notanotherphony.

Nicole’s birthday tomorrow. 41 yrs old. what happened to 21? time flies. life beats people down. life also inspires some to do great things or average things or sick things or dull things. we can choose (somewhat) our path and choices we make at an early age can fuck us for life or help us in life. i sit in my tiny backyard with Indian speaking neighbours speaking to the right of me. nice people. loud talkers. deep voices. sweating. me. not them. do East Indians sweat? peaceful day at the pool yesterday. sunscreen and swimming and laying down daydreaming. family time. now ready for a run. ready for a dog walk. ready for food. ready for work. murphy looks at me in despair or need. not sure which one. i open the door for him to go inside but I know that he will be back outside in 5 seconds. following my every move. my back is sore. i took a great shit. a great and easy mushy shit. my favourite. no struggle. no groans. no grunts. it is now 8:21am and the birds are fighting, fucking, and/or chirping. i hear my neighbour’s big truck start up and I am lost in thought. lost in life. choices? decisions? plans? goals?

i do not want to be an embarrassment to my daughter but I can’t help but feel that. no house. no fancy car. no trips. no job. no money.

where did my life go?

where did I go wrong?

why am I living in a dull town with dull people?

why can’t I make money?

why can’t I make decisions?

why can’t I keep commitments?

why can’t I set goals?

why can’t I achieve my goals that I don’t set?

JUST DO IT.

FUCK EVERYONE.

LOVE EVERYONE.

CREATE.

TELL STORIES.

REAL STORIES.

REAL PEOPLE.

REAL EMOTIONS.

FUCK THE PHONIES.

DON’T LISTEN TO THE NAYSAYERS.

CREATE AND BE ME.

notanotherphony.

the hot sun beams down on my bald head. Murphy, obviously, at my side. second coffee. air conditioning blaring. birds chirping. itchy neck and white fluff balls floating in the air. they always manage to find me. land on me. bug me. the family still sleeping. surprisingly no lawn mowers or car alarms yet. surprisingly not many fireworks last night. loud useless fireworks that have been the same loud useless fireworks for thirty years. adults “oohing and awwing” as their screaming kids run away screaming and playing tag or soccer. adults drinking in their baggy track pants or tight Lululemon “knock off” shorts and baggy shirts. the fat of their bellies semi hidden by their oversized shirts and oversized mugs. my beard beginning to re-emerge slowly. it’s amazing how much it makes me feel different. how much confidence it gives me. i feel so dull when clean shaven. i feel so ugly when clean shaven. i feel so normal when clean shaven. now a fluff ball on my hand. birds chirping louder and louder. cars starting. need to get a run in before we go to Toronto for a swim. also need to get in a dog walk. needs. and needs. and needs. the air feels humid. i hear a small plane in the sky. i don’t look up because it’s too bright. too sunny. i end up looking up and see nothing. still hear birds chirping or birds fighting. maybe even birds fucking. do birds fuck? how do birds fuck? are they worried that their parents will find them and yell at them or spank them? do parrots fuck pigeons? so many sounds. not peaceful sounds. air conditioners. yappy birds. yappy kids. some weird screeching that sounds like some animal I have never heard of or a baby. who knows? i am hot and lost for words. lost for ideas. lost and found never really working in my favour. i feel some sort of bug on my neck. i am now sweating and it is not even 9am. i shouldn’t have woken up so early. i should have stayed in bed. Murphy sleeping beside me. i woke him up too early too. too much action out here. too dull. i just woke up and all I hear and see and feel are annoying yappy birds. suburban birds. dull suburban birds.

WHEN DO BIRDS FUCK?

WHEN DO BIRDS DIE?

DO BIRDS FUCK DUCKS?

DO BIRDS FUCK GEESE?

AT WHAT AGE DO BIRDS START FUCKING?

DO BIRDS HAVE BIG FAMILIES?

too loud.

too hot.

too dull.

i am going for a run.

Canada Day. yipee. celebrating something I’m sure. but I’m not sure what. celebrating years and years of shitty leaders and shitty jobs. shitty rules and shitty weather. loud kids and loud adults that act like kids. loud fireworks and loud cars. loud dogs and loud music. loud BAD music. Canada Day is a celebration for those who don’t live. those who don’t thrive. those who don’t explore other countries and other foods. a one day event for those desperate souls living desperate lives. dull and depressing. depressing and dull.

i go back to my coffee and take a thoughtful sip. i feel my flabby belly and my foggy mind. i should be desperate and depressed but I’m always hopeful. hopeful for “what” I do not know. Murphy sitting by my side as always. the wind is damp and cool and I like it. cool damp weather is my favourite. my view is awful and I’m tired. with each sip I become more and more alive. just like beer. just like wine. the insecurities are lifted and the confidence is elevated. banging girls. banging drums. banging hockey sticks. banging baseball bats. banging tin. do people still use the term, “banging” when describing fucking a woman? I “banged” many. it was fun. reckless. exciting. they wanted to “bang” me too. especially at the end of the night after they failed to hook up with the rich ones. the good looking ones. amidst real businessmen and real entrepreneurs I was a fake architect with a fake story. fake glasses and a fake bank account. i figured if women wanted rich and women wanted fake then I would give them exactly what they wanted. i always had a big dick. that part I knew. that part I was confident with. i, sometimes, wonder what happened to all the women that I fucked?

i wonder how they look.

i wonder if they are alive.

i wonder if they married.

i wonder if they are sick.

i wonder if they have kids. i wonder about their life. i wonder about their story.

we all have stories.

we all have feelings.

we all have memories.

good memories.

bad.

traumatic.

sad.

hollywood tries so hard to come up with original content with original themes when the best stories are amongst us all. real life. real stories. real life is much more interesting than made up drama from “made up” writers and “made up” producers. dull. fake. phony. fake lives and fake wives. fake cars. fake hair. fake houses and fake friends.

everything fake.

everything phony.

it’s cloudy out and I hear a loud “muscle car” or a loud “muscle truck”.

dull people.

dull stories.

dull opinions.

dull houses.

dull minds.

dull souls.

