Acknowledgement and appreciation to Rushi and Mahesh who separately but when put together were responsible for this title. I was going to neglect recognizing my sisters, Irene and Denise, in this forum, as they are an integral part of me and it felt like I was thanking myself. With this similar sentiment I would also like to send appreciation to Razvan, Karyn and Barbara, for all their inspirations.
I refer to this project as a book in motion. I’ve allowed for this self-created procedural approach, in part, to compliment my employment and social lifestyle schedule, to disguise weaknesses in writing ability as I am not a practiced writer and also as an allowance to return and make changes to potentially avoid liability concerns. My intent is not to disparage any living or deceased but if unwittingly I should by happenstance cause grievance, I’m more than willing to redact. The overall body of work would hardly suffer from deletion of segments that in free-flowing thinking and expression may accidentally infringe on any individual or family name. This wouldn’t mean negativity should be without observation and conversation as part of philosophy amongst any group of titles exploring thought. By extension, some of my implementation may grind against the jurors of proper literature. Without doubt, my style and conclusions are awkward and difficult but this shouldn’t mean I be without effort. In considering potential editors to control the understanding of my work, limited experience with both writing and editors, show, serious or complete changes to my intent. Literally, I don’t recognize myself as the author. So I avoid for the immediate and foreseeable future any attempts to diffuse my ambitious approach at the larger body of work with a core of co-editor’s. The Internet does allow for family, closer friends and colleagues to critique and enhance my efforts.
This slides into the second part of my approach whereby all truth will be a given but the people directly responsible for the events of these truths will be given cover. By change of name, or stealth of time and place, relating to my school, work, political and family history would be common should I sense someone be left vulnerable to unwanted feelings upon reading my perspectives. Also, at times graphic and exacting descriptions might find hinderance in my communication so as not to offend but I’m sure my expected mature audience can extract some value or self imposed thinking and adventure. Should challenges to my truth take place and require scrutiny, I’m confident that I would be able to provide proof to almost all percentages, with witnesses to occurrences, if the intentions are benign. Except of course those experiences that may have been metaphysical. On a similarly serious note, I hope the authorities of various factions don’t find cause to visit. Politics have currently become contentious and dangerous, especially for those of us more moderate and independent.
In part this introduction is an attempt to suggest the direction some of my contemplations may evolve and serve as reconnaissance for potential reader’s. In doing so I’ve indulged in this framework an abundance of quotes from some of my favoured readings. Although my auto-family-biography will be story like there will also be a view of events that run currently and speculation about the future. A novel with blog, referred to loosely as a blook. A recurring theme, “Is there a God”? “Is there an afterlife”? More recently a renowned physicist for the better part of a half century, carrying the banner of past and current scientists, “extraordinaire,” culminated his work with the statement “God does not exist.” For the sake of conversation without a knowable (as I still breathe) end, a book by Helier J. Robinson, “Renascent Rationalism” addresses the examinations of this argument. “The history of western philosophy can be characterized as a history of a quarrel: the quarrel between the two schools of philosophy called, broadly, empiricism and rationalism. Empiricism makes perception the main (sometimes only) source of knowledge and rationalism makes reason the main source. Rationalism was represented in the past by such figures as Plato, Descartes, Spinoza and Leibenz. For the past two centuries, however, rationalism has been out of fashion, for a very simple reason. This period has seen the rise of modern science, which is so powerful a cure for ignorance that any philosophic system that cannot accommodate it, is doomed.”
John Kenneth Galbraith adviser to numerous President’s of the United States, in his book “The Age of Uncertainty” quotes one of his favoured thinkers. ‘On one of the last pages of his last and most famous book John Maynard Keynes —– by wide agreement the most influential economist of this century —– observed that “…the ideas of economists and political philosophers, both when they are right and when they are wrong, are more powerful than is commonly understood. Indeed the world is ruled by little else. Practical men, who believe themselves to be quite exempt from any intellectual influences, are usually the slaves of some defunct economist”. Maynard goes on to write, ‘Madmen in authority, who hear voices in the air, are distilling their frenzy from some academic scribbler of a few years back.’ Galbraith writes, ‘Then comes his affirmation: … the power of vested interests is vastly exaggerated compared with the gradual encroachment of ideas.’
