Author: TD2N

2024.07.02

July 2nd, 2024

This Day to Night

2024.07.02

Delivering

14 bedrooms

18 bathrooms

16,000 square feet

Inside 16 months

In only one house

Decisions

And strangeness of “why?”

Routine begins at 5:30 a.m.—

But if I lived further from work—

It’d start well before.

In a way—

Regardless, it does.

Most mornings—

Between 3 and 5:30 a.m.—

I’m half awake—

Half dreaming—

Intermittently checking the clock—

Dazedly pondering—

The upcoming day’s outrageous collection of tasks—

To keep pushing forward—

To keep up momentum—

To return the good homeowners home.

At this point—

I’m almost ashamed to admit—

Even when I intentionally step back—

I’m at a loss whether I’m numb to the flaming knife-juggling challenge—

Or whether with the right motivation and collective team talent, these aren’t true problems at all.

I’ll be honest—

Yes, this was a sizeable job—

And up until the very last days—

I confidently doubt—

Anyone else saw the finish line coming—

Except we kept focus.

For a full 16 months—

On site from 6:30 a.m. onwards—

To as late as 8 p.m. when I had to—

There was work every day—

End of day emails to the homeowners documented all of it—

No days at all without workers on site—

No days off for Matthew—

Sometimes exceeding 20,000 walking steps in a day—

Averaging somewhere around 10400—

Peaking at 64 flights of stairs in 24 hours—

Up and down—

Down and then back—

Planning, directing and doing—

Keeping things light when we could—

Deathly serious when it was called for—

And I can acknowledge—

To get it all done—

It necessitated so many things being taken too far.

14 bedrooms—

18 bathrooms—

16,000 square feet renovation addition—

Relocating the whole house’s existing mechanical to establish clear path for the new elevator—

Work backwards to automate the whole house’s lighting—

Rip out original, then install 3400 square feet of new stone driveway—

Say, ok, let’s assemble on ground, then lift and lower the house’s new roof into place by creating a crane from an all-terrain forklift—

Crawl through the attic, trapeze-ing through trusses, in the hottest afternoon Hells of the summer, showing Alexei where to connect bathroom fans to roof vents from the topside—

Channeling a twist of my very own sister, playing the role of therapist to Mischa and Mike—

Helping 76 year old men lift 3/4 inch thick 4 foot x 9 foot quartzite slabs and install—

Platform bridging 500 some odd feet of two level roofline to scaffold with carpenters, using that to re-stucco and paint the whole soffit, and effectively, for a short time, turning the 2nd floor of the house to a treehouse—

Keeping the master bedroom from crashing through to the main floor level dining room, holding that section of house with wood shoring support as we Frankenstein the building’s exterior wall with steel columns and beams to soon house a single two panel 16 foot long sliding glass door—

Correcting disrespect between trades—

Working through my own disagreements with trades—

Never wandering far—

“Matthew!” being shouted from three floors at once—

Relaying details—

Filling in voids with my own details—

Obsessed OCD—

A to Z Planning—

Using my tools—

Using my head—

Helping our labourers—

Working hard cleaning up, moving material, heavy lifting beyond what I had to—

Putting young, eager, hard working youth in positions to grow and learn and move on—

Meeting new peers—

Reconnecting with old faithful’s too—

Bidding goodbye to Yuri as he retires and heads home to Russia—

Being a strange psycho sponge—

Blowing the dust off the top of each individual book, post-construction cleaning the 25 foot high library bookshelves—

Climbing the roof—

Catching spring sunrise and sunset—

Looking out at the ravine, backing up onto the 600 foot deep lot—

Managing myself—

Extending myself—

Doing more than I should—

As much as I could—

Knowing it’s my name neck and insurance on call—

And why?

When I first saw this job—

I said in my head—

“This’ll be more work than you wanted”—

“And I can deliver what these homeowners want.”

From the very first moment I met them—

I knew they deserved what they want.

This is a family—

A second generation immigrant family—

That’s given more good—

Employed more people—

Built stronger community—

Donated more money—

Raised more charity—

And treated more people well—

Than most of anyone in their equal position would ever consider even trying.

Working for them, it’s my pride and pleasure—

And I’m immeasurably grateful for their belief in us all.

On the surface—

14 bedrooms—

18 bathrooms—

It sounds like a lot—

Because it is a whole lot—

But when you’ve got five kids—

And each kid is married—

And each kid has multiple kids—

And you’ve got the means to lend each their own space—

Yet spend time together—

Under one roof—

To treat and host all of them…?

I remember—

Friday nights—

As a very young kid—

Being with my parents and sister—

In my parents’ car—

Driving home from my grandparents—

Where we had just finished dinner—

With my aunts, my uncles and my older cousins—

Laughing—

Sharing—

Maybe catching the Jays game or late season Raptors—

And driving home—

It wasn’t too far.

I can’t say how late it was—

But for sure it was night, and it was that late spring season night pitch of deep dark.

To put off heading straight home—

My sister and I—

Sometimes we’d ask our parents—

“Can we see the dead-end on the ride?”

