a higher worth.

solid mountainside
solid sedimentaries
solid high and wide
for centuries.

still older than these crystal forms
in existence when
by savage storm might show
what was then.

not to hold with timorous trembling hand
nor feel against your silken skin
not to see what was before there was land
to stand in.

away all forms on earth
and objects of this universe
before the first birth
to walk this earth.

not solid like the mountainside
nor possible to feel
not solid high or wide
yet more real.

and older than those crystal forms
in existence when
by savage storms might show
what was then.

there was before the earth
and after that had lead
towards a land of higher worth
to tread.

solid mountainside
solid sentimentaries
solid high and wide
for centuries.

the question.

somewhere and nowhere where silence hangs thick as dust, where blueness and blackness mingle in deep apparent endlessness, in opaque beginning-less-ness. 
sometime and in no time at all when in the blink of a love-filled i remains in the heart forever.
we know you as me in the mirrored labyrinth of us, as someone and not just anyone understanding the pangs of multiple creations and the ecstasies of being.
just remember and kindly recognize me as i join the rest again in hidden answers revealed, in boundless relief once concealed from the one and all.
somewhere and nowhere where silence hangs thick as dust, where blueness and blackness mingle in deep apparent endlessness, in opaque beginning-less-ness. 

there may well be a formless original blue-black space, emerging out of which comes a procession of multitudinous forms and phenomena. 
lying within that consciousness, fused eternally by the direct cognition or recognition of the space we travel, the labyrinth of life constantly reflecting a brilliance in the heart and mind. 
there’s an openness borne of experience through silence yet so far full of frequent doubts while we travel as one, an endless enquiry.
toward deeper understanding we move, buffeted by winds of new possibilities or old awarenesses recollected. 
and it is endless, this not really knowing the formless and the formed, the beginning and the end that may be found in this eternal moment.   




  

Jake’s Journey.

Old Jake walked to the post-box by the highway. He usually waited ‘til late, enjoyed the privacy of darkness, under the stars, taking his time along the long dirt road. He really didn’t care if there was a letter or not, probably preferred not. But there was one that time, rather official-looking, unusual, suspicious.

Jake never took one of the bags of brochures and coupons left hanging on the hook. He pocketed the letter and carried on walking, along the highway to the next road. He did that when there wasn’t much traffic, made his way back along the other long dirt road that passed by at the back of his property. He threw the keys in the basket and sat down at the yellow 1940s kitchen table. He took the letter out of his back pocket, unfolded it, tore it open, took a fast look before throwing it into the waste-basket. It was just another scam.

Sometime in between watching the baseball and taking out his teeth for the night old Jake reached down into the bin to retrieve the letter. He smoothed it out on the table best he could. At the top there was a logo of some weigh-scales with an official-looking letter-head from Thompson & Thompson Barristers, an address in London, England, a fax number and a date. 

The first paragraph read: ‘Dear Mr. Jacob Robertson; My name is David T. Thomas, expert in corporate legal claims. I am contacting you in regards to a client who unfortunately died in an auto accident on a highway in Spain in March of 2010. He was a prominent client of mine who shared your last name. Following a thorough investigation it has been determined that you are in fact his only living relation. Before his death he deposited twenty-two-million dollars in the vault of a certain institution’ blah blah blah. Of course the letter went on to explain in some detail how the transfer of said funds could and should be concluded. There was a signature at the bottom of the page with an email address and even a phone number. 

Old Jake took a photo of the letter with his iphone, then emailed it to his brother having first typed on top: ‘Hey Pete; Take a look at this letter I just received. It’s great news isn’t it? We’ll split the money 50/50.’ He chuckled to himself, then of course he tossed the letter back into the waste-basket before going off to bed. 

Hardly a day or two earlier Jake received an automated phone call supposedly from the ‘Internal Revenue Agency’ stating that he was in a helluva lot of trouble. He was in danger of jail time, perhaps solitary confinement, perhaps even some water-boarding. He was supposed to phone a certain number immediately for further instructions on how to rectify his obvious attempt at tax fraud. It may have been that same day he received two emails apparently from the ‘itunes store’ informing Jake that somebody had recently tried to use his account. He was directed to click on a link provided in order to verify his contact information. 

It felt to old Jake as though he had scams, questionable sales practices and business offers coming at him like bugs to a speeding truck. He had people trying to grab his modest savings directly, indirectly, in so many creative and wonderful ways. He knew to watch out for identity theft, personal cheque forgeries, lottery scams, fake shopping websites and many more. But it was daunting at times. And unfortunately the phenomena took an exponential leap once he posted his ancient truck for sale and his cottage for rent on ‘Kijiji.’ It seemed like a good idea at the time. He really didn’t need a big truck anymore and he hardly went to his cottage. He just thought that renting the place out for a few days now and then through the summer would help pay the taxes. 