DULL TOWN.

DULL LEADERS.

DULL COUNTRY.

HAPPY CANADA DAY.

i actually like canada.

7am phone call. bob wanting me to get to work as fast as I can to lay sand before the rain comes. i jump out of bed and let Murphy out for a pee and then get dressed. i usually like starting at 10am and finishing at 5pm. my 55 yr old body can’t take the construction work and physical labour that is meant for a 25yr old man. or a 30 yr old woman.

anyway, out of bed and ready to say “BYE” to Murphy and the rest of my family when my phone rings again. Bob saying that the rain has already started and “forget today. Just come in tomorrow.” Excited I make coffee and begin to write. begin to plan. begin to dream. day after day I wake up with big hopes. big dreams. and night after night I go to bed drunk and hopeless. lonely and irrelevant. i am very structured in that aspect of my life but in the rest I am unpredictable and confused. anxious and edgy.

cloudy and rainy. cloudy and raining. my type of weather. wanting to get to part TWO of my life but the resistance is holding me back. the resistance is slowing me down. slow the brain down and speed up the hand. slow my life down and speed up the goals. speed up the actions.

i am 55 yrs old. bald. blurry vision. aching body. hairy. zitty. pale skinned. skinny but flabby. sagging skin. sagging balls. i must have got the bad gene in our family. the short stick and the short bus.

PART TWO. the move away from the Heights Drive to the small community of Unionville, twenty minutes north of the city. one day our family decided that it was time to make a move. a move away from the crappy complex of the Heights Drive filled with young British immigrants to the small community of Unionville with it’s farm fields and dead end roads. cows and sheep. new homes. new friends. new starts and new sports teams. new schools. new teachers. everything new. everything new. everything new. except our family was the same. our family was still happy. our family was still young. our family was still together.

FOR NOW.

woke up tired. buzzing mind. groggy eyes. great and vivid dreams. so clear. so detailed. now I stare at a photo of me from twenty-five years ago and wonder where all the time went. where did my hair go? where did my confidence go? did I ever have confidence? trying to “fit in” in a system that has never worked for me. a system that offers up little and hands out even less. a system that applauds boring celebrities with boring minds and boring lives while shaming the artists with something actually interesting to say. now I sit with my coffee and have nothing to say. nothing to feel. nothing to write. nothing. head still buzzing. head still ringing. Murphy sleeping beside me. silence in our house. silence outside. white fluffy fluff balls always circling me. i need a day of pounding the pavement. really pounding the pavement. connecting. researching. hyper-focused agenda of getting some work. making some money. update pics. update website. email agents. come up with material. read old notebooks of mine. text Sean. search. search. search. what am I searching for? who am I? who am I searching for? where is the work? where is the money? don’t listen to the experts. don’t listen to the safe. the dull. the rule followers. bring myself to the world. bring my uniqueness to the world. bring fire. bring joy. bring pain. bring sorrow. bring my boredom. bring my anger. bring MY LIFE. early childhood fun. childhood memories. Merrick. St. Bonaventure bully. Miss Scope. Don Mills soccer. indoor. outdoor. Flemingdon Kings. First goal. Heights Drive. Painting the laundromat. throwing the boulder through the window of the scary Superintendent’s apartment. outdoor parties. falling from the balcony in the parking lot and hitting my head on the hard pavement. concussion. hospital for three days. terrifying my Mom. mr. Clean commercial. nana. Dad. Snoopy getting run over by the TTC bus. our teenage dog walker upset. the summer swimming meets on the upper level of our townhouse complex. susan or christine thompson always winning. Merrick and I rubbing our penises together in his basement townhouse. getting hard. liking the feeling. Crang and Boake. Vic Tammy’s. Giorgio and Renata Realini. Terry and Kathy Fitsialos. George and Lucille Gibbs. Tommy Moulsdale. Keith Mingham. Going swimming and seeing Renata’s breasts and being excited. seeing Lucille’s naked breasts in Mexico and being excited. a little kid with big aspirations and a healthy libido. the sheer horror of going to the dentist. dr. bellman. hearing the sound of the tools he was about to use on my teeth. a nightmarish feeling. riding my BIG WHEEL with Nana following me. Merrick Sr. Merrick Jr. Tina. Chris. Wilf. Marilyn. Martine. indoor swimming at Flemingdon complex. establishing my foundation. establishing my life. LOTS OF FUN. LOTS OF EXPLORATION. LOTS OF FEAR. LOTS OF MISTAKES. LOTS OF EXCITEMENT. LOTS OF PLAY. LOTS OF MEMORIES. LOTS OF LIFE. THIS IS WHERE IT ALL BEGAN. MY LIFE. AND MY FIRST KISS. on the monkey bars on the second level of the Heights Drive. forget her name. forget a lot of things. but a great start to a potentially great life. then we moved to Unionville.

PART TWO TO FOLLOW.