That dead-end street—

It’s a few blocks from home—

Driving past houses en-route—

Looking back—

It’s such a strange thing.

To “see” the dead-end—

To peek out the car’s window—

The unceremonious end of a street, ravine dropping off beyond guardrail—

To reach it and then to turn back—

Buying time before bed-time—

Whether it was one time or each time—

I remember a sign.

On the drive there—

On the way back—

Neon blue numbers—

House numbers—

Tucked ten feet in from the street—

Glowing out, nestled inside a thick planted berm of tall prickly pines—

The house itself, another hundred feet in past beyond…

As far as dead-ends go—

It wasn’t my sign—

But inside the car—

Amidst the AC—

Unaware that neon won’t produce heat—

Still in my soul—

I felt and caught the blue warmth of that sign.

This specific job’s scope—

It began as an avalanche—

Then snowballed so drastically—

Out of the blue, I’d catch myself smiling—

Picturing Scrat the Sabre-toothed Squirrel—

Chasing the acorn rolling downhill—

Except me—

I’d catch it—

I’d make it in time—

Without freezing first, I’d run through the ice age, then run further past.

The technical challenge here—

Extending existing structure—

Seamless transition from old to new—

Both inside and out—

Not just tacking on—

The true proper look, like it was there all along—

Joining a house to a house—

That’s a trip by itself—

But the professional relationship management aspect of all of it—

It’s incredible seeing the collective “buy-in” when people recognize the way that you care—

The indefatigable mentality of “it takes what it takes”—

“There’s always a way”—

And when you stick with it—

It doesn’t matter what needs to get done.

I’m not shy to voice it—

Acknowledging when it’s deserved, which tends to be often—

When a peer matches the level of care and quality of work that’s required—

Works early—

Works late—

Helps someone else—

Thinks ahead for execution further along—

Simply being reliable—

Completes a big or small task, bringing us just that bit closer—

I’ll say their first name—

Then say sincerely—

“Thank you—“

“You did a great job.”

Across the course of the job—

I can’t count the count of repeating that song.

No false praise—

No fluff—

No taking for granted the help that’s gone on.

Projects this size—

With so many interrelated fine details and factors—

The process of “making it happen”—

Half of it is somewhere between an art and a magic—

And the other—

Simply—

It’s boring, unshaking commitment to waking each day—

Stacking experience to keep raising your “best”—

Comfort pushing the pace of the process all by yourself—

Inviting all help—

Offering fair trade to trades for the service they offer.

At the end of the day—

We’re here to do well—

Which means working hard.

I now understand—

In a fundamental, unequivocal way—

Plenty of worthwhile endeavours, they’re technically possible—

Yet they’re untried because they’re too “tough”—

And no one took ownership, or with conviction just said—

“This is worth doing, I’ll do it, and I’ll be responsible.”

Now, regarding all this, maintaining this culture and quality—

It means calling out any cut corners—

Explaining the standard and way to correct them—

And if there’s push back—

You’re likely not fit for the job—

So I start making calls.

First judgement calls—

Then phone calls—

Then calls to myself.

“Matthew, don’t get sucked in—“

“Don’t waste the energy—“

“Don’t start a fight—”

“There’s still much to do—“

So at the outset, inform them calmly—

“Thanks for your work, but your work here is no longer required.”

By then—

I’ve already informed their employer—

Let them know to send someone new—

And not to send the first worker back, until they’re prepared to commit to the work of the job.

That’s just how she goes—

The world stays spinnin’ round—

Our work rolling still on—

And it’s taken missteps to learn that move properly.

Through multiple jobs—

Growing into a job—

Working alongside so many original peers from when I first started—

I’m proud of all of them.

The reason I am who I am—

It’s consequence of all of them.

Experience—

And care—

As much as they’re learned—

Within the right place, they’re also caught.

My co-workers—

My tribute to all of them—

It’s paying attention to how they look—

When I direct work decisively—

Doing my best to be certain we’re right—

Inevitably, sometimes still being wrong—

And if that’s the case—

I put that on me—

And without delay—

Just re-group, correct and keep carrying on.

I know they remember—

Just where we were—

How far I’ve come-

Since I first came along.

In the blink of an eye—

Disasters can happen.

Doing work safely—

Mitigating the most possible risk—

The most you can do—

Might still not be enough.

Maintaining your focus—

Always throughout—

That’s the responsibility of the role I took on.

Some accidents—

They’re impossible to be paid out of pocket.

Some workers—

In the midst of their work—

They can lose sight of where they are.

Heights—

Heat—

Heavy machinery—

High voltage—

High powered saws—

Heavy material—

Physical harm—

Life threatening hazards.

I’m still green to this world—

Five years of construction, this coming August—

But consciously, I won’t allow myself to be at ease within this environment.

Yes, accidents can happen at any time—

But most cases—

If it’s not caused by fatigue—

They’re often a function of those disrespecting the inherent risks of the job.

Distractions—

A phone call, a text—

Not being careful enough, just walking around—

They’re merciless producers of catastrophic results, capable of changing and even ending a life.