During life with politics, one of my mentors, a Canadian Federal Member of Parliament for several decades and a staunch defender of the environment, found occasion in private conversation with me, to be at odds with well known David Suzuki. I believe the substance of disagreement was related to procedure and possibility, more so, than the inherent care they have for the world we live in. The argument between economic benefit in the political realm and destruction of natural habitat is ongoing and always ends with hypocrisy the winner. Man benevolent to other creatures or greedy for our own ends. Well victory is related to the immediate satisfaction of the individual, extended to the group and climaxed by the most powerful species, to destroy at the expense of all, “existence”. Humans respond best when their lives are flashing in front of their eyes. Of course the result can be momentarily unpleasant. Naturally I took interest in David Takayoshi Suzuki and his perceptions including his t.v. series “The Nature of Things” and a book published by him and Peter Knudtson titled “Genethics,” ‘The Ethics of Engineering Life.’ In this book he examines an array of topics “… an independent search for a unifying moral imperative within a single crucial area of human responsibility for genes. Together, they represent the first fruits of our search for humane, broadly applicable ethical themes in genetics concerning issues such as genetic screening, gene therapy, biological weapons, environmental damage to DNA, crossing evolutionary boundaries, genetic diversity and genetic maps.” I intend to broach these concepts indirectly as I don’t pretend to be scientifically verse in genetics but in broader terms and with efficacy, have experience in formulating legislative policy.
Literature of the novel and play form were never simple school chore requirements. The mechanics of language are fascinating but admittedly I’ve never fully grasped the intricacies of English grammar. Actually you may find me gunning through proper punctuation as if I was running red lights. I’ll invite myself to clean these messes in some future if not this one. My conviction to focus for extended periods of time on an individual book was often supplanted by any sport that should present itself, to almost any form of my availability. I’d prefer marbles and the game, over and even, having outgrown that era and age by a decade. However, I was a faithful and avid reader of all Toronto daily newspapers. Should that reading fix not suffice, I would on occasion purchase the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. British papers if available and monies in excess would find interest with my attention. My most favoured readings were of weekly, bi-monthly and monthly publications of foreign policy books or magazines that I faithfully acquired and libraried during my teens. I’ve lost those during differing times of flight. To the main point, my three top picks for novels; ‘The Idiot’, by Dostoyevsky, ‘Great Expectations’, by Dickens and ‘Fifth Business’, by Robertson Davies. Two of these literary gems were curriculum inspirations. Other authors amongst many deserving that I enjoyed and I mention here, Robert Ludlum and Alvin Toffler.
My protracted book has at it’s beginning an undefined conclusion and will tend to be sporadic with material, so I’m anticipating an uncommitted readership. Most, including myself, presuppose an apex if I am to contribute time to reading. My effort begins unaware of an end. The only surety is demise. Upon this eventuality I hope to have motivated family members and friends interested in expanding their reflections into volumes which will likely have differing objectives unrelated to mine. The age of Internet has made this a viable project. In a sense I’m indulging in an effort to create a tree of genetically influenced written material as a base for a broader spectrum of examination and thinking, that can be easily accessed hopefully decades if not hundreds of years from this time. There is mathematical cohesion and it is framed but inside the brackets, any number of variables could find formula.
As I embark on this writing road trip, permit my preface some vagueness, as I cannot foreshadow the unpredictabilities. I find joy in language if I’m allowed to amuse and the expense sometimes is misunderstanding and frivolity. Truthfully, I could rejig, throw in a MiG or eat a fig and it wouldn’t make a diff. However, on occasion, if not always by design, I will trip into unexplored realities. In response to these needs and to avoid committing to boredom, I will be omitting chronology. As a substitute, “music,” will play as an ambiguous marker, to relevant events and thoughts in my life. Each segment of subject will have a heading, which will be revisited by inspiration and have anywhere from one to ten songs that the reader can link to serve as additional stimuli and as a whenabouts to my memories.
Addressing several quick points unrelated to each other but will find a home for discussion within the main body of work. I’ve always been an “ideas,” person which I contribute to my parent’s and the education system in Canada and more specifically the province of Ontario during the 1970’s. I reference this, for I intend to advocate for what I believe was a powerful and successful teaching philosophy. Secondly, for myself a cleansing and purging will take place and I correspond this feeling with a motivation for setting the record straight, if for no ones benefit than my own. Thirdly, and equally important is I’m creating a template for forensic science be it deemed necessary, as a means to investigate historical claim by outside unbiased academics or hobbyists. Lastly, individuals would be amiss in assuming that my reflections were surely a recognition of themselves. Characters and situations repeat and in the nuances I may indeed be implying the reader but ‘don’t be so sure’. I reiterate this caution for my safety. “Let me count the ways”.