He immediately received many emails about his truck, private messages and phone calls, but not one from anyone actually interested in purchasing the thing. ‘Kijiji’ itself bombarded him with innumerable emails suggesting he upgrade his ad for better results, at a cost of course. People called up seemingly keen to buy the truck only to eventually reveal they were calling on behalf of a marketing firm or a dealership. There were odd-balls, ridiculous low-ballers, even a frequent automated call from a lady speaking Mandarin.

He also got constant emails from ‘Kijiji’ suggesting he upgrade his cottage ad for better results, at a cost of course. Many requests just wouldn’t be appropriate for his place, several odd-balls, even a frequent automated call from a lady speaking Mandarin, and then there was Jayme.

Jayme, Jaymelea actually, sounded quite nice, natural, normal. And Jake had no reason to think her call was anything other than a lovely young lady wanting to spend a couple of romantic days in the country with her boyfriend. The kids were with their dad for the weekend, she’d been tremendously attracted by photos of the cottage and it’d take hardly more than an hour to get there. She e-transferred two-hundred-and-forty bucks, received directions and told where to find the key. It was quite a nice, natural, normal transaction, until five o’clock next morning.

When the phone rang Jake had been dreaming about an old dog he once had. The dog wandered off and he thought someone was calling with information as to her whereabouts. It was Jayme. She sounded agitated, upset. “We had a bad accident on the way and have been in the hospital all night. I’m ok but my boyfriend’s pretty messed up.” Old Jake immediately expressed his concern, assured her that he’d return her money but in his mind that was the first red flag fluttering in the wind. 

In Jake’s somewhat cynical mind, actually, there were several red flags fluttering in the wind. As he sat on the edge of his bed he thought: ‘What are the chances of them having an accident on the way? It just felt like an excuse, a lie. And if they’d had a bad accident, so bad that they’d been in the hospital all night, would getting her two-hundred-and-forty bucks back be uppermost in her mind? And if all that was true, would it seem so important to wake him up at five a.m? Why not wait until eight or even seven like a normal human?’

As old Jake sipped his strong black coffee he wondered what the scam might be this time. Once he sent money might they cancel their original transfer? Is that even possible and, if so, why couldn’t he then simply cancel his? Were they somehow after his banking information? Were they wanting to know how to get to his cottage for later on, to rip him off? Was there even a ‘they’? By mid-way through his second cup of strong black coffee he was pretty convinced it was a scam. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. And almost prophetically he received a response from the email he’d sent his brother. Peter wrote only three words: ‘It’s a scam.’ 

Jayme sent a message at eight asking if Jake had transferred the money. He decided to be up-front. He wrote that he’d absolutely send back her money but only after talking to his bank manager on Monday. He also said he’s asked his neighbour to take away the key and keep a watch on the place, which he hadn’t. But his message precipitated another call from Jayme, not angry, just more upset, more agitated. “Look Jake, I understand your concern. I’d move the key too. But I‘m totally legit,” she began dubiously. “I own a home in Barrhaven and two businesses. I have kids and can’t just throw away the money. I even bought two-hundred dollars of food!” 

Jake let the lady rant on a bit while all the while watching more red flags fluttering in the wind. He kept thinking: ‘You own a home and not one but two businesses yet you’re freaking out about this money. And how’s your boyfriend doing? As well, why would you buy two-hundred dollars of food for two people for two days? And anyway would all that food be wasted?’ “Jayme,” he finally responded. “I promise you I have no intention of keeping your money. Since you didn’t use my cottage the money’s not mine. I wouldn’t even need to know why you didn’t go to my cottage. I will be returning it. But I wanna go to my cottage first and I wanna go speak with the bank on Monday.”

There were a couple more text messages through the day, mostly trying to impress upon Jake that she was an honest, hard-working single mom. He looked on ‘Facebook’ and, yes, there was a Jaymelea Firestone, no photos of her but a few of two really cute kids. Eventually Jake decided what the hell and tried to e-transfer the money back, only the transfer didn’t go through. Her email address apparently didn’t exist and another red flag began fluttering in the wind. 

Sunday was a hot sunny day in the Gatineau Hills as old Jake drove over to the cottage. The trees were crying out with delight, the lake was brimming with confidence. There were unmistakable signs of a beaver working through one of the trees, frogs were jumping and a snake was under the canoe. But there were no signs of anyone having been in the cottage. Jayme called to explain why the email she uses didn’t accept the e-transfer. It had something to do with it being a company address. Jake really didn’t understand but it didn’t matter. Against his better judgment he was kinda warming up to her.