Each tool commands caution—

Each task commands sober assessment of what could go wrong.

In executing the overall plan, I remind myself constantly—

It’s beyond just the homeowners I have to get home.

The last final stretch—

It’s a sprint of a month—

But each time you blink—

Days slip you by.

Your phone calendar—

It’s now a timeline to empty the tank.

Counting days left—

No panic, slim rest—

Finish one task, then jump to the next—

All hands on deck—

Then all hands off deck—

Powerwash team arrives for the deck—

Day after day, roll into the next—

Roll out of bed—

Roll into work—

Roll through the challenge—

Roll on back home—

Rinse and repeat—

Rinse then repeat—

Try not to blink—

Still try to sleep—

Lunch on your feet—

Still so much dust—

Vacuum, don’t sweep—

Productive long days—

Ten second nights—

Complete, complete, complete—

Then all nice and neat—

It’s never that neat.

It’s near end of day—

Friday at about 5 o’clock.

Parked on the street—

Reviewing outgoing and incoming calls—

Composing my daily site update—

The email addressing the homeowners, now already moved home.

In a hard earned wiped state—

I’m proud of today’s post-move-in tweaks—

Tying loose ends, until they’re all wrapped.

After nearly 64 weeks—

Body and mind, too tired to debate which needs more sleep—

My focus a mess—

So in my seat I sit back—

Set down my phone—

Start to breathe deep, slowly closing my eyes.

The weight on my shoulders—

With each passing breath—

The weight recedes further—

Like lapping of waves cleansing soul and the mind.

Aware of myself—

Aware of my energy—

Aware I’m just here—

And here, acceptance of being just as I am.

I’m incredibly proud of my work—

Both on-site and off.

I’m incredibly proud of my work—

Especially being so selective of the work I take on.

I’ll give myself credit—

But never more credit than what’s due to be mine.

Whether I’m proud of myself—

It’s a moment-by-moment assessment—

A tally kept running long term—

Still being stacked—

Never surpassing one step at a time.

My work after-hours—

It’s one of two reasons I took all this on.

I can’t predict the end-all result—

But in my own head, I’ve seen the path of becoming myself, the development journey it takes to march further on.

This strange experience, however surreal—

It’s taught a lot—

Most of all, the compulsory importance—

Of trusting yourself—

Of being yourself—

Calmness in being creative, working through any challenge directly head-on.

In my truck—

Bringing myself back to breathing—

24 months since pre-planning we said—

“Let’s take on the work”—

“I don’t care what it takes”—

“We’ll get it done”—

The extent of care that it takes—

To not even care what it takes—

Especially—

Personally knowing the toll that’ll take—

I’m relaxed in my breathing—

Peaceful enjoyment just breathing—

Until out my wide open window—

Playful voices ahead—

Two toddler grandkids—

A girl and a boy—

Holding hands with their grandmother—

My employer, the homeowner—

Returning here and back home from a neighbourhood walk.

Parked a short way’s away—

I don’t interfere—

I don’t interrupt—

Instead, starting to press “send” on my email—

I only sense strangeness and stop—

The young grandson, he’s looking—

Sees something near me—

I stop and stop breathing—

Following his gaze to a spot.

Here—

Far beyond thankful—

I’m grateful.

Here—

Parked past the berm—

It’s easy to say—

“It takes what it takes.”

And easier still—

“Plan it all perfect, it’ll work fine.”

But as the grandson spots the house numbers—

Original—

Untouched—

Nestled neon blue sign—

Right then and there—

I say Matthew—

The warmth—

The weight—

The work I call mine—

Jobs, they’re easy to take—

But finishing lines—

Trust your selection of those that are worth it—

And before beginning—

Trust you’re not reaching—

Instead only working—

Your consistency—

Commitment—

And self—

All creating that line.

Strange how dead-ends—

They’re fit for full-circles—

Karmic rides of harmonious kind.

From This Day to Night,

Love even odd days, especially those where what’s left is too right.
2023.12.11

December 11th, 2023

This Day to Night

2023.12.11

*Extreme Trigger Warning*

**Not Safe for Life**

Since October 7th, repeatedly on site, I’ve been asked where I stand.

Repeatedly, I’ve walked the tightrope of striving to keep work on track, while knowing internally, that people keep reading my face, distracted by sensing how heavily this weighs on my mind.

They’re offering space for release—

It’s sincere—

And although it’s appreciated, still I say—

“Guys, this isn’t the place or the time.”

Typically, when people ask my religion—

I respond that today, religion is barely part of my life.

Although that’s true—

I am not religious—

But I am still a Jew—

And absolutely, that’s informed who I am.

On October 7th, the morning of—

I saw the headlines—

But initially, I thought little of it—

Because like many others, I could not comprehend the scale and scope of the crisis.

It took a few hours before I came back.

But when I did…

I understood.

I’d seen Israel at war when I was young—

But I’d never felt this before—

Israel as vulnerable.

The sheer brutality along the path of destruction—

I was horrified, and also numb—

Watching footage from Gaza, sick celebration on streets as civilian hostages were paraded, beaten bloody and mocked.