I conclude with this theme for my introduction. I found throughout my life people’s changing opinions and perceptions of events impacted the direction of my own thoughts. Naturally this is the human condition, searching for and finding truth, necessitated by our God given will at an attempt to survive. The ever changing truth is where the story of life finds curiosity. The shifting sands of reality and my emotional response to it’s outbursts is where I sit in observation. Am I content living as described by Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “Charge Of The Light Brigade” and “Into the Valley of Death, Rode the six hundred”. “Theirs not to reply, Theirs not to wonder why, Theirs but to do and die.” We seem, if not always, then often, at the mercy to mere whims and we then tend to grandiose our failures. Directives and orders not met or unchallenged can turn on a dime into tragedies and woe is us. Many are unable to make it back to the front lines even during times of peace. But man is at the core an enduring animal, if not always a sensible one. Looking forward to my examination of charted territory, it’s by investigation that I seek fascination. Join me if you like, when you’ve got nothing better to do.
Women I Should Have Married #1
She was, as if, forcing the earth down repeatedly with the palms of her hands, “This is hell and when we leave here we go to Heaven”, and she flicked her wrists upward. Obviously a church goer and when your girlfriend makes a serious statement you should probably listen. When you both leave the Louvre and barely acknowledge the existence of, the most diagnosed painting in human history, the Mona Lisa, your probably in love. Those moment’s of happiness I wish to longevity are lost, never to be replaced in intensity and my memories are shadows I attempt to resurrect, through words. Mankind (excuse my Christianity) by way of painting, music and dance, statues and structures, according to the second woman I loved, has been trying to produce great works here in hell for a long time. Therefore the study of history and therefore something to keep ourselves busy with, while were hanging around waiting to go, God knows where, next. Damn it, it’s just one never ending roller coaster ride. Blessed are they (could have been us) who can feel so much and peacefully surrender to eternity. More sensible than doing a “Romeo and Juliet”. So I ask myself, how could I be so stupid? Stupidity and ignorance is probably how I got there. Probably how anyone gets anywhere.
Problem with love is you’re having such a good time, you forget to know you’re in it. Better that. That’s perfect love. The savouring ends, the pain begins. Your with the illusion, this is a normal state of being, that you’ve only finally just come to discover and later it will be like candy, whereby, you can just pick it up, any old time. Boy is it fleeting. It’s not as if you’re in that long drawn out process of sitting there debating is she good for me, or am I good for her, or this and that and all those other things that mean, your not. That’s why I’m fond of the word ‘oblivious’. It’s always been my rarely attainable, favourite state and I’m not talking with support of drug inducement. The natural unaware kind. Maintaining oblivion here in hell is impossible but it allows for us to suspect heaven is a possibility. If we have momentary senses of euphoria (before our, recent clinical understanding of why) would there be place for it’s constant? Well we have hope, that other fantastic human emotion that in earthly form transforms into ambition. The groundwork for all of man’s endeavour to secure fulfillment and forever, but all we have here is common trivial tangible raunchy pleasure. Our physical form that cultivates sustenance for our brain, from where all of our speculation finds construction, research and information by way of observation, conversation and community.
Deborah was part of a group of four girls who were classmates and close friends, of which, one of them, I was head over heels for, from the age of fifteen. They grew in influence by osmosis, during my deserving and unrelenting adoration for my first female, have to have, which I shan’t mention in name, at this time. These things still bite. Only as recollection. As gratefully they should. Contact exponentially grew upon legal eligibility to chauffeur, as I immediately made myself valid. So coincidentally activity accelerated, with after school pick-ups, lunch venues and as we moved into our late teens, there were parties, movies and events. I was participant to many, a small talk and question’s, inside the front door foyers with the parent’s, as they investigated if I was a trustworthy accompaniment to their daughters adventures. “What’s your father do”? “Mechanic”. “Your mother”? “Housewife”. “What school do you go to”? “O’Conner”. “You’re Christian”? “Catholic”. “We’re expecting you won’t be later than midnight”. “Definitely”. Everything was generally smooth and uneventful because they were all aware it wasn’t their daughter’s I was chasing but were nevertheless curious, to see the potential smitten interest, of one of their children’s friend’s. As always, I did better with father’s and brother’s, in particular if they were straight up guy, type of guys.
