fortunesfoole

My grandparents (on my mother's side) were very odd. To explain the length and depth and width of their oddness would take a book, but just to give you some idea: one Christmas they deviated from their normal pattern of truly splendid gifts and gave me three packs of underwear. As Christmas brought out some of my most mercenary feelings of acquisitiveness, this came as a hell of a shock. Another year, rather than the requested Star Wars Imperial Hoth Ice Planet Playset, they gave me three books: one on the appearances of the Virgin Mary at Fatima, one on the stigmata of the Blessed Padre Pio, and one with the marvelous title, Evidence of Satan in the Modern World.

To say that my grandparents were Catholic would be like saying that the Spanish Inquisition was a little enthusiastic.

That being said, the overwhelming potency and drive of their belief had its benefits. My thirteenth year saw me on an airplane to Portugal, along with a hundred other teenage boys (Heaven help our supervisors), in order to visit Fatima, the site of the Virgin Mary's putative appearances to three shepherd children. As a corollary, I was also enrolled in the Blue Army of the Followers of the Blessed Virgin Mary, whose junk mail, rather alarmingly, followed me through multiple address and city changes long after my grandparents were deceased. Opus Dei must have agents working for Canada Post.

Fatima. What a place. I've been to many pilgrimage sites across Western Europe (thanks, Grandma and Grandpa!); I've seen the massive cave cathedral of Lourdes, the bota fumiero of Santiago and the rose pillar of Saragossa, but nothing compares to Fatima. A seemingly endless expanse of ground, all covered in cobblestones worn smooth by nightly processions of believers from across the world. Look closely and you can see the bloodstains of pilgrims who have insisted on traversing it on their bare knees. At the far end, the Basilica, a series of towering spires, all gold and marble and tile and stone blackened by candle smoke. Two open colonnaded halls extend to either side, like great arms encircling the sacred ground that was once a grassy hillside for pasture.

Every night saw candlelit processions, people shuffling slowly and singing hymns to the glory of the Virgin. We were expected to take part in them, of course, and looking back I'm rather surprised to remember that we did so reverently, the occasional covert candle fight notwithstanding.

One night, though, I stepped away from the shuffle and climbed the stairs of the Basilica, one solitary figure branching off from the river of humanity flowing across the cobblestones. I had snuffed out my candle and was effectively invisible. I moved to the western colonnade, sliding my feet across the marble floor, slipping between the great pillars as I watched the procession, listening to the great sigh of ten thousand people singing, “Ave Maria.”

At that moment, I knew – positively knew – that if I wished to, I could start to run along the open hall, and that if I did, I would go faster and faster until I was taking huge, bouncing strides like a man running across the surface of the Moon, and that when I reached the end of the colonnade that I could just take one last, great, springing leap and I would soar above the crowds, above the cobblestoned ground, higher and higher until the whole of Fatima disappeared below me.

I almost started to run. I didn't do it. I went back down the steps and rejoined the procession.

But for one beautiful, sacred night, off in a faraway land, I knew in my heart that I could fly.

Eighteen years ago, I betrayed my best friend. At least, that's how he saw it at the time. Maybe he still sees it that way today. I don't know. We never talk about it.
Andrew and I became best friends in our first semester of university, one of those times when everything seems open and new and fresh. We hit it off immediately, a host of shared interests and a basic similarity of outlook helping to cement the bond.
We both have very powerful, aggressive personalities – of the “larger than life” variety – and that occasionally required compromise from two people who were very much used to getting their own way. We had two big blowouts over the course of our friendship; he backed down during one, and I backed down during the other. I remember having the strong feeling that we might not survive a third.
I don't want to give a false impression – the vast majority of the time was nothing like that at all. We had a hell of good time together, and also helped each other through a hell of a lot. It's just that we both have the capacity to get very, very intense, and when we were just hitting our twenties, neither of us had really learned how to damp it down. But then it really went all down the tubes.
It was a girl, and she was trouble. Big trouble. Andrew started dating her, it was his first serious relationship (it would be another three years before mine), and he was vulnerable. Very vulnerable, in a way that I don't think he had been since he was very young. If she had been worth his trust, that would have been okay. But she wasn't. She had her own problems, one of which was an eye for the boys and a very loose definition of fidelity. Put simply, she was no damn good.
There was no telling Andrew that – he wouldn't even hear the start of that conversation, and he looked pretty dangerous if it started to head in that direction. He had invested too much of himself, believing in her. But he was no fool, even if he was acting foolishly. I think he knew what he was setting himself up for, and that was why he got so confrontational in situations where she was slipping his friends the wink when his back was turned.
So things got worse and worse, and started to creep closer and closer to that third confrontation, the one that I was afraid we wouldn't survive. I was sick of the drama, sick of the bullshit, and – truth be told – damn angry that my best friend seemed so willing to get in my face over things that had nothing to do with me.
I didn't want to tell him that it was her or me. Maybe I was afraid of what he'd choose. So I walked. I cut myself out of his life, her life, the lives of my other friends in that whole group. I knew that she was going to betray him, but I couldn't handle waiting for it any more. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, when it finally did happen, that we could put our friendship back together.
Time went by. She cheated on him, with another of our friends. Andrew and I didn't speak for a good two years. We're closer now, but our friendship has never really been the same. Maybe it never will be. It hurts like hell.
For all the drama, all the b.s., the tension and the anger and the bitterness and the hurt feelings, that's not the Andrew I remember. I remember Andrew, the big tough sonofabitch in his big black Daytons and his Gargoyle mirrorshades, sitting in his apartment and looking at me and saying:
“Shitty day. Stupid people. Just wanted to punch somebody. Was standing in the checkout line at the supermarket. Little kid in the cart, looking at me. Girl, maybe two, three years old. Smiled at her. She smiled back. And just like that, everything was okay.”

