open letter

i know that you are curious. i know that you are searching. i know that you will read this one day. and i know that when you do read this you will probably try to locate some hint, some evidence that i loved you. that i cared about you. that you were special to me. and i know that you will probably be disappointed. disappointed because you will not find what you are looking for. but not because i did not love you. and not because i did not care about you. and not because you were not special to me. because you were. but unfortunately, the words that you search for will never appear in the pages of this forum. because the truth is that try as i might, i could never accurately convey those words in a way that would make sense to you. or in a way that would make sense to me. because i never really learned how to express those words. those words that you quite rightly deserve to hear from me. and i just hope that with time you gradually learn to accept why those feelings were so difficult for me to express. because you already know a little something about my past. and because you are a bright child. and because you are an understanding child. and because you are my child.

and a spring in your step

so the other day i found myself sprawled out on the sofa beside my eight- and three-year-old, the three of us kicking back to an early episode of spongebob squarepants. just then patrick, spongebob's trusty sidekick, uttered a line that gradually brought a smile to my face. now typically, i am hardly one for animated hijinks. but the more i thought about the line, the more i began to beam. fast forward fifteen seconds and i could barely contain my mirth. in fact, before long i had become so manifestly bemused by the starfish crack that eventually even eight and three had caught on to my general sense of merriment.

"what you laughing at, dad?"

"ah, nothing. it was just something that patrick said."

"patrick said something funny?"

"yeah. patrick said something funny."

"uh, ok dad."

so, too, the sight of that buxom old lady in our building who insists on squeezing my daughters' faces into her bosom every time she greets them. or the sight of my youngest selecting the same hiding spot time after time after time in her invariably futile attempts to thwart her elder sister's hide-and-seek ambitions. or the sight of middle-aged disco queens and their greying dancehall kings revelling in the music of their youth.

mirror man

so i stumbled upon a rather illuminating tete-a-tete featuring dr. drew on celebrity rehab last night. he was speaking with a former child star who had somehow gone astray despite all of the luxuries previously afforded him in his long-forgotten role of hollywood glamboy. not surprisingly then, the middle-aged cautionary tale now points the finger at his old man for many of the difficulties he must tackle in his present incarnation. but dr. drew was quick to point out that while everyday mannerisms of all shapes and sizes can most certainly be traced back to our earliest childhood role models, i.e., our parents, that inaugural education cannot possibly explain why some individuals persist along their self-destructive paths well into their adult years. it was as if dr. drew was drawing a line in the sand for the erstwhile celeb by challenging him to confront his demons and embrace the familiar mantra of "the past belongs to the past, but the future belongs to you." now it was not the first time i had overheard the good doctor utter the pithy refrain but i must say that it was especially poignant this time around given the dire circumstances facing the fallen star and the utter desperation of his current plight. and it reminded me of the entirely apt characterization i stumbled upon many moons ago which attempted to highlight the power of the spoken word amongst the readership of said prose. the power of the spoken word, the saying goes, lies in its almost uncanny ability to reflect the innermost attitudes and experiences of the audience members themselves, as opposed to, say, those of the piece's composer.

animals

they used to call it a repair shop. but today they refer to it as a service centre. not that it matters, really. not that it matters at all, in fact. for at the heart of this tale lies a human foot. a human foot and a container of pringles. for what would possess a young man to kick off his perfectly comfortable, faux-leather sandal in order to rest his sweat-soaked and callus-ridden right foot on the faux-leather chair perched right by my side inside the waiting area of the honda service centre at eglinton and caledonia? seriously. what would possess someone to do such a horrible and disgusting thing? and why would that horrible and disgusting someone elect to add insult to injury by stuffing his face full with one sour cream 'n onion pringles potato chip after another? and another. and another. animal.