Deborah began dating, I suspect her high school sweetheart, earlier than the rest of us. Her best friend, Janis, was next. He was noticeably older and already a successful architect. Their relationship was traditional, whereby, marriage, plus four children, including a permanent move to California as a corporate partner, was an outcome. Victoria, herself became an architect and met her future husband inside her university program. By casual semi-interested interaction my impression was they were all decent men. My focus, my thought’s, my beliefs and intentions always included the feelings of the one, I believed would become my significant other. The peripheral relationships by extension I protected, as a course to this happy to be, anticipated inevitability. “The best laid plans of mice and men”. For the outspoken, opinionated person I tend to be, I reflected much of my time with the girls as listener. I felt fortunate to have perspective included in my repertoire that wasn’t so Julius Caeser and Alexander the Great oriented, which made up most of my neighbourhood friends. I loved the disco era as I loved dancing but when out with the girls the reprieve from machoism was a welcome change. They were primarily Anglo and I loved all things that touched on Western Europe. The girls were bright, smart and fun to be with. I was one lucky guy, to be keeping their company.
So it was, the girls at varying times, accepted part time jobs at a local upscale family restaurant, amongst a collage of other jobs and locations they collectively spun as opportunities for each other. I happened in on one of these cycles as a busboy and when after a few weeks was asked to become a waiter, I turned it into full time employment. Janis one evening while hostess, referenced that Deborah and she were planning to work in Europe for a year and I had been having thoughts of similar purpose, whereupon on our return, we intended to pursue our studies. So a few weeks later when asked if I’d like to D-Day with them the first week in London, I happily latched on to this launch point for the European Continent. We departed sometime close to the beginning of the school year as is still habit today for these types of potential transitioning students.
Together we allowed for a minimum of a full week at a charming hotel and room, that captured the essences of London’s character. The girls to my advantage, by way of their admirable ability to organize had us well placed, safe and comfortable, to explore a thoroughly interesting and entertaining city. I loved London. What you see is what you got. My anticipations were accentuated as evidenced by my relentless desire to forgo any kind of sleep. During the day the three of us were prototypical tourists and my love for history and all English was absorbing. Come nightfall the girls were always in readiness, to turn in. The first evening, as I departed for music, dance and exploration, I left thinking they were tired and rejuvenating. By the third night I assessed this was becoming a pattern of security, likely initiated by the parent’s. Ultra attractive women they are but 1980 London for me was well demarcated in it’s potential dangers. I never had a situation or witnessed a confrontation. Today, I don’t know. Paris on the other hand necessitates extra care because the corruption is hidden with sophisticated manners and the dangerous are disguised with fine clothing. Figures the French are notorious for perfume. By the fifth or sixth night I was freaking, “Are you kidding? You’re not going to party while we’re here”! Couldn’t get them out, couldn’t believe it. I’d roll in at 5 or 6 every morning for a power nap and there they’d be, anticipating my arrival, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “I’ll catch you up, for breakfast”, I said. My friend’s and I had a wonderful time.
We said our goodbye’s as I boarded a train for Dover and on reaching the port I casually asked a woman seated across, why everyone simultaneously, seemed to be preparing to disembark. “Where are you going”? “Through Italy to Yugoslavia”. “Well you have to take the ferry”. “Ferry”? “You must be an American”. I didn’t say it, well I did say, “Canadian”, but to myself, ‘I need a vacation from this vacation’. But of course I like taller than me, German Blond’s, so I chatted her up, until we separated east and south, some twelve hours later and exchanged possibilities.
I remember thinking that I should prepare to stay awake as the train was soon to pass through the city of Milan and surrounding area. Of course, I slept during my given name and hours passed, when daylight at the border, startled to the sight of communist soldier’s, machine-guns and a tall watch-tower. Upon entering my province/state of Slovenia, I immediately began having problems with authorities, related to insignificant issues, as an obvious opportunity for bribery. To be short, my third luggage check was apparently needed because I was on a fast train with slow ticket. Questionable tactics. The normal civilized procedure of upgrading wasn’t available, as the hand-gun carrying ticket attendant rifled through my stuff, he slowed to a stop on Miss September. Smut, the harder the better, in Christian territory, is a cheap and effective way to deflect yourself through some marginal situations, if your basically innocent. I said to him, “Vzami vse te knjige, ze sem jih precital”. “Take all the books, I’ve already read them”. He left me with the Economist and Time magazine but he also left me with a teaching moment. Cash bribes can turn hostile in a hurry. I always made a point to carry the American glossy stuff if I could get my hands on it. They’re good for bartering, especially if you’re product is scarce. Almost instant gratification is a money saver, or maker.