The slaughter, the rape, the mutilation, the abjectly intentional cruelty of the attack—

The photos, horrors, and footage of which—

Now forever burned in my mind—

Is still—

Still…

Still.

Hell—

Hell…

Hell is for those who cause harm—

Then hide behind God.

What we’re seeing now—

It’s suffering beyond the scope of a tragedy.

Human shields—

Hostages—

Whole cities destroyed—

Humanitarian crises—

And beneath all of it—

Hate.

Hate what you did—

Hate what they’ve done—

How could you—

Why would you—

And no one can say where it stops.

I’ve seen the footage of October the 7th—

But also—

I’ve witnessed the worst of the footage of war in response.

During the October 7th nightmare—

Infants—

Children—

Women—

Men—

And seniors—

Slaughtered, raped, decapitated, maimed, burned alive, kidnapped, and executed in the most inhumane ways possible.

Still, men, children, and women held hostage in Gaza—

No confirmation if they’re alive.

And the nightmare in response—

Palestinian lives lost—

Children too young to change life—

Women who see their world broken—

Peaceful individuals, who want nothing of this—

But also men—

And people—

Radicals—

Entrenched in tunnels—

Dug down to Hell—

Either the source—

Or symptom—

Of suffering—

Or even both—

Depending on how deep you go—

Or who you ask.

18 years back, back when Israel retreated from Gaza—

No one expected to change the perception of Palestinians, that Israel is occupying their land.

Their displacement now, they perceive it as Israel extracting the last sliver left.

The aerial bombing campaign—

Ordnances dropped on military targets, embedded within civilian infrastructure—

Bunker busting munitions, strikes hitting underground weapons caches—

And the roof knocks—

Warnings—

Precursors to building destruction—

Shaped battlegrounds, path for infantry march, more free from choke points and dangers of soldiers entering hazards of building to building, dense urban combat.

These actions—

They are intentional—

They are catastrophic—

But even by the most loose definition—

“Indiscriminate”—

It’s an inaccurate word to describe them.

All war is horrific—

But this hits such a deep nerve here and now.

The best of Gaza, it deserves better than Hamas.

“Genocide”—

Even the sound of the word—

It’s a trigger.

The heart chilling terror—

Being gathered to die—

Just like Jews know—

Genocide—

It’s what Hamas wants.

Our Israeli failure—

It’s our failure to avoid this war, even though we worked not to fight.

The Iron Dome—

Our missile defence system—

Was designed with Gazan rockets in mind.

When Israel withdrew from Gaza in 2005–

We accepted rockets as “normal,” hoped they’d stop there, then eventually leave us alone.

But “fences”, have they ever appeased life confined?

Anyone who calls this a genocide—

They’re ringing the bell.

Innocents dead—

All the destruction—

And everyone knows Hamas just won’t help.

Palestinian people—

It’s tragic watching them learn it too.

I know people “care”—

But those who really do care—

It’s because they see both sides of truth.

The “open air prison”?

That’s a border fence, built for Israeli security after repeated Gazan Palestinian suicide bombings. Passage is tightly regulated, but up until October the 7th, properly screened Palestinians had been able to cross for regular, fairly paid work in Israel.

The “blockade”?

That’s a control measure, intended to limit Iran from smuggling weapons and explosives to Hamas, who radicalizes, manipulates and arms Palestinian youth, who then fire unguided rockets indiscriminately at civilian population.

Zionist deprivation of aid and prosperity?

Gaza gets plenty of aid—

It built Hamas tunnels, and also lines their leader’s deep pockets.

But the calls for a ceasefire?

That’s also people seeing the truth.

Gaza has a large, defenceless population that’s not only been dragged to war—

But is also being used as a shield.

That reality, it’s beyond Hamas committing a war crime against enemies—

That’s war crimes by Hamas against its own people.

Not all Palestinians are Hamas—

But Hamas is the elected government of Gaza Strip.

The calculation they made—

It’s attempting “Zionist” genocide—

And by basing their physical military operations in tunnels beneath Gaza, also strategically embedded within civilian infrastructure itself—

Hamas pushed their population in front of them, threatening the guaranteed deaths of innocent lives as deterrent to fighting back.

In the past, Israel has backed away from opportunities to eliminate key Hamas targets—

Specifically because of the collateral risk to Palestinian civilian life.

On October 7th—

Where it all changed—

It was Israel’s glimpse of the genocide that would befall its population, should Israel fall.

The joy shown by Hamas killing life, in the most sadistic methods beyond comprehension.

This post is marked Not Safe for Life—

For very just reason.

Suffering is not “competition”—

But the facts have to be told—

Especially considering the people who outright deny them, just to give cover so they can try to commit them again.

The absolute truth of October the 7th—

It’s on GoPro footage—

And it hasn’t been scrubbed from online.

Terms—

Phrases—

Dog whistle calls—

“Zionist Propaganda”—

“Zionist Occupation”—

“Resistance is JUST”

They’re thrown around liberally—

And there’s a pocket of people who speak opinions in good faith—

Who use those claims with critical but honest intention—

But the darker side of the truth—

There’s a large body of people using those phrases as cover for genocide and ethnic cleansing of Jews.

