The World's Biggest Asshole!

This is a most worthwhile and SHORT watch!

Monday was bright, sunny and warm. We walked in the morning with our friends, and then I came home to wash all the linen of the guest beds plus my bed. I don’t enjoy putting my duvet back together, but every other aspect of doing laundry is a joy for me. Once everything had been dried, I sat down at my desk to write an email and promptly fell deep into sleep sitting in my chair.

I have never done that before, but I’ve been noticing that I am often tired after our group walks. Sunday’s hour-long walk did not tire me out, but this morning was an entirely different story. When I woke up, I moved to the couch and slept some more before finally making the beds.

And then I was keen for our afternoon walk through Elder Cedar. I felt rested and ready for more. I love being outdoors on these fine days, but I will say I have done no yard work at all since the seasonal weather arrived. I’m a comfort worshipper so the indoors calls. But our walk was inspiring. I love seeing the changes in the creek that is not yet a running creek. It remains a collection of small lakes. Soon, though, there will be water running through the creek bed, and depending on the nature of our Winter, it can become a bit of a raging stream. 

There are stepping stones to use to cross the creek, but sometimes the water is so high the stones are dangerously slippery to use. I cross with walking sticks that I keep in the car to help me keep my balance when the water is high. While we were walking, we met a couple with a Doodle and, of course, Sheba started barking. I explained that I thought her barking at people was because people cause me to have seizures, and then the gentleman very, very politely asked me whether my seizures were epileptic or non-epileptic and I answered him.

Very quickly, we were talking about FND. His daughter, who’s only 17 years old, has FND and has a lot of seizures. I was very moved to hear that so young a girl was struggling with FND. But she has a spectacular and committed father. He has educated himself, and his daughter has an entire team at her school, at Children’s Hospital and in her family and circle of friends supporting her. She also, like me, sees a psychiatrist regularly.

When we arrived back at Pinecone Park, there were four Flickers driving each other mad as each of them tried to consume the last bits of suet in the feeder. They are beautiful birds, but feathers were lost as they fought over the remainder of the food. My favourite pals are the Downey Woodpeckers. They are brave. They are not at all afraid of me and they chirp like mad to me for a replenished food supply. How can I resist?

I made myself butter chicken for dinner and I had a small piece of my delicious home-made bread. I can hardly wait to make another loaf. I want to get a slightly airier body to the bread. I’ve some research to do. But I hope to never buy bread again. 

This is delicate: D. moved here perhaps three years ago. Have a mutual friend and so I was the only person D. and his partner knew. I helped them with information for the first several months of their residence here. And we socialized periodically, but I wasn’t truly comfortable with them, so I declined two invitations extended over the Summer, explaining that the state of my mental health as the reason. Twice, last week, D. called and both times I could not get a single sound out, not even one syllable. Now he knows my excuse was real. I can’t speak to people with whom I am not comfortable.

At my dinner on Sunday night, I was with people I absolutely adore—Stacy, especially. With Stacy, I feel like we have been friends forever. She really likes me, I can feel it, I can hear it, and when we hug hello and goodbye, the hugs stick, and we say nice things to each other. But I really struggled to speak all evening and I’ve no idea why. I loved everybody at our dinner.

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I’m one of those gay men who loves women. I always have, and in school that got me labelled as a sissy. But I felt such closeness with my girlfriends, that the name calling was worth it. I know what drove that passion. I wanted a mother. I settled for sisters.

I was probably 27 when I got my dream job. I was hired to build a small theatre in the art centre serving the City and District of North Vancouver. It was easy to get the job; I was the only applicant willing to work at no expense to them. I funded myself through a grant from the Canada Council.

I designed the space, did the fundraising and was the project manager. I could tell you many great stories about that job. But not here, not now. What I will say is that the success of the theatre project had the municipalities turn over responsibility of the centre’s art gallery to me as well. I changed the mandate of the gallery to photography. By giving it a curatorial focus/specialty, I was able to grow a constant and devoted audience for the space, and now that gallery continues in a brand spanking new building on the waterfront in North Van. 

That period turned out to be the emotional high of my life, and I’m telling you because none of it would have happened were it not for Moira MacPherson. (Writing that sentence brought me to tears.) I can’t remember how she came to be there, but I know that I hired her. She was detail oriented. She was the ideal partner for me. There was no “I” to the project. It was “we” all the way, and everyone working for us and with us knew that talking to Moira was as good or better than talking with me. I still miss her and think of her often. She was one of the many women in my life.

I lived the cliché that behind every good man was a good woman. But with me it was never behind. How can you put someone you love ‘behind?’ I walked with my friends. Growing up unwanted and secretly gay, made mere acceptance the objective. I wanted genuine acceptance, and where I found that, friendship was the reward.

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I’m ready for DR. Shoja. I reckon I’ve found a way to accept my N word (neglect). By accepting that word and label, it makes me love those who love me more. Friends have been my family all my life. I got an email, yesterday, from Marilyn. She and her brother Doug have often been referenced on this blog, because they were my first friends and I lived to be with them.

Doug and Marilyn’s friendship made my life worthwhile until I went into grade seven. Everything ended in junior high school because we were put in different programs. Marilyn and I found each other together once or twice—once at the asthma clinic. But we found each other on Facebook when I moved here eight years ago, and she sent me a manuscript to read. That led to a couple of weeks of emails back and forth. And then yesterday, and a revised manuscript.

I opened her email with a story. I told her how some potatoes had self-seeded in my raspberry patch, and each year the plants get bigger because I don’t want to disturb the raspberry roots. But finally, I pulled some out. And I told her because it led to be becoming a fan of potatoes. I rarely ate them in the past.

Then I told her the point of my story: I have very fond memories of sitting in her kitchen and talking with her while she peeled and diced potatoes, and then put them in a pot of salted water before we could go outside to smoke and hang around in the hood.

She was touched by my memory and glad that I told her. She was my first female friend. She offered me something men could not. I liked flowers. I liked colours and fabric. I didn’t feel girly in any way, but I shared common interests with girls. And they were warm, and expressive about their feelings. I was hooked at a young age and nothing has changed.