I don't know if it's coincidence or mischance or simply the result of living thirty-eight years, but I have been witness to the effects of many attempted and completed suicides, and I've seen the destruction that they have caused. I know a young woman whose father killed herself when she was sixteen years old, and I watched her descend into a year of madness and addiction until she finally, thankfully, pulled herself out. She has the date of her father's death tattooed onto her wrist: the day when everything in her life changed. I know a young woman who was eight when her mother attempted to kill herself, and who has never been able to look at her mother the same way or trust her ever again, knowing that she could be abandoned at any time. Two years ago, a young man at my school hanged himself with his belt after his girlfriend broke up with him. The devastation of his act continues to reverberate among his family and friends.
And then there is my wife, who has attempted to kill herself on numerous occasions, and once came perilously close to doing so.
Suicide doesn't sadden me. It makes me angry. It's the ultimate rejection of everything around you; it's a way of saying, “fuck you,” to everyone around you who loves you and needs you. I think we've all been there at one time or another, that point where you look at the world and say, “Jesus. Is this it? Is this all there is? This is too much. It's gotta stop.” But as is so often the case, there is a universe between thought and action.
The first time my wife threatened suicide was over a microwave. My wife, I should explain, is bipolar, and capable of truly erratic behaviour during both her highs and lows. On this particular occasion she was manic, obsessed with the idea of buying a new microwave, and she was willing to put her life on the line. I wasn't going to take any chances, but I also wasn't going to be held hostage to that kind of threat, so for the first and only time I had her committed. To be honest, I still don't know if that was the right thing to do.
My wife has made many threats against her life at different points, but I think she was only really trying to end her life once: while driving home one night on a country road, she couldn't handle the thoughts in her head, took aim at a tree and closed her eyes. She was saved by the fact that the car's headlights hadn't picked out a ditch between the road and the tree.
Other times? Pills. Pills, pills, pills, pills, and more pills. Being bipolar, believe me, she's got a lot of pills. There have been so many variations on this situation. How can you tell when someone's serious about suicide? How do you gauge sincerity versus the manipulation of a disordered personality? There's been times when she's taken certain pills and it's been clear that they were never going to kill her. Those pills were there to give me a scare, and who knows? Maybe to give herself a scare as well. On one occasion when she was taken to the hospital and was forced to drink charcoal, the emergency doctor told me that she probably knew that the pills she had taken weren't going to kill her, but that I should worry if she took certain other pills. My god. What kind of calculation is that?
The funny thing is, I'm angrier at her for the time that she really tried to kill herself than for all the times she tried to bullshit me. When she aimed for the tree and closed her eyes, that was a betrayal. That was her walking away. That was her saying, “fuck you,” to me and to our children. In my head, I tell myself that she didn't know what she was doing, that she was in the grip of madness. But in my heart? A part of me died when she acted out that stupid, selfish, empty gesture.

My word, a hiatus is a funny thing... unless it is a hiatus hernia, I suppose. I now formally announce my intention to participate in LJ Idol. Huzzah. (Weak cheers.) therealljidol

Sorry for not posting or commenting recently... I've been attacked by a severe outburst of life.  Bloody tiring, I will say that.  Further bulletins/comments as events warrant.  Feeling a bit gunshy as I just had someone swear at me and drop me from their friends list for an innocent comment.  What the hell is that all about?  If I wanted idiots, I'd just walk out my door...

My own personal Top 10, in no particular categorization:

10.  Barrack Obama wins US presidency
9.  Jack Daniels
8.  My son playing junior rugby
7.  Towels, straight from the dryer
6.  Teaching a new course in Medieval history
5.  November, by David Mamet
4.  My dog
3.  The Trans-Siberian Railway
2.  Sleep (turns out I have sleep apneia!)  Is that how you spell apneia?  I don't remember...
1.  Sir Mix-a-lot - Jump on it, Sir Mix-a-lot!

Looking out across the snowscape of my winter holidays gives me the time to step back and reflect a bit on the vagaries of my chosen profession.  Just thinking about the last month or so is somewhat depressing; it just seems that teaching, which is always in some state of siege, has just recently been surrounded and had diseased cows catapulted over the walls.  At least where I teach, anyway.  Sometimes it just drives me flipping nuts: just like mom and apple pie, the mantra for everyone is "we need to do what's best for the kids."  Give me a fucking, fucking, break.  They lie, they lie, and then they lie some more.  "Arm's length" corporations which charge money for tutoring - one of whose board members is the Director of the Board of Education, another is the Superintendent for Continuing Education - who assure the public that there is no conflict of interest, while they shut down more and more night school and summer school programs to drive kids into the arms of their "arm's length" tutoring company?  Grrr...

I need to stop now.  I'm on holiday. 

I am on a one-foole crusade to stop haiku abuse.  For the love of your deity, people, just STOP!  Friends don't let friends write haiku. 

Janey mac, I just read over my first post and I do sound rather like a gloomy sod.  Clearly I'm actually darkly brooding and sexy in a hopeless melancholy sort of way. 

Except I guess that's not really me, I suppose. 

Honestly, it makes me laugh.  It's like when you see a Goth who actually is rather tan and looks well-fed.  There are the things we want to be and the things we are.  I will never walk a runway in Milan, nor will I be a Solid Gold dancer.   The fact that I'm a guy makes these ambitions doubly silly.  Still, anyone who remembers the Solid Gold dancers... who wouldn't want to put on body paint and mime interpretive animal actions to Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf?"  And get PAID for it? 

Anyways, I'm buggered if I know how this is coming across.  I guess I'll figure that out as I go along!