The Will of Eden

There comes a time when all of us must beckon to a calling, whether it be for service to a higher power, a higher decree, or simply to go out and create a garden. All of humanity will hear the callings, but most are ignored. That is free will, and all of human kind possesses such ability. There are those who listen, and there are those who feel they must abide by those callings. Guided by choice, regardless to how they may seem to follow without conscience, guided by the power of their hearts, without question, guided by thought, but not submission. One who followed her callings no matter how grand, or miniscule was Eve. She heard it when she had met her husband, and had asked him to come for dinner when she was just fourteen. She had heard it when she was seventeen, when her country asked her to enlist for war. She heard it again shortly after when her husband had asked for her hand and marriage, and when she had returned they became wed.

They married in the spring and their child came a year later. With her time at home, caring for her young, she then was beckoned to create a garden with datura, ivy, honey suckles, and in the middle a Pong-pong tree. Datura made the most beautiful flowers, the ivy crept and crawled, and bore berries of a delightful sight, as did the honey suckles, whose fruit was white. The Pong-pong had luscious fruits of green, and in a certain light gleamed. A wondrous garden she had erected, so beautiful her neighbors often commented on its appeal. Even when the daturas’ bore their thorn apples, it gave an angelic sight to behold.

Eve was once again beckoned her for duty, her country needed her once again. She was not one to abandon a calling. When she left, her garden was in bloom, her son began to walk and move; her fruits of labor, and love were left at their most wondrous sights. A kiss, and look of longing and assurance given to her husband, a promise to return. A wave goodbye, and a sullen stride, she obliged to the voice that beckons. War is not kind, death and woe follows many.

While gone over seas, Eve’s garden bloomed, and fruited. The Sun would rise, and the fruits would gleam with the morning dew, but the fruits of the pong-pong tree would glisten well past noon. War is not kind, death follows many, Eve was no exception. She gave good on her promise, and she returned home. Distraught and saddened, her husband wept and howled, his tears gleam and glistened. Inattentive, his child crept and crawled. His fruit, wanders to the garden. Children and berries, often make for good, and joy. Often healthy and tasty, but the fruit of vines and honeysuckles have their devious subjections. Eve’s husband collected, remembers their child, and seeks for his comfort. The last bit of his world, the last morsel of his wife was left in their son. He finds him in the garden, the dew gleam from the berries, and the green fruit of the Pong-pong tree glistens. The vines creep and crawl upon the wall. And a child convulses, and foams from his mouth. He cries tears of blood and it flowed freely from every faucet on his face. Nothing could be done, the berries, the fruit beauteous and splendid in sight gave way to insidious intent. Look, but do not touch the fruit. Madden and frayed, the man looks down upon his offspring, the boy’s face gleamed and glistened, as his tears crept and crawled upon his lifeless body. Wife, and child gone, and all that was left was the garden, and in the center the Pong-pong tree, with it’s fruit that glistened, and gleamed in the light.

The man called frantically for help, screamed for someone to hear. Bellowed for his child. Howled his pain. Then help came, came too late. His neighbors, who once gave compliments on the wondrous sight of Eve’s garden, now gave way to gossip, and hushed hisses.

‘His wife created the garden full of poisons knowingly, and with a small child in her care!’

‘She left for war, even though she knew her husband was inattentive to their son!’

‘He was crying, when he should have been watching his boy!’

‘I don’t know how I could live with myself if that happened to me,’

The voices, hushed, yet not unheard. Hissing their discontent of the grotesque circumstance. In the morning, when the dew made the fruits and flowers gleam, the man went to the garden. He tore away the honey suckles, and ripped out the datura. And gathered the thorny vines of ivy and fastened a good rope. One to hold weight, one to hold strength. When the time came, the Pong-pong tree bore a new strange fruit that too glistened in the light past noon.

Finality, Trepidation, and a Fare Farewell.

