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From My Perspective Part 14

They both were different, one was steady on the rutter, couldn’t rest because doing made him feel accomplished, at least that’s what I saw. My uncle Sylvaine appeared to be a good man, and wouldn’t say otherwise. In ways I should be like him, constantly working to keep things in order, because order is sanity, is conservation, is balance, but I am not like him. I have a curse. I cannot remove the inherent desire to create. I’ve interpreted this burden as a forever lasting waltz with chaos. But he did keep his life orderly and it showed. Bless his soul.

From then till now, the family members who lived no longer do. My grandfather has passed. My Uncle has passed. They passed through a continuum of endless life. They spoke to me and said we are with you and within you. Tears of understanding flowed from within. They will be missed for they have passed forever. May they return in a new body of whichever form the universe is willing to bare them. For they will not be the last to leave nor the last to return. Even though they rest in my memories I do feel consoled that they are at peace, somewhere. They both died in the year 2019. Two men who were examples of resiliency, one a war veteran, and the other an eternal husband. They both have too much to inspire in me that I will take what is there inside my reflection on the lives they lived.

Burton Brunt, my grandfather was a man who appeared to enjoy laughter. He may be the cause of the entire Brunt family needing humor to deal with mental disorder. Not that the crutch of laughter is a burden the same as creativity, but that it is worse. The jolting of the chest when under siege of a joke can be so captivating that one would not want another life. But when the laughter turns to emotional disapproval by a hurt individual leads to vicious vitriol. Stomping feet, pounding fists upon a table, arguing lips, screaming voices, swearing mouths begin to uproar and cannot be calmed unless sleep is sought, sleep is the cure. I wouldn’t have it any other way. In a reflection, as I am now, I do recall the love which lasted through my entire life, even before I was born, between him and Terry Pacelli (my grandmother). They did not divource although the odds were low in favor of such a duo to continue their relationship. So in saying this I bow to him in respect. Not even I could sustain my first relationship past a couple years to the detriment of my first born, and  only born until now.

Their funerals were mournful as they should be. Both in Quebec, both in and around Montreal. Relatively the same amount of people paid respects, but I noticed the younger the man, the more the pain. Many years ago, a death by own hand, by fathers gun, had claimed the life of my cousin Chris. At 14 he did so with a too close to home angst, but he was closer, because he completed the task, and shook the earth as our family quaked, fractured, and will never forget. 

Now I am shook, not shaking, just traumatized by these three men, one considered forever a child gone. So I look to the metaphysical and pray that there is more to this hellish life which giveth and taketh away our closest friends, our dearest family, and keepeth our enemies. Not always do our enemies survive, but all those who harmed me live today. May they prosper in golden baths of successes unknown to my gyspy bloodline as I revel in the soot of the tapering industrialization and cower to the scientific artificial intelligence that may actually overtake my body. Nah.

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From My Perspective- This is not a Family History Part 13

What is there to say other than that anger has risen from within. From where does it arise? Why has it returned? On whom is it projected?
The people who I have been born to love by way of familial bloodline, and conditioning have endured much of the same experiences related to our relatives as me. Not exactly in the same manner, maybe more traumatic, maybe less, most likely just a different effect altogether, but some effect nonetheless. We are a fiery bunch which has led outward the burn of the countries cityscapes because of personal goals, potentially problematic family relations. The issue is in the conversation. The context being one of politics, religion, family history, reparations, all of the above  is emotionally inflammatory content.
The early stages of my studies into the psychology of interactive patterns, emotional constructs, tolerance limitations have shown how little I know about present moment Conversationalism between family members. We talk, we disagree, we fight, I yell, we split, and we try again another day. It is emotionally taxing for all members of the interaction.
It is not possible to feel nothing. Emotions are in us, and mandatory. They arise without warning. They consume the present moment with memories, and projected futures. The cog of working with emotion is meditation. Meditation is a broad subject. It is a tool for awakening awareness of the present. In the present are the emotions we attach to and fly with until we crash. It is in awareness (the observational mind) that we can notice anything particularly strong; bodily pain, mental strain, attachment anxiety.
The rampant emotions running through my daily patterns, my monthly cycle, my annual clock, come up due to recurring environments. I have had many encounters with my sons mother, which I cannot expound to her, and her family, because it would cause too much suffering. I instead relieve these thoughts to the page, upon a friends back, a ventilation towards my spouses consciousness. It is here that you will know of my woes.
I see many faults in her doing. She places her priorities in such that she is predominant, and he is secondary. Much like I had insisted when I was with her, I tried to convince her that we (the parents) were most important. Number one, but I was wrong. She resisted this type of prioritizing in the relationship, but she displays it ignorantly in her life. It is evident with the plenty male counterparts she brings into his life, and calls them ‘dad’. Owen must agree to see such men as his father, and I must agree to allowing such an affair or it will be my peace, which is his peace, which is my family’s stability on the line.
So I sit on a cushion, not to cleanse, or remedy, but to find clarity in the up-roaring screams of discomfort. I sit to watch anger, and opinions that surf the seas of my projecting consciousness. They are potent, but not poison. As the Buddha had said ‘the three poisons’ are desire, aversion, and ignorance. But I do not see my feelings as poison, but as essential for observing, navigating the landscapes of my timeline.
It has been good for a long while now with my love, Tanya. She has, and I have learned to communicate in a loving way. Through counseling, and deliberate change we have come to find some form of reformation, some progress in this human relationship we evolve. She has been there like my mother was when I was young, like my mother is now. To have two women like them is a necessity for learning compassion. Not just compassion, but for loving. How many fools forget or never learn what love is as a manufactured substance of living close to one who loves. We need it. We have it. Some amount of memorized love, feeling it so rich is so crucial for sustaining it further.

