines the situation and the taker of cares responds most pleasingly. 'Yeah I was going there right now, be five ten minutes, I can let them in.' Relief, but not yet fully realized, hits our hero. He calls back to the young ones huddled in the annex, they are crying both from fear of our hero's call for consequence but also for fear of a lost home. Given the proper instruction the children are soothed, in fact laughing occurs for now it has become ... humorous. Shall our hero once again be denied? NO!! He shall worship.

The sound of the Boneyard Tree smashes flat the fear of these people. Will they still be gods? Our hero looks around. Everyone shows grey, wrinkles. They come with children, even in strollers, toddlers toddling, and he feels his age for a brief time. For a precise moment he is both our hero, a thirty something with two children, feeling every ache and pain from a long day of work, and someone elses hero, a 16 year old kid, bound tight in used and sweaty equipment, earphones pushed down hard as he amps himself to do battle on the gridiron. All those heros in between then and now voice themselves, and with a thunderous growl leap from his throat as he sings thrashes, cries out, dances, his body moves without prompting and his fist raises to the sky.

The song echoes out in the end, and our hero, so much more than that singular man looks about, bright hot eyes scratch at the crowd and he moans to the tight knot of people near him, 'How the hell do I start a mosh pit with all these kids around?!' Laughter, and he laughs but there is a note of sadness. He wishes to prostrate himself completely before these young/old gods who appear no different than they did nearly twenty years ago. But like all things that move through time, compromise is learned.

He lets the music, both old and new, loudly smash him as he smashes back. He notices those who notice him. Few show his verve but our hero will not be contained fully. He has compromised but he has not stopped. He shouts out encouragement to the young child, no more than 6 who stands atop a tree stump, her little fist raised to the sky as she dances like a fairy on top of no more than a foot width of wood four feet high in the air. 'Best seat in the house!' he shouts and she smiles back and pumps her fist harder.

The crowd becomes All Uncovered as the music of sin rises to the crowd. A song extolling the virtues of oral sex while driving yet touches on the more soulful matters, and still our hero watches and worships. 'I'm standing in a crowd of my peers, singing about blow jobs, while children of my peers run about and dance to the music.' The horns come up on the fist, 'Fucking A!!'

It ends too soon... our hero craves more, NEEDS more. He wants to spend all night all day all night all forever listening to them, let them feed his soul and earn his redemption through music, and finally he can feel it coming to an end yet while he knows there is no real connection between himself and the gods, young gods so old yet so powerful. they speak and he hears their words and listens. I'm still gone and so is she, let her go so many other fish in the sea(see) mate. A brighter hell awakens his fears, and yet he is like their fabled stereo, battered and wired all wrong yet able to make and move more with a simple sound loop. And yet they come back for one more song. One more strike and our hero feels it, and it breaks him into tiny pieces and he falls amongst his peers like confetti, watching them all, and maybe they don't feel it, maybe they do. They do, some eyes light on his and he smiles, smiles are passed. It becomes confusing and almost carnivalesque as the world spins, and he learns and lives.

Our hero walks away, his friend Das Verlorene und das Verärgert still not quite knowing what our hero speaks of. He has been reconfirmed, he is still a member of the faithful, and he takes what he does. Yet expresses it the only way he knows how.

Ohmigawd whaddagreatfucking concert!!!!