For Dad 2009

A couple days before Father's Day I was out for a tear on a particularly convenient collection of trails here in Kingston. I felt my stomach launch and dip over steep dirt curves. I indulged as the bike howled across large areas of exposed limestone. I buried the pegs in mud and pondy stench.

At one point I had growled through some tall cattails and landed without much warning in a shallow but wide creek. The dark water grabbed my tires and stopped the bike without warning, forcing my left leg straight to keep from falling in the same direction. Warning failed me yet again when a bee stung me behind me right knee, and another on my calf when I pulled away from the first attack.

I turned my awkward helmeted head downward to realize there were no bees, but rather a hissing bike exhaust inflicting the wounds. I hopped off the bike and sank my ankles into the creek bed. Several tire spins and a little pushing had me on dry enough ground that I could stop the bike and inspect my leg.The burns were minor, however several inches of skin had been scraped off my shin and were no doubt hanging on some stubby branch somewhere.

After getting over the surprise of seeing such a wound before feeling it I was surprised by the thoughts that came to mind. The last respectable bike injury I incurred was with my father. I began to think about stitches on Christmas Eve, falling in the same ice fishing hole 3 times, rolling out from under a K-car hood as my dad cornered into into the neighbour's driveway... I'll save the details of that event for another post.

Countless events of injury, and near injury, that to the inexperienced mind might seem careless.However the reality of these situations is that a great deal of care and intention went into engaging the potentially dangerous activities. My father understood that life is a dull and decrepit existence without exercising risk. Make no mistake, my father vehemently opposed foolishness. Not being foolish and not being frightened are two often confused but opposite concepts.

My lack of fear has lead to a confidence that has fueled a diverse experience I continue pursue with fervor. I owe much of this to a father who loved me enough to let me challenge my notions and abilities.As with most my writing, I'm not sure this communication has been accurate... especially to anyone who fears, life... money... love... faith... death... or balloons (I have a mild fear of balloons), but this concept makes a great deal of sense to me. So for Father's Day 2009 I thank my dad for a gash in my shin and the disregard I have for that gash. I am alive because of you, and I know life because of you as well. Peace and Love,
son

to blog or not to blog

I feel like I should address the futility of writing. Even in full realization of such futility lies a certain subjective objectivity. Even though "Truth" (or humanity's best understanding of the topic) has been presented time and time again, the vast majority are still ignorant. Far worse than ignorance however is my awareness that doesn't stop me (and thousands of others) from voicing their clearest understanding of "Truth". Why would I assume that an audience with voice would be an audience with ears... or heart for that matter.
Somehow objectivity is now defined by subjective politically correct bullshit. How does that work? I thought subjectivity was the only true expression of human opinion, leaving objectivity as an absolute that gages our proximity (if by proximity you mean distance) to "Truth".

..."Oh no I've said too much, I haven't said enough"