Dark Night of the Soul

"While the term dark night of the soul is used broadly, its general meaning — in the field of higher consciousness — is a lengthy and profound absence of light and hope. In the dark night you feel profoundly alone."

Isolation. Sensory Depravation. Solitary Confinement. Absolute Detachment. Distillation of mind from reason. Separation of soul and sensation. Is it the road to enlightenment or the slippery slope towards insanity? In the darkness, there is no hope. Yet, without the darkness, there is no light. So, a choice made, a journey begun. I have engaged the demons, cold and afraid, slopping though the swampy abyss because the future stretches forth as an undefined and unacceptable shadow of the past. Inspiration, enlightenment is on the other side of an uncomfortable unknown. Courage, faith are my companions. Have I breathed deeply enough to get me through to the next assent above dark waters? Time will tell. The more I push forward, the less I can go back. And yet a vision begins to crystalize in the void. (to be cont.)

Colour Wheels and Comic Books

What a weird and wonderful night; a collision of old and new, retro and revolutionary, favoured friends and new adventure. A destination met with smiles, a journey peppered with fanciful moments. 7:30pm. Button by button, I cocooned myself in a womb of denim and wool as much to shield from the biting wind licking at my neck as the unpredictability of the evening that lay ahead. A class reunion can be a cocktail of competing egos and sour grapes. Fortunately, 10 years can add a lifetime of maturity to even the most memorably insecure. And, the domesticating effect of partnerships and offspring added a sense of calm to the barrage of catch-up conversations..making them more palatable, though some what repetitive. I expected those who showed to be uniform in their desire to show off or size up. But, inebriation truly is the great equilizer, despite any preconceived notion. A few tall boys later and the ice was thawed, unleashing a flood of laughter and good memories. The only awkward moment was watching an old acquaintance standing in the middle of the room, staring blankly past the festive crowd at a windowless wall. Maybe he was playing the path not taken on a projector in his mind. After all, who shows up at 30 to a class reunion high on ecstasy... a question most there asked only with their eyes.
10:30pm. A night that would have only been just beginning 10 years ago was coming to a close, at least for those who now settled into a book or film on your average Saturday night. Call me Peter Pan if you will. But, I'm still a few years away from the sedentary life. There are other nights to catch Sex in the City in syndication. And, I'm on a schedule that has me waking up at 3am though the week. So, I flung my scarf with fighter pilot flair and dared the crystal sky to slow me down. Courageous words for someone who managed to snag a car ride back down town, I know. ;)
11:20 Meet Jack Dylan...a poster art exhibit tucked away in a small second floor gallery on College West. And, Meet Jack Dylan we did. We also met Franco and Alice and Jessex and of course met up with Chris "Fantastik Eddie" Lotts.... a flash from the past with a very unique flavour. Though Jeff, my old class-mate, felt somewhat out of place amongst this new generation of neophiles and urban hipsters... the colour of the characters surrounding us was almost as intoxicating as the art on the walls, the music dancing its way through the narrow space and the countless pints I'd consumed throughout the night. I was gone by 1:30, before the lights grew dim, before the remaining few stumbled down the front steps, supported by tonight's love interest and the wide-eyed exuberance of youth. I was even gone before the ceremonial splifs made their final rounds. But, it wasn't for the feeling of exhaustion. It was just the right time to go. And, that is the greatest blessing of being 10 years out of school: moderation, not for safety's sake, but to hold on to that warm glow that rewards visitors who don't stay past their welcome.
It's funny how many lives we live at once. So many different sides and needs and ways of connecting to the world that absolutely make us who we are. At 22, I had my gay friends, my theatre friends, my school friends, my Montreal friends, my work friends, my family friends. The list goes on. All these were separated by my need to segregate the parts of me that together made me whole. In the years that passed, I learned what wonderful creations emerged when I mixed and matched and integrated all these sides in one. But, on this night, I realized that the social world need not be a big jambalaya stew of who I am. The recipe's refined. I am fully realized when I am free to be the person defined by that environment presently in play. I do not bring the side of me that likes to dance and drink to a mortgage meeting with a bank. I am 100% true to who I am, that side of me which loves to wheel and deal, negotiate and charm. Likewise, I have no interest in wearing a suit and tie to club, unless it has a Valentino cut. The point? Be true to who you are until it no longer feels true to how you feel. Don't throw away the remaining soup. But spice it up with new adventure. It is possible to be free to experience the whims that make life wondrous and at the same still stay committed to friendships, relationships, goals and of course oneself. It just takes knowing who you are. And, on this night a nice reminder of all that is me... from friends that helped mould me 10 years ago to those that enter now to offer new inspiration and fuel the fire of my destiny.

Filters & Foxholes

I've come to believe the simple mystery of life is this: that every possibility exists in the torrent of forward movement. I am. I connect. I interact. I can control. Simply said; choice is the filter that organizes randomness and defines the path ahead. Without that sieve, we get swept away in the flow of 6 billion, 3 lb. steams of consciousness. Remember, as alluring the ecstasy of chaos, it is the aqueduct that irrigates and nourishes, and the raging floodwaters that obliterates. We are either engineers of our destiny, lost souls consumed by the raging river or prisoners, trapped by the perceived safety of a makeshift foxhole while waiting for the storm to pass. It never passes. It is the cyclone of life.
An astute friend recently said we are approaching a time when we will revisit the items we've stored away in our journeyman's sac. Names, faces, and places will resurface, an opportunity for soul searching, sentiment, reconnecting, new beginnings or final good-byes. She said the tool for this task will simply measure the balance of exchange, the ratio of gift versus grief. The task itself is a sobering one, as parasitic friendships lose their lustre, unhealthy habits reveal themselves as taking up space where inspired thought could form, and the inventory of how much we've learned and how far we've really travelled becomes impossible to ignore.
So, here I am...no longer flitting around like a butterfly, but building wings to savour the sweetness of real flight. Here I am, no longer laid out by the darkness of doubt, but stepping up to demand my due. Here I am no longer satisfied as a fair weather friend, but willing to give everything I have to those who would do the same for me. Such a beautiful balance when the "give" mirrors the "take". When the outward and inward pressures align, even the most fragile of materials can rise to limitless heights and delve to most wondrous depths.