After a few weeks of this kind of Marxist mentality and cultural extortion, had me seeking alternatives. The pace of mountain and farm life was snail like, so when a cousins friend offered shared transport to Germany, I headed north in search of tall, surrendering to a promised return at Christmas. Bettina was a student at the University of Tubingen, a place I frequently visited, as I unexpectedly showed at her residence, to be reacquainted. Things with her went splendidly and I decided that the Stuttgart, Reutlingen corridor would serve nicely as a temporary base. A few days later I scored employment by way of black market, as a carpenter in a cement factory. There I plied my new trade and lived the life of an undocumented immigrant. My smart, with height, bonus rich, blonde, was of course sceptical of some guy parachuting into her life but none the less, simultaneously fascinated with my enamour. The months I lived there we never consummated, however she was a superlative host as she opened up the flavours of her nation to a suspicious guest. As an aside, shockingly, she wrote me in Canada four years later, lamenting our lost opportunity. “C’est la vie”. Is any full life without the experience of regret? Get over it.
A year of travel is an arbitrary number, an approximate timetable, of anticipated event’s, wherein the wherewithal to survive an unknown distant land, adjustment to the beliefs of foreign opinions, an investigation of yourself through a mirror of uncommon perspectives and an eyeopening, raw examination of evil and how it functions politically without the self preserving protection of your family. After six months I was fortunate to be alive and situations were still in the process of playing out and would need to, as conclusions are a dynamic of my personality. However, the end game began from beyond, with first contact, after these significant months, from my friends in Paris and an arrangement to get together. I rented a car and leaving work early on a Friday, made the long drive from Metzingen to the “City of Lights”, the birthplace of the Age of Enlightenment. In the evening, along the way, a suspect array of isolated fires and from the periphery of the city Nancy a cathedral burned like inferno, as flames touched and lapped at the black night sky. Omens?
I had suggested a three in the morning rendezvous, at, of course, the Eiffel Tower. To my chagrin, upon arrival, I couldn’t find hide nor hair nor security personnel. Who knew. A landmark of iconic proportions, in my imagination, would have to be a none stop circus of activity. My disappointment was only deterred by my worry, for corralling the girls to meet me in a secluded spot. No people, no washrooms, claim to fame, use one of the Eiffel legs as a fire hydrant. We all want to leave a mark before we leave the world stage. We greeted without incident, enjoyed our weekend in each others company and caught up on our, on goings. When I departed, I was without harbinger of returning to Paris, as I had projected our next hook up, back at home in Toronto and although we were together on our trip for brief period’s an underlying sense of common mission, was bonding.
Upon receiving an unanticipated message a couple of weeks yonder, stating one had suddenly lost her employment causing the other to also terminate and together they had decided to move on from France. I casually suggested they come and stay with me in Germany for the few weeks prior to spring as I knew they expected to visit relatives in Spain and England in the warming months. Voila, I once again rented a slightly larger automobile, as I promised to retrieve the girls with luggage but last minute my co-worker and friend changed his plans to fly home for the weekend and asked to join in my return, on the road to Paris again. This factored.
It had never crossed my mind, in any form, or in any part of my active imagination that I would have the strongest affection and desire of my life, in the coming hours, for Deborah. Again with gusto, not an inclination or anticipation or intuition. Overwhelming was my passion and adoration for her and of course these feelings can only be enhanced if they feel reciprocal. I still believe that an occurrence of this nature can only manifest if it isn’t contrived. It’s as if miracle. Do I believe that our love was, more or less, than the love of others? Of course not. It just feels that way. When logic doesn’t ask for satisfaction.
In the ensuing forty-eight hours, Deborah and I were already hot and heavy, checking out Paris with a final look and were now standing, the girls with all their belongings, strewn around the car, preparing to leave. You know the visual. Dilemma, Nick my buddy barely knows the girls, Janis was already on the road to matrimony, the luggage is of course shockingly, I say shockingly substantial than contemplated, for the car I’ve rented. Deborah and I had been without remorse, shamelessly, pawing each other as if on an island in the Pacific, somewhere before the current advent of evolution, never to need see the face of humanity and civilization. The Garden of Eden was close to finding itself appleless. But God prodded us forward, as if rushing us with his approval. Anyway to remove the intrusiveness of calculations, I allow you to draw your own conclusions. Nick drove, Janis sat in the passenger seat behind the driver with some number of suitcases and other bags squeezing her firm, to the corner. The trunk of course was so full it had displaced all the oxygen. Naturally, Deborah had to sit the journey to Germany in my lap. Needless to say, by the time we voyaged the hours to my place, we were both toast. The jaws of life would be unable to separate us.