This is probably one of the hardest things I have ever wrote, and yet the easiest.  Earlier this week I had lost one of my cousins, one of my closest cousins, so close he was like an older brother. The hardest thing to write about this is to figure out how to begin it all. I could start off about his character, his exterior, his looks, how he carried himself, but that would not do him justice. I could talk about the hardships he has endured, I could talk about the joy he has brought, but that would not suffice. So, instead I will start with it all, start from the earliest memories I have of him. Start from the beginning of my consciousness, from when I realized that he existed. I do possess some memories as an infant, but the funny thing about that is that most of them are just feelings, and some blotches of images, never really a clear moment of interaction, just sort of still moment that give an impression of the time. With that being said, my first memory of him was a smile.

While being raised, I often visited my grandparents’ home, and he was adopted to our grandparents, which happens in Inuit culture, even today a lot of families still practice this tradition. It’s usually the eldest child that is adopted to the grandparents, but his biological brother, and sister were also adopted by my grandparents for whatever reason it may be; I was never really told as to why that was, nor have I asked. There may have been many complex reasons for this, it may have been some part of a tradition that was lost or I was never told about, but the reasons aren’t all that important. In regards to my cousin being adopted by my grandparents I should have considered him uncle, but we were so close in age, that I guess we never really considered it. He was my cousin, and that was it.  But then again I was a strange child; I didn’t call my mother ‘mom’ until I was about seven, or eight.  I would call her Oonga, and I didn’t think it was anyway weird. I figured that my mother actually had a name, and all other mothers didn’t and were just called ‘Mom’ and should be referred to as ‘enter kid’s(kids’) name(s)’  Mom. I also knew my older sister was adopted to my eldest uncle and aunt, and would refer to her as my sister, even though I was supposed to call her cousin.  If you can follow that, then you’ve been in the Arctic for some extended period of time, and a family tree, or diagram would not be necessary to explain all this. If you could not follow this, then too bad, make your own diagram. I’ve got no time for it, and I’m writing here dammit! Straying from my point here, but I did need to try to explain some things. I guess what I was actually saying was that in my perspective he was always my cousin, and to my younger siblings, and younger cousins he was ‘Uncle’.  I would spend almost every day with him; we’d play, and watch TV, more specifically the CBC’s Disney movie specials, Hockey Night in Canada, and especially Takuginai (it’s a northern thing, kind of like a ‘Sesame Street’ for Norherners).  TV wasn’t really something we’d watch all the time, back then there were just three channels, and the only thing to watch was usually soap operas, and Anne of Green Gables type shows (Road to Avonlea, did anyone watch this show? I mean, ever sat down through a whole episode?)  TV was usually just a specials only type thing. Usually we’d end up going outside and finding sticks to play with, go around to The Candy Store, pick-up some candy and possibly a new toy. A lot of the time we did play with action figures as well. Latter on, we both amassed a large collection and wound up turning my laundry room into a giant playroom dedicated for the action figures.  But I’m getting a head of myself. There’s far more to that story. Of course when speaking about close relationships with people, especially family, there were bad times. He was older than me after all, and he did have his brother who was closer in age with him. There were times I was excluded from play because I was just too young, too small, or just not fast enough to keep up.  That would happen a lot, but I did have Jimmy around, and we’d usually be excluded together and quickly move on to something else. Then my cousin Harry came along, we would also include him into our plots and schemes, activities and other general foolishness that children get themselves into.

There were never any shortages of cousins to play with, but things do happen, and people do die at any age. Before I was born there had been a couple of losses in the family, of children, more specifically my only biological sisters, and ones that were not my half siblings. It was a year later that I came onto the scene, my mother was probably pregnant with me when one of my sisters past on, as the other before her passed on while she would have been in my mother’s womb.  I came around and it was still fresh in my family’s minds, and I grew up being conscious of this from an early age. Just before I was five I found my eldest sister in her room, motionless, and I was sent up to give my sister a glass of juice to go down with her chicken soup.  She was sick, very sick, so sick my mother pulled me out of kindergarten and brought me to the high school to pick up my sister from the nurse’s office. We had no idea what was wrong with her; they just figured she had stomach flu, or food poisoning or something like that. The truth was that my sister, being a silly teenager, did not study for a test she had that day and heard if you take enough pills you’d get sick. And to avoid getting into trouble she made our cousin of the same age to not tell anyone. This is what ignorance can bring; it can give birth to tragedy, and a simple promise to not tell had cost my sister her life. My cousin could not be blamed, she was young, and she had no idea of the implications that her inaction to tell brought this event from just an excuse to miss some stupid test, to a tragedy that left a family scarred.  When I went up to hand my sister her juice, she would not respond to me, and she didn’t eat her soup. I was four. When I left food untouched on my plate I would get into trouble. I would be told to eat my food. I would be told that if I did not eat my veggies there would be consequences or something like that. With my sister leaving her food untouched, I stomped down the stairs and yelled “Anna’s not eating her food! She wouldn’t even take her juice!”