Personally, I pride myself in sorting through facts.

As a matter of principle, when absorbing news, I take nothing at face value, and always do my absolute best to confirm what’s honest and true.

The darkest realities of October the 7th—

At Kibbutz Be’eri—

A pregnant woman was shot in the head—

Her uterus cut open—

And a knife was used to sever and kill her unborn child.

The order and sequence of what happened first—

That’s beyond my understanding.

Infants were slaughtered—

Some were beheaded—

Most tied together and burned.

Families butchered—

Women were gang-raped.

Israeli first responders found a 13 year old girl—

Face down—

Dead on the ground—

Underwear pulled down to her ankles—

And semen covering her back.

At the Nova Music Festival—

Over 200 innocent people were slaughtered—

As they ran for their lives—

Grenades thrown into bomb shelters, crowded with people—

International and Israeli citizens dragged back to Gaza—

And on GoPro footage, shared on TikTok and Telegram—

Palestinian terrorists making phone calls to parents back home—

Celebrating how many Jews they killed with their hands.

The term “Zionist”—

It wasn’t said on the call.

When Hamas caught Israeli civilians defenceless—

There was no mercy—

There was no humanity.

Breathe and absorb all that truth.

Hamas has claimed—

Proudly—

They’ll commit those atrocities again.

The female Israeli hostages still in captivity—

Hamas wants to keep them—

And any claims that this was deserved—

Or this was just resistance—

Are either coming from terrorist supporters—

Or terrorist sympathizers—

Or those working to justify terrorism who bought false propaganda from both.

Life—

Is an immeasurably precious thing.

Every civilian death matters.

Numbers aren’t people.

I’ve heard the argument that because of roof knocks—

Because of evacuation orders—

Because of Israel’s apparently precision bombing—

And especially considering how deeply Hamas embedded their physical operations into civilian infrastructure (and if you need proof, just ask, but it is easy to find)—

Within Gaza City—

Hundreds of buildings were razed—

But hundreds of thousands of Palestinian people escaped—

When by all reasonable logic—

If Israel hadn’t taken those measures—

Or if they had in fact committed indiscriminate bombing—

Hundreds of thousands of Palestinian people would have certainly died.

There’s some fair truth to that take—

But the next tragedy is now more than ever, it seems like the Israeli army has a higher “acceptable” civilian casualty ratio when aiming for Hamas targets—

And with the scale of the bombing—

I can’t shake my distrust in Benjamin Netanyahu as a leader, him having potential invested interest in producing images of wanton destruction, hoping to offset the failure of October 7th from having occurred under his watch.

Where I’m especially torn—

It’s how I can’t fathom any potential response to October 7th that wouldn’t result in overwhelming military strikes.

The argument that Israel shouldn’t have bombed, they should have fought just on the ground—

That actually increases civilian deaths in the crossfire, prolongs the conflict, and would also mean Israel putting the lives of its soldiers into incalculable risk.

And the argument that Israel should work to resolve this peacefully—

Go back, read and then picture the details of October 7th again.

If you can’t—

Ask me and I’ll show you the footage I saw.

The argument that this is the humanitarian crime of collective punishment against Palestinian people—

We can try that case—

But let’s try the case of the Qatari-housed Hamas leadership for the war crime of human shields, at the same time.

The argument of proportional response?

The proportional response to October 7th, it definitely isn’t eye for an eye—

But considering the existential threat Hamas has proven themselves to pose against the Israeli people—

The claims they won’t be appeased—

Isn’t the proportional response to eliminate the threat, in self-defence?

Fair criticism of Israel—

I’m completely all for it—

But the displacement of the Palestinian people—

The sheer number of civilian casualties—

Even though human shields are a war crime for this very reason—

I can’t shake the obvious feeling that long-term Israeli security is jeopardized more, the longer the aerial bombing campaign does carry on.

It isn’t just footage—

It’s reality.

Palestinian parents—

Pulling pieces—

Of maybe their children—

Out from the rubble?

Every day, I’m praying that the leaders of Hamas in Gaza, Yahya Sinwar and Mohammed Deif, are captured—

So Israel can say enough is enough—

Slow the pace—

Safe spaces open for aid to be distributed properly—

We secure remaining kidnapped hostages—

Then finally pull back and stop.

And now that Gaza City is Israeli held—

And yes, I believe only for now—

Every Palestinian evacuated from the North, now tragically displaced to the south—

Bombs are still being dropped—

And based on the footage I’m seeing—

The city of Khan Yunis has been ordered to evacuate—

Having first been designated a “safe zone”—

And aside from Rafah Crossing, the southern most point of the strip—

Which hasn’t been free from bombing either—

Palestinians have nowhere else left to go.

The Israeli army—

They’re serious about this not stopping, not until they have the hostages, and not until Hamas is killed or captured, whichever direction they dictate themselves.

The over-arching tragedy of this tragedy—

It’s almost unquestionable that the heart of this conflict—

It’s land.