My grandfather is ill, my uncle is ill, they have deadlines set by doctors who set them approximately based on the disease; both with cancer. I do not understand their spirits leaving this place. They are not gone, but they are said to go, but where? Maybe no where is the place they go. Is nowhere somewhere? Could it be an invention of the gods. Those prattling creators who built the big bang like a Pandora’s box of infinitude. No use theorizing like a simpleton, for it would do no good for my own spirit to question where our beloved go after they pass.

I read in ‘Vanity Fair’ last night the death of the supporting character George Osborne. It was impactful as was intended. The author Thackeray began to use the other characters to show disapproval of the undiscovered death of Mr. Osborne. Jos made comments to Osbornes servant, about his dislike for him. His servant agreed, and by the end of the chapter George had died by gunshot to the heart. I think this relates to the dialogue between my Uncle and my grandmother about my grandfather. Uncle complains he is wasting the remainder of his life sitting around atrophying, when he should be walking everyday. My grandmother screams “Fuck off” from the hurt of her history. It’s as if the pangs of discourse come up in detrimental times. The rage, the blame become prevalent as one dies like a distant star no longer to shine. Now that Burton (my grandfather) is immobile the calamitous pleas from David (my uncle) do not have merit. They are shouts of missed targets. David will not understand this because it is a long fractured heart hurt by Burt that resonates his opinions past their value. I love them. They are my family. But as is being discussed, what is this fury?
The fury, the anger is a sure combative defense of one’s memorial digest of what has damaged the self, that could destroy the self. We are ever trying to rule the world! Although we don’t deem ourselves capable, we would take the role if we could to protect the very nature of our desire to avoid strife. The futile nature has me despondent. I agree not all would pounce on the position for world ruler, but most would or they would appoint someone better for the task that they know and trust. Isn’t this the basis for democracy? We get to know our parties leaders, and the more we know we build trust in them and decide. Yes he or she shall rule for four years. I learned some of this from J. Krishnamurti.
Krishnamurti would ask “What is this wanting? This wanting to become? What is it to be nothing and then to become something?”. From this he would continue asking questions, and suggesting an answer, “Is it desire, is desire thought?” And maybe he is right. His denunciation of all world religions is one way to interpret his path of meditation, his way of life. Somewhat a nihilistic one, from another perspective it is a path of actuality, the barest logic. It could be as suggested: all thoughts and feelings are broken down into thought categories, and with careful observation there could be freedom from desire, from suffering. And so far off the path are my family members. So far off am I. The path which none are subject. So evident is the pathology of humanity that individually we must do our part to prepare our minds for the present moment, in the present moment, or we may all perish. As history shows we are too cyclical, and from the Buddhists we learn of the breaking of the cycle. Are they right? If everyone gave in to the Buddha’s path would we all be okay, live a life of peace, and would there be no more strife, no more family drama, no more wars of continental caliber? Would not one of the meditators lose the path and give in to desire again like Lucifer? Are we the specimen of power hungry civilians?
Looking back at the first breath I had. No! The first thought I had. One where I was only a toddler. I can see it was the innocent observing of children playing around me, excluding me with their francophone speech. The second thought I had where I was a young boy, and seeing my mother naked getting into the bath. I was shocked and confused at the body which bore me. From which I was nurtured, and outside I am ashamed. I should not have walked in. How would I know that she was busy. I didn’t know what busy was. My third thought sledding down the stairs on a single mattress, what fun! My fourth thought of being punished from what I cannot recall. As I fetched the wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer. Jubilee, shame, fear, blame, anger, neglect, and now I am thirty.
There is so much to tell before I surely die.