 What happened next was something new to me. My parents were worried, and had a look I had not seen before. They were watching TV and were just relaxing after a hard day of work, and running around to get my sister home. My dad said, “She’s probably just sleeping. I’ll go check up on her.”

My mother looked at me and beckoned me to come and get a kiss and sit on her lap. My father then shouts something, and an ambulance was called, and all of a sudden paramedics came in and I wasn’t allowed to look for reasons I didn’t know. My sister was on a stretcher, with something on her face. Then time passed and we were up at the hospital, and in a room I have never seen before, and I was wondering why I was going in there with my mother, and why everyone was crying, and I heard it. The scream, and earth shattering howl, something that would shake every fiber of being, nothing else in the world could make this sound; nothing could be so sorrowful and frightening at the same time. A howl, and moan, a scream and bellow. It comes from deep in the soul, as if someone had just ripped a piece of it away and you are crying for it to return. My sister passed on that night.  I know what is to lose a sibling, as did my cousin. His brother, Paul, committed suicide one night, I believe New Years, I could be wrong, I would have been only six or seven. But nonetheless, we did share that in our lives. Knowing that losing a cousin can be similar to losing a brother, or sister.

Time passes, wounds scar over, and give a semblance of healing, and things go on as normal as they can. Remember when I said we would play with action figures and set up my laundry room as a play room pretty much dedicated to it? Well, when Paul died, my cousin, Soudloo, would come by and hang out, on some days. We’d play as brothers would, even when he was technically too old to be playing with such toys. For those of you who have younger siblings, let’s say a span of six to eight years younger, you would placate to their desires to play with little Ninja Turtles, GI Joe’s and Hotwheels. Even play hide and seek in small spaces. Anything to entertain your little sibling. He would do that for me, and did that for me for years. As we grew up we also would sit around the TV and watch really bad action movies, and martial arts films. Every Monday and Thursday was WWF night. We’d sit with our uncles and watch Wrestlemania, and King of the Ring and cheer on Bret the Hitman Heart, Hulk Hogan, Macho-Man Randy Savage, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and the Ultimate Warrior. Seeing as I was so much younger, and smaller, he would body slam Jimmy, and me onto a soft bouncy bed, while we took turns playing referee.  We would take toy guns and pretend to be Rambo fighting ninjas, or Arnold Schwarzenegger blowing up some army.  We would also go outside and play sports. Baseball, soccer, and hockey were our favorites. He even taught me how to shoot a slap-shot, and after The Mighty Ducks movie came out, he showed me a knuckle-puck.

Aside from being the older brother I never had, he was also very talented in the arts. And I mean talented. He picked up a keyboard and played ‘What if God Was One of Us?’ like it was nothing. He figured it out in no time. Then he played ‘Amazing Grace’ from memory alone. He’d also play parts of classical songs here and there, and he would do it flawlessly. He had very little interest to play in a band, or pursue music as a lively-hood, and if he had any real interest in it he never let on that he did. He was also an amazing artist. He would draw something awesome, and wonderful without any prior training. He would just do it for fun, a talent some people would kill to have and he did not do it to pursue any form of monetary achievement. He did not do it to become famous; he just drew for the fun of drawing. He was also a good puppeteer. That show we used to watch together, Takuginai, he ended up as a puppeteer for that show. When I was younger, and we were out camping, he’d take a sock, a skin, or make something and use it as a puppet to keep us kids entertained while it rained, or if it was too windy to play outside, or so said grandma, because it’s never really too windy to play.  Some would say he wasted his talents, but really, he would put joy into the hearts of his younger cousins, his nieces and nephews. His talents would amaze me, they would entertain me, and they would inspire so much more than anyone would give credit for. Even this little piece has been inspired, along with just about everything I have written in my life, by his talents. Who knows how many stories, essays, diatribes, and quips I have written, but in a sense they all stem from that little light he had ignited in me to pursue some art-form.