The Free Palestine movement—

It’s rooted in Palestinian hearts.

As a Jew—

And again, I am not religious—

I’ve seen the archaeological evidence of Israel being the Jewish homeland for over 3000 years.

It’s compelling—

It’s accessible—

And I don’t think it’s wrong—

But let’s quickly talk history—

And then I’ll explain what I don’t think is right.

History first:

Post First World War—

After the defeat of the Ottoman Empire—

The physical land of Israel came under British control.

In 1917, the Balfour Declaration showed support for a “national home for the Jewish People” in Mandatory Palestine (this was the name of the territory of modern Israel at the time, and the name Palestine is derived from the Philistine people. After the Romans conquered the Israelites and Judea in the 2nd century C.E. / A.D., they “changed” the name of the land to Palestinia, in order to try and sever our ties to the land)—

Then in 1922, the Balfour Declaration was approved by the League of Nations in the British Mandate for Palestine—

And in 1948, the United Nations proposed the Partition Plan for Palestine—

Which proposed to divide the territory into two separate states:

One for Jews—

One for Palestinian Arabs—

Both having Jews and Arabs already there—

Both already fighting for land and their lives.

The Jews were willing to accept the plan—

The Arab world boycotted the plan entirely—

And when the British Mandate of Palestine expired on May 18 1948—

Israel declared their independence—

Egypt, Jordan, Iraq and Syria invaded as a response—

Israel fought, then successfully pushed them all back—

And in the most elementary sense, that’s the founding of modern Israel.

With that being said, here’s what I don’t think is right—

And when I say not right-

I’m not referring to incidents that I believe are historically inaccurate—

What I’m referring to, it’s perspectives that I consider unjust.

What I don’t think is right, it’s two separate things, but they’re both still related—

The first—

There’s a modern “Got Ya!” when referring to the legitimacy of the founding of Israel—

It’s the term “settlers.”

In the 1880’s, the first wave of modern Jewish refugees to the territory of Palestine fled from Europe, because of anti-semitic pogroms.

This was early in the Zionist movement, and the refugees called themselves “settlers”.

As a Canadian especially, I’m aware of, and empathetic towards, the damage done by British colonialism against our First Nations, the Indigenous population of this land.

Those British settlers were colonizers, or colonialists–

They caused extraordinary harm—

And the twisted irony of part of Palestine being pledged to Jews by the purist purveyors of colonialism—

That isn’t lost on us—

But now, whenever people hear the words “Jews” and “Israel” and “Settlers”—

It does raise fair questions about the founding of Israel as an ethno-colonialist state—

And to the Westernized perception—

They see the West Bank—

They see the slow creep of aggression and advance from the minority fringe of our own Israeli extremists—

And yes, that fringe minority, I perceive them as that kind of settlers—

And I believe they should be more than reigned in and held accountable to the fullest extent of the law—

But what I consider unjust—

It’s the supposition of the settler colonialist lens as an appropriate lens for this conflict, when even though the Palestinians were native to the land in 1948, in our own incontrovertible way—

So are the Jews.

Historically, if the Romans hadn’t colonized the Judean empire and hadn’t exiled the Jews—

We wouldn’t have left—

And the irony there—

The reason why Zionist settlers sought refuge in Israel in the 1800’s—

They were pushed there by violent persecution all throughout Europe—

And later the Holocaust—

As well as our lives being threatened in all the Arab countries we had called home.

Was the founding of Israel a case of settler-colonialism, displacing the indigenous Palestinian population—

Or was it a case of repatriation, the indigenous people of Israel reclaiming their home?

Is there a statute of limitations for any of this?

Who should define it?

The 1948 Israeli War of Independence—

By and large, the result roughly resembled the same borders as drawn by the U.N. Partition Plan—

But for Palestinians—

1948 marks the Nakba—

When 700,000 Palestinian Arabs were displaced by the founding of Israel—

With no formal founding of a Palestinian state in return—

And since that time—

A mutually fair construct of a formal two-state solution has never been agreed upon by either party.

Without a defined Palestinian state, Israel continues to grow within its own borders—

And historically, this further displaced more Palestinians—

Which I also consider unjust—

As even without Palestinians self-identifying as Israeli-Arabs (Israeli-Arabs are considered formal Israeli citizens), by all accounts, based on the diverse multi-ethnic backgrounds of individuals who do self-identify as Israeli-Arabs, the pre-1948 difference in cultural standing between those individuals and the Palestinians starts to feel like splitting hairs.

Effectively—

If ancestors of self-identifying Israeli-Arabs and also the ancestors of self-identifying Palestinians both resided in Palestine pre-1948—

And both groups still resided in Israel post-1948—

And Israeli-Arab is more or less a “catch-all” term for non-Jewish carry-overs during the transition to Israeli statehood—

The only reason not to afford Palestinians within Israel the same fundamental rights as Israeli-Arabs, it’s their lack of formal citizenship, since they’d be living within Israeli territory, garnering the benefits of Israeli safety and society, which is fundamentally unfair without committing the necessary contributions associated with citizenship obligations.