On looking back at the entire volume of my life and the privilege of insight, with an extraordinary level of personal interaction, amongst a significant variety of people, I’m sure that I could have fallen for any number of great women. Some I did and they never knew. Minus the nitty-gritty and responsibility. The degree of contrast with respect to character amongst my female friends, was relatively speaking, insignificant, as their mutual similarities were more importantly pronounced. The aside, of unique individual historical circumstance and the severity of some of their singular realities, would be prominent influential variable’s when applied to alternative viewpoints amongst themselves. If Deborah was a compassionate, understanding, sensitive, loyal, loving, considerate, motherly, sensual, natural person, with a ruthless will to survive, how truly unalike could friends in each other’s orbit possibly be and in turn, a large portion of the female population that I personally tend to find attractive and gravitate. That we surrendered our inner emotional selves to each other and shared intimacy was the factor of cardinal significance. That I later betrayed these feelings and the events of which my resulting culminating actions produced, can still bring to me, a cringe. And the details of which are stored away in the filing cabinet of my mind under the heading, “Shame”. never to see the light of day. I wish to apologize for harming the fraternity of womanhood, whereupon they bestowed to me a gem and I failed to appreciate there blessing. Well thankfully I can blame my immaturity, it’s the one useless crutch I can hang on to, while I lament and be despondent. In the end it’s all good. Stage right, enter, ‘cliche’, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”.
So it wouldn’t be a stretch for my dreams to be soothed by romance films, of which I have several favourites. None can match, or emotionally correspond as succinctly, with the exacting psychological detail and riveting character’s, for me, as ‘Casablanca’. In my imagination, which of course omits my weaknesses and I’m not as handsome and debonair, never the less I am much like Humphrey Bogart and Deborah is as valiant and stunning as Ingrid Bergman. In the climactic conclusion, the summation is an apropos of my love life. She plane’s away with another man to save the world, while I get stuck with the French Resistance Captain and a life of booze, gambling and women of the night. Life is fraught with missteps and unanticipated happenings but in the end, “We’ll always have Paris”. Plus a few extra picturesque weeks of European locations.
I had already put too torch our relationship, prior to Deborah’s return to Toronto. I made overtures and attempts at reconciliation after my far late realizations, even as she mercilessly rejected me and frustratingly with elegant kindness, as was expected, of one I should love, so. I simply failed to recognize how rare these feelings were and that I needed to thoughtfully protect them, for both our sake’s. Of course I’ve had many substantial failure’s but this was far and away, my best work at destruction. We all eventually moved on from each other and as is common, snippets of information of each others lives somehow intermittently through the years, finds you. Nothing unusual to detail. The last time I looked into the beautiful face of Deborah is probably thirty-seven years asunder. She is always my inspiration.
Irony, came out to play, as always unexpectedly, early in the year 2015, as a concept I conceived for reviving the life of a historical building, had in infancy, received considerable support amongst a small group of building and financial professionals. I had hunted down Victoria’s phone # in New York by way of my father’s consistent friendship with her father. I had known as a final arbitrator of the feasibility of a major structural project of this nature, it was easily within her purview of architectural experience to make a judgement. If information needed to be extracted for definition she and her surrounding group of peers had the means to make a final determination. On my initial call she had marvelled at the grandiose of potential and ended our call, likening me to Santa Claus as in bringing her a gift. Nothing surprises me anymore.
I waited some weeks, as I had a preplanned stratagem in place that was going to suffer pace and had hoped for an unsolicited return call, supporting my internal conclusions. It never came, so I forced myself against my nature, to interrupt Victoria’s life a second time in an attempt to retrieve a bonafide answer, based on her initial positive response. Lo and behold, she answer’s and identifies her location as street level close to her abode, just around the corner from the former 9/11 buildings and for me, as if knowingly, to guess who was with her , visiting. “No, who”? I asked. “Deborah”! Even to my heart-pounding surprise, with light-speed, it left from me, “Tell her I still love her” and immediately returned to the subject of my call. I found it strange that I couldn’t extract an answer from Victoria that would satisfy me one way or another. Can this building physically withstand the pressure necessary to become a viable, functioning again, structure? And Deborah, is a woman I should have married, of course if she had wanted to say, yes. But that would have needed a mountain of forgiving. If you come to bliss, treasure it, once finding heaven here on earth, if rejected, it will be lost until you leave the human form.