There was a time when we did spread apart, a lot of that had to deal with geography, and the age difference. When I was fourteen, my step-father had brought my little brother, and I down to Ottawa to live. My little brother was actually adopted; he was Soudloo’s biological nephew. The joy in his eyes, on his face, lit up whenever he saw my brother. The smile that crept, then erupted was a sight onto itself. You could not find a man more proud to have a nephew, especially one that was his biological nephew. In their veins ran blood that was closer, and truer than in the blood in his other ‘nieces’ and ‘nephews’. He had someone who he could claim to be his only ‘true’ nephew. My brother was more special to him than anyone else, because he had claim to being his ‘true’ uncle. Of course this did not take away from the rest of the family, as my brother was nephew to the same uncles and aunts as I had, and Soudloo did not consider our other cousins anything less than family, and did not show any less love either, but Soudloo saw him as his special nephew.  He also loved our grandmother dearly. He would spend his paychecks to help feed the family, as at any point there could be at least eight people staying at my grandmother’s home, and all those grandchildren that would show up with hungry mouths, and that can cost a lot of money to feed everyone.  One day, he just manned up, and took it upon himself to feed everyone. He took it upon himself to help alleviate some of the pressure from my grandmother. Regardless to whatever anyone says; my cousin was a good man. He loved my grandmother so dearly, he grew up with her being his mother, and treated her as such, as he should. When she passed away, I think he was hurt the most. We were all hurt, we were all saddened. But he was really hurt, and it took a toll on his already fragile body.

For at least the last decade of Soudloo’s life he would constantly become ill, or injured. Every other month or so I would hear about a surgery he had, some pneumonia, or something he had to go stay at the hospital for some time.  I would worry about him. If I was visiting and he would tell me that he had a pain in his stomach that just would not go away, I would tell him to go to the hospital. Get it checked out, make sure it’s not an ulcer, or something worse. Eventually he would, probably not from just me telling him, or rather asking him to have it checked out. He used to drink quite a bit, I have even had a few with him, but apparently his health deteriorated to the point where he could not drink anymore, which was actually good for him. He really was not the type who should have been drinking. He was much better sober, and when he stayed sober, as so many of us are. He once had Tuberculosis, but that was treated, but hey, TB sucks, even if it is dormant. He once broke his leg in a snowmobile accident, but that healed well. But there the last time he got sick, he did not heal from it. He had a lung infection of some sort, and possibly a resurgence of TB. For the last several months he would complain about being sick, and would make runs to the hospital often. Only to be dismissed, and turned away. Back in November, I once told him he has to request that the hospital do something. Anything. Do some tests, ask them to do some tests, and if they say they cannot do the tests that need to be done he has to insist and that they could not refuse to somewhere where they can do such tests. They would dismiss him. They would tell him he had the flu, or a cold. Again, a few months later he posted on his facebook page about it, and I would implore him to insist that he needs help, that he needs to find out what was wrong. They would tell him to quit smoking. He did that, he still was getting worse. He started to noticeably lose weight, after he had started gaining weight again. When my grandmother passed away, he fell into a deep depression, and just would not eat often. He lost some weight, but not enough to look completely emaciated. He then started to gain weight again, he had an appetite again. He was on his way to heal; he was on his way to become his normal self. Then he got sick. He lost his appetite again, he started losing weight, and he started losing strength. For the last few months I would see him in pain, his face sunken in. Always holding onto something to keep himself propped up.  It used to be I would see him almost every day at work. We would talk for a bit about what movies came out, what movies are coming out, what he’s been up to.  A short five to fifteen minutes of catching up, I enjoyed those few minutes I would speak with him. Looked forward to it actually. I have a very busy social life, which means there are some family, and friends I will only see every once in a while, but it does not mean I love them any less, just I do not have the capacity to split myself in to the number of people I wish I could.