If these individuals don’t want to be Israeli—

And they’re also lacking a formal state of their own—

I would’ve conceded and incentivized formal Palestinian statehood in Gaza and the West Bank, in order to establish the Arab-Palestinian state the U.N. Partition Plan had called for all along.

That’s what Yitzhak Rabin had led towards—

But then he was assassinated by Israeli right-wing extremists—

Talks fell apart—

Palestinians were displaced on end—

Most of the direct descendants of whom have been displaced again—

In the Gaza strip.

Within that context, as a Jew, you don’t have to be an Israel Apologist to feel for the Palestinian people.

The reason for bringing that up—

It’s not because Israelis (or Jews) are celebrating or even callous to the catastrophe of the reality for Palestinians now—

I’m bringing it up especially because of the deep feelings of empathy we’re feeling today.

To my fellow Jews—

Embrace that empathy.

Never lose touch with that sense of humanity.

But those global liberal voices that Jews keep on hearing—

The voices ringing the genocide bell—

Their broken hearts—

The reason they won’t denounce Hamas as loudly as they voice their desperate concern for Palestinian people—

It’s because to them, denouncing Hamas isn’t as urgent as defending the gravely vulnerable lives of displaced Palestinians now.

In Gaza, the worst complication today—

It’s not lack of aid flowing in—

It’s not Israel’s aid inspections holding up distribution—

It’s truly the complete lack of safe zones for aid to be distributed at all.

Starvation is a real possibility—

And unless something changes, with each passing second, it’s becoming an almost certainty that some Palestinians certainly will.

For Israelis, this war is rooted in Israeli security—

And where I’m at now—

It’s where I’ve always been all along.

In my adult life—

I’ve tried my best not to be a blind defender of anything.

This war—

It opened my eyes—

When I already believed they couldn’t be wider.

Extremism—

It isn’t an option.

My sentiment towards Hamas—

That’s obvious—

But on the Israeli side, there must be a much larger reckoning of Israeli and Jewish majority voices to reign in any minority extremist settlers committing violence in the West Bank.

Not just condemnation—

But action to bring them to legal justice—

And acknowledgment that that land isn’t ours.

The settlers in the West Bank—

No, they don’t outright delegitimize the State of Israel—

But they do chip away at the fullness of our total truth.

In addition, I believe the Israeli army should commit themselves to protecting innocent Palestinian civilian lives, as if they’re our own.

It’s an extraordinary ask in times of war, especially against the challenge that human shields pose, but I’m of the mind that the army can do substantially more to defeat the challenge than what they’ve enacted so far.

Civilian casualties are tragic, which speaks to the distinct evil of Hamas’ human shield strategy. There’s never been a “liberation” group more committed to threatening the lives of their own population than Hamas.

Still, much more needs to be done to protect civilian Palestinian lives.

And to the global “moderate” Palestinian voices—

Those chanting “From the River to the Sea”—

Committing harassment and intimidation of diaspora Jews—

The argument of collective punishment applies to us too.

Absolutely, stand for what you believe in—

But if you believe in that vision of Palestine—

A one-state solution where Israel doesn’t exist—

Try and explain how that realistically and peacefully happens, without murdering, ethnic cleansing, or displacing ten million Israelis who also don’t want to move.

To the truly moderate supporters of Israel—

As much as Israelis can point fingers at Palestinians for letting Hamas co-opt Gaza and radicalize youth—

In the time since Hamas was elected in 2006—

How much have we as Israelis ever tried to win enough Palestinian trust for them to reject Hamas altogether?

As most recently recorded—

The average age in Gaza is an astonishing 19 years old.

The average Palestinian didn’t vote in the last Gazan election—

And as much as someone can argue—

“This war, it’s just created more radicals”—

How much does that possibility change, if these Palestinians are awakened to the truth that UNRWA’s radicalized education system and its textbooks espousing martyrdom and military jihadism have indoctrinated them into lives destined for tragedy since early schooling, guiding them blindly towards the heart-ripping suffering that’s befallen them now?

And no—

Absolutely by no means am I suggesting to tear down the border fence immediately, now—

In this darkness right now, we’ve seen where that goes—

But the Israeli army, it’s currently conducting an irreparable blow to Hamas operations.

Once this is done—

There’s going to be a fragile—

Traumatized—

And again—

Neglected population—

And either we neglect them again—

They resent us and we start this hate cycle all over—

Except this time, much worse—

Or maybe we try something different, and maybe things change?

Don’t get me wrong—

There’s an extraordinary amount of bad blood right now—

And if healing is possible—

For both sides, it’ll take meaningful time.

No this war is not over—

God willing, please don’t let it get worse—

But to me—

Having watched these horrors closely—

I’ve seen something powerful—

And it whole-heartedly has me believing that the Palestinian People will survive this war…

I’ve witnessed their soul.

I won’t assume Gaza can be rebuilt—

But if Palestinians are intent to try, they should try.

With pride, I’m certain they certainly will—

Yet peace—

Not endless war—

The pragmatic path—

It’s both sides’ acceptance of potentially being made whole with fair piece.