Monday morning was equally sunny as Jake made his way to the bank. He didn’t feel so sunny, actually wasn’t feeling at all well and was left cooling his heels in a tube-chair for a while. But he had a good chat with the manager eventually. She assured him that there really was no problem but to be totally safe he could purchase a ‘new product’ that essentially was a phone-number one could call for advice day or night on specific security concerns. She also tried to steer him into a high-interest account which in fact was not so high. She also tried to sign him up for their on-line self-directed investment service. And right before ending the meeting, as they both stood up to leave, she also generously offered to expand the borrowing limit on his credit card. The irony was not lost on the old guy.

By noon Jake was really feeling fairly flushed, probably just over-heated. He was also quite ready, willing, even eager to transfer Jayme’s money. He wasn’t tremendously reassured, still somewhat suspicious. But at that point he was also fed up, frankly a little curious and, God help him, even rather fond of the lady. She’d shown more interest in Jake over the past few days, for whatever reason, than any lady in thirty years.

The email address Jayme suggested worked fine that time but then she couldn’t download the funds. Jake tried to walk her through it, to no avail. Then she seemed to implode. “I can’t do this! I can’t do this!,” she hollered into the phone. “My life’s shit! You wanna know the truth? My boyfriend left me that night! He got home at five in the morning after spending the night with another woman. That’s the truth. There was no accident. Fuck the money. Just keep it! Now I gotta move by tomorrow with the kids!” 

Jake, for his part, was listening to the tirade with equal measures of surprise, concern, amusement and scepticism. Of course it didn’t matter at all what the truth of the situation might be. She was clearly a liar but also clearly distraught. “Jayme relax. Take a breath. I’ll cancel the transfer and bring you a cheque this afternoon, right now, wherever you are.” That seemed to do the trick. She settled down. They agreed to meet at a ‘Farm Boy’ grocery store on Woodroffe avenue. 

She of course couldn’t know how horrible Jake was feeling by then. As he drove to the city he felt positively faint. By the time he got downtown he had to pull over. He closed his eyes, unaware for how long until his phone rang and he heard her voice, excited, shrill, hollering, asking where he was, exactly, what cross-streets. Where was he? What colour was the truck? What street? What street Jake!? After that, like sort of the very next moment, he was in an ambulance, and then he was in a hospital bed.

And then Jayme was sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed. Old Jake looked at her for the first time. He thought she was really quite lovely, not the loveliness of youth. That wasn’t it. He‘d frankly expected her to look a little more desperate only she was relaxed, soft, with light-coloured hair, deep dark moist eyes, a mother’s body. He reached over and took her hand. “You know, I was pretty darn sure you were scamming me.” “Not everybody’s trying to cheat you Jake,” she responded. “But I’m sorry I made it all so hard and now you’re here.” He smiled. He was well medicated and his eyes were closing, until he remembered. “Just a minute,” he muttered. “Take the cheque out of my jacket.” She leaned over and actually kissed him on the cheek as he drifted off. 

Standing outside in the parking area Jayme held onto the cheque as her phone rang. She answered and a man’s voice spoke: “Did you get it?” After receiving no answer he repeated: “Jayme did you get it?” “No,” she said finally. “Ok, fuck it. Never mind,” the man barked. “We’ll cut the old bugger loose.” Jayme ripped up the cheque, threw it in a garbage can before getting in her car.  

  

The Shmowie and the Pig.

In a park near our house lived a creature called the Howie Shmowie. At least that’s what my dad said its name was and I’ve no reason to disbelieve him. There was also a Nancy Prantsy. It’s hard to describe the Shmowie or the Prantsy because neither my sister nor I ever actually saw them. Dad mentioned something about big ears, oversized flat feet, perpetual smiles. I really don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I do know. The Shmowie and the Prantsy saved our bacon. 

It all began in that park, the Saranac Municipal Park, where we used to hang out hoping to catch a glimpse of a Howie Shmowie or a Nancy Prantsy. We’d hide in the trees. There were many great climbing trees you could even walk around in. We had a favourite, even named the branches as though they were streets. There was a Spruce street, Pine, Oak. Mom didn’t like us climbing up there so of course and obviously we simply didn’t tell her. We didn’t say a word about it although we spent most afternoons on Willow, Maple or one of the other streets waiting, hoping. My description of these events may seem odd or even simple because oddly enough I‘m both, apparently always have been. But they’re none-the-less real and true.