At this point I could tell you the horrible way my cousin passed on. The loneliness he had. The terrible way the Qikiqtani General Hospital had treated his case, and the blatant dismissive attitude presented to him. But I will not go into any more detail about that. He died alone, away from his family, and we grieve heavily for him. My cousin, my uncle, my brother, I will miss you, and I love you.  

Diapers, Bonnets, and Holy Matrimony

What is love, but a feeling of true acceptance, joy, and expectation? Love is not discrimination, it is not hatred, it is not a feeling akin to apathy. Boundless, ever expanding, and so cleansing; serene, and chaotic. Wholly unexpected, yet when it arrives there are few words to truly describe the evanesible flood. The heart races, then calms, blood pressure rises and subsides, breath is gone and returns overbearingly so, and a simple sigh is given, as if to ease the building weight. But the pulse flows, every beat a life time passes, and the object of your affection stands still basking, and bathing in the light of your eyes. Never wanting to change, never wanting it to end. Seized and stunned, words fail to expel from the mouth, limbs tremble, and control over rudimentary movements is lost. Panic. Ecstasy. And insurmountable fear, and courage ascends. A barrier broken of indecision, and indiscretions.  A goal is set, and hope, nay knowledge!  Of your object of affection does feel what you hold in your soul! Blinded by the iridescent light of love, you did not see, could not see they were experiencing in kind to your own. 

At the very least, this is what I would like to believe happens on a regular basis. You see, some more of my friends are getting married.  I know, it happens, time passes, your friends get married have children, and go on leaving you behind to dwell in single life, because they know what they have is far better than what they once had. Who am I kidding? They don’t actually leave you behind, as a friend you get to go on the ride on the outskirts of their journey together! You get to be the cheering crowd! You get to be the audience of their greatest achievements, greatest joys, and the ‘uncle’ who teaches the little ones about pyrotechnics and all that fun dangerous stuff that Mommy and Daddy would have a heart attack if they had been there. Your friends getting married can be awesome. The parties, the stories, and the experiences are the objects of life that keep it worth living, and your friends worth having. As the bonds of holy matrimony begin, as a friend, you get to strengthen the bindings by going through absolutely insane rites of passage. Don’t believe me? Watch The Hangover, seriously, that movie had it on the nose, although a little extreme, but still pretty damn close to the real thing.

Darryl Smith, and Laura-Lynne Conley, I am happy to say that your marital bliss is something to look forward to.  These two are a perfect couple, after these past two years I don’t think I could see either of them with anyone else. I wish you two a long and happy marriage.

Thoughts of a Horologist

A man sits quietly lurched over a desk. Focused and diligent, he prepares for his work. Unfolding a leather roll full of tools, and parts. He brings out a box, full of gears and gems. He begins his work with a base of metal plate, then he begins to lay his gears. 

In the beginning there was nothing.

He sets his eyes upon his project, he sets his eyes upon what will become.

Then thought appeared for the first time. Without predisposition, without prefix, and conscience. The Thought then became lonely, and brought another, and the Second Thought brought consequence, and predilection. Then Thought brought another, which bore reflection, and wisdom.  After Thought then brought others, to improve and expand, and the others thought it best to improve on their own, and their thoughts inspired, and bore more. The First Thought then just became a memory, a façade to the new, and a glimpse of a probable past to the old.

The man places his gears in their place, gems to set weight, and coils to set motion.

With the universe full of Thoughts and ideas, entropy reigned, so some thought of vessels to house Thoughts, to help create ideas, to filter experiences so that all may share perspective, and to give guidance to those who are susceptible to become lost in other Thoughts.

After countless hours, with time passing without notice, the man finishes his geared creation. He gives it a drop of oil, and wipes the beads that bleed out. He breathed life into it by winding its coil. His watch was finished, yet without another he could not set the time. He stands and falls to the floor. Starved, and weakened. Thirst had dried his throat, and he could not let out a scream, a shout, a call, or a whisper. Yet his watch ticks, and tocks with unmatched precision. 

Thoughts condensed, and collected, and thus created Conflict, Avarice, and Compassion. Then there were Thoughts’ end.