An equitable, liberating and lasting two-state solution—

It’s for those who have had enough—

And for those who can see what we see.

And to anyone at home saying right now—

“So, why don’t you roll back your border, give them some land?”

Well, after what we just saw—

And the context of on-going, well-funded, concerted effort of certain countries to ethnic cleanse the Middle East of Jews—

For unquestionable security reasons—

Land concessions—

As well as a reasonable two-state solution—

They cannot be possible—

Not without acknowledgement and guarantees for Israel’s legitimate statehood and right to security, as well as a meaningful, effective global effort put forward by Muslims to disarm violent extremist factions like Hezbollah and Hamas, or any other terrorist group with Jihadi views.

That opinion right there—

It’s not Islamophobic, as I acknowledge the vast majority of peace loving Muslims who abhor violent religious extremism.

In my experience, I’ve seen Islam and Judaism as religions of peace—

And it’s the perversion of religious values by humans themselves that distorts minds into committing incomprehensible acts.

The reason why the global effort must be put forward by Muslims—

It’s because Jihadi extremists will never be reached by the West or by Jews.

The argument of Israel as being a colonial state—

Although I disagree with it—

That’s a modern Westernized dialogue that’s fair to debate—

But to groups like Hamas, “smash colonialism” is not their true motivation.

The original 1988 Hamas Covenant clearly declares their intent—

And article fifteen of the Covenant is especially blunt—

“The day that enemies usurp part of Moslem land, Jihad becomes the individual duty of every Moslem. In face of the Jews’ usurpation of Palestine, it is compulsory that the banner of Jihad be raised. To do this requires the diffusion of Islamic consciousness among the masses, both on the regional, Arab and Islamic levels. It is necessary to instill the spirit of Jihad in the heart of the nation so that they would confront the enemies and join the ranks of the fighters.”

And again, emphasizing that first sentence especially—

“The day that enemies usurp part of Moslem land”—

And the prevailing Hamas “sentiment”, it’s all Israel as Muslim—

Renders the prospect of a peaceful two-state solution with Hamas in the governing picture as self-evidently impossible.

And those calling for cease-fire—

Your heart is in the right place.

You’re lending your voice, willing the way you know best for this nightmare to stop.

I desperately wish this war never happened—

And I desperately wish this war would end too.

Extend your heart to civilians—

But extend it to the hostages too.

137 Israeli hostages remain captive in Gaza—

And 104 Israeli soldiers have been killed in combat, working to extract them, while eliminating Hamas.

I will never glorify war.

I will never chase war.

I will never excuse war either.

The tragic reality—

When wars aren’t your choice, the worst way you lose, it’s by settling for half-measures that don’t re-establish any conditions for peace.

A ceasefire must be contingent on the release of the hostages—

But a ceasefire alone still won’t remove Hamas.

A ceasefire alone won’t end the suffering of the Palestinian people.

If Palestinians made a plea to the world today to be freed from Hamas—

Hamas would still use them as shields.

These are heartbreaking truths—

And I also believe that Hamas is holding Palestinians hostage too.

Winning the hearts and the minds of Palestinians after this war—

Having them wholeheartedly renouncing Hamas—

Bonded in mourning with Jews—

If it is possible—

We’ll need Muslim help.

It’ll take global pressure.

My belief in a two-state solution—

It’s honest and true—

And as alarming as this sounds at first—

I personally believe—

That after this conflict—

For a duration—

No, I don’t know how long—

There will be a demilitarized zone separating Israel and Gaza—

It will be in Gaza—

Manned briefly by Israel—

But soon passed off to a coalition led by Arab countries with normalized relations with Israel.

What Palestinians deserve—

It’s its own state—

It’s its own leaders—

With honest respect for Palestinian lives.

Indefinite Israeli occupation of Gaza isn’t the answer—

It simply won’t work—

It’s not what we want—

And we know that too.

No, this won’t be cultural genocide occurring—

Not if the coalition is there to help Palestinians get back on their feet—

Then leave them in peace—

So they can choose their path forward themselves.

The Arab coalition won’t be forever—

And the reason it’s there—

It’s because the international aid will flow in—

And the coalition will ensure it does really reach the right people.

Palestinian right to self-determination—

That’s just—

But Israel’s right to security is truly just too.

To the people of Palestine—

Again, I’m not religious—

But I’ve felt an indescribable peace in my heart—

The first—

And not just the last time—

I saw the Dome of the Rock for myself.

I want you to feel that peace too.

Open borders—

Normalized relations—

Just like from us—

It’ll take an awakening that you’ve never had too.

Throughout this war—

I’ve seen the horrors Palestinians have lived through—

I’ve felt their fear—

And the more they keep getting cornered—

The more there’s a quote I keep coming back to.

It was only days after October 7th, and Joe Biden was speaking, re-affirming his support for Israel.

He told the story of the first time he visited Israel—

And the first time he met Golda Meir.

These are his words, not mine—

“Without her looking at me, she said to me, knowing I’d hear her, “Why do you look so worried, Senator