We never did see a Shmowie or a Prantsy or even a Shmeter. Yeah, apparently there was a Peter Shmeter as well. Well well we never did see any of them but one day as we sat in the tree we did see a pig. Nancy snorted and then wondered aloud why the heck a pig was wandering through Saranac Municipal Park. I really didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t wondering because the pig wasn’t wandering. I was however wondering why the heck a pig was running hard with a frayed length of rope wrapped ‘round its throat squealing plaintively, clearly and loudly freaking out through the park. So we quickly climbed down and ran after. It didn’t take long to catch up with the pig because although it was small enough it was also really rather ridiculously and unrealistically rotund. It took us longer to convince it that we only wanted to help.

Speaking a kind of pig-latin we were able to talk the critter down as we huddled together near the brook. Nancy and I held onto him or her from either side until it relaxed, grunted and then finally put its snoot lovingly in my lap. That was such a lovingly thing to do that I immediately felt like taking it home. But I knew mom would go hog-wild at the very idea of having a pig as a pet. She didn’t let us have any pets at all: not a dog or cat, not so much as a gerbel. 

So we continued to snuggle together near the brook at the far end of the big field. The big field ended where the deep ravine began and the deep ravine ended where the long road to our house began. There were lots of rocks, stones and clumps of twigs and stuff in the deep ravine. The brook itself was teeming with tad-poles and froggies, fishies and even turtles sometimes. Nancy tried to get the pig to open up about where it had come from and what had scared it so horribly. Only it either didn’t understand, was unwilling to share or was simply left speechless by the events of the day, until we heard shouting coming from up in the big field. 

Our piggie let out a squeal that made us jump. Luckily the rushing gushing flushing water of the brook flushed away the squeal to a great extent and we swiftly crawled into a bush. Only the pig flattened the bush so we even more swiftly crawled into another much larger one. And we hid there watching, listening. Our pig began to shake rattle and roll as I tried to keep my hand over its mouth and Nancy hugged it tightly. The shouting got louder until within hardly a few more minutes we saw a man and woman up at the top. They were arguing with each other. The piggie wanted to run but we were able to convince it that its best option was to roll with us.

The lady wasn’t tall or short but she was a little fluffy, a mid-sized little fluffy character with angry unruly hair. She looked like maybe a farmer or gardener, a cranky farmer or gardener who wore blue faded overalls after-all with a lotta dirt and she carried a rope. The man was taller thinner with thick black beard on his chin but strangely no hair at all up top. He wore faded jeans that were similarly dirt-encrusted and a very old torn checkered shirt. He may also have been a farmer or gardner but honestly he just looked mean, also cranky. And whatever he was carrying glistened as the sun-light glanced off. 

We heard the lady holler at him, something about he shoulda done ‘it’ when he had the chance. The man kept insisting the pig wasn’t plump enough which I thought a pretty silly statement considering it had rolled onto my legs which hurt like heck. 

The two of them looked this way and that until one went this way, the other went that while we stayed very very still in the middle. Even the pig stayed very very still as the lady passed not far from our bush, not far at all, and we heard her say something that does not bear repeating. Mom always told us that if you don’t have anything nice to say you shouldn’t say anything at all. So I assumed that conversely meant if someone else says something not nice you shouldn’t repeat what he or she said at all. Suffice it to repeat that it convinced both Nancy and I that we really needed to, really had to, really wanted to take that sweet living breathing rotund being home safely with us somehow. Mom would simply need to adjust.

The lady was closest, too close for comfort actually, which did cause us significant discomfort. Our piggie pressed its head to my chest while Nancy and I stroked, petted, held on tightly. The lady kept calling to the bearded man who kept calling back. He was spooked. He found it odd that the pig was nowhere to be found. He found it odd that they couldn’t see it or even hear it. The lady scratched her unruly hair and muttered between calls. She felt the pig’s presence, so near, so close, so near, but why couldn’t she hear anything? The three of us hardly breathed. I could see her boots. I could see the rope, frayed at one end. I could see two quite different possible futures as I stubbornly held on to the one I wanted, and our piggie kept pressing its head to my chest. 

The strangest aspect of that part was the way the daylight faded almost as if sorta all of a sudden like. It was too early for the fading light. It was not a fading light time of day. But there it was, fading. And then there came the bellowing harrowing frightening sound of screaming from up in the big field. The lady obviously had to run after the man who was running after something or other, although more likely from something or other, screaming. 

The lady ran up out of the deep ravine, across the big field, through the trees to find out what had happened. We knew, of course. It was the Shmowie, the Prantsy, perhaps even the Shmeter. What else could it have been? Who else could it have been? One minute they were practically right on top of us and the next... poof, gone. Dad used to say they’d always be there watching over us just as we watched over each other. And so they‘d presented us with a tremendous opportunity to make our escape. 

We got home before the storm. With barely a minute before dinner and none to spare we shoved Daisy into the tool-shed. We named her Daisy somewhere along the long road to our house. Admittedly we didn’t give it a lotta thought. We didn’t even actually know her gender, not exactly. But Nancy and I both felt right about it, there wasn’t a lotta time and Daisy voiced no complaints whatsoever. So we shoved Daisy into the tool-shed before going into the kitchen just as though it was a completely normal evening, like that was the absolute spitting image of every other evening. I sauntered in the way I do, Nancy pranced in as was her want and Peter of course was already at the table. He was the eldest of us all and he played by the rules.  

“Howie your hands are filthy, go wash,” mom commanded. “Nancy you too.” It was a completely normal evening, like that was the absolute spitting image of every other evening. Nancy sat in her usual place, head down contemplating her dinner. I sat in my usual place playing with the turnips on my plate. Peter sat in his usual place watching us carefully, suspicously. He knew something was not normal. He knew it was far from a completely normal evening. Mom moved gracefully from the stove to her usual place at the table while dad’s usual place was as usual empty. He rarely got home before eight. 

“Why aren’t you eating?,” Peter asked Nancy. ”Aren’t you hungry?,” he added with a patronizing grin. “I’m eating,” she barked back at him. In fact we‘d both eaten our rice, turnips and even the spinach. But neither of us had touched the other stuff at all and I knew neither of us ever would again. Mom of course had by then noticed, was opening her mouth to say something when there came a god-awful racket from out back. “It must be the wind,” I said a little too quickly, a little too loudly, as Nancy and I looked over at each other. Peter immediately ran out the door followed closely by mom, then Nancy and I together.

The door to the tool-shed was wide open and all manner of equipment was strewn around inside. Two types of rakes and a shovel lay half in the shed and half on the patio stones outside. And Daisy was walking around on the wet grass in the yard. Mom positively screeched. Peter laughed uproariously as Nancy and I ran to embrace our pig. “This is Daisy,” Nancy announced. “And she’s staying with us.” I marvelled at her gumption. 

“Hey,” Peter said eloquently. “That must be the pig from the Shmendriks farm.”
“No it’s not,” I said ineloquently. 
“Yea it is,“ he said. ”The Shmendriks came knocking on everyones’ doors.” 
“No it’s not,” I persisted. 
“Howie,” mom said eloquently. “We have to give Daisy back. They own her.” 
“No they don’t,” I said inarticulately. I looked over at Nancy as if to say: ‘Can I get a little help over here?’ But she was wrapped up, both figuratively and literally, with Daisy. 
“They don’t even want her,” I blurted emphatically. “They wanna get rid of her in the worst possible way.”
Nancy was weeping then, probably because she knew it was all so very true. The Shmendriks didn’t love her but Daisy wasn’t ours. Neither of us could understand why she wasn’t ours since we were the ones that loved her. 

Nancy wrapped Daisy up all the more tightly in her arms. Daisy for her part had placed her snoot lovingly in Nancy’s lap. It was such a lovingly thing to do that even Mom and Peter had to acknowledge it. Nevertheless, be that as it may, once dad got home, with all sorts of attempts at whitewashing or minimizing the harsh reality of the occassion, he and Peter took Daisy away. They loaded her into the car and took our Daisy away. 

Nancy was inconsolable. I was angry. Nancy actually was inconsolable and angry both but neither of us would talk to mom. We went to bed upset and it was not a happy house that night.

Breakfast was a sombre affair to say the least. Nobody was talking. Nobody was looking at nobody, until there came a god-awful racket from out back. Nancy and I immediately bolted for the door while I only vaguely registered the fact that mom, dad nor Peter bolted along with us. The door to the tool shed was wide open and all manner of equipment was strewn around inside. Two types of rakes and a shovel lay half in the shed and half on the patio stones outside. And Daisy was walking around on the grass in the yard.

Nancy and I both hugged Daisy fiercely who sorta hugged us back. The others had taken their own sweet time to come out and I looked up at dad questioningly. He shrugged as if at a loss to explain Daisy’s reappearance. “It musta been the Shmowie,” he said matter-of-factly. “And the Prantsy”, added mom. “Hey, what about the Shmeter? It musta been the Shmeter too,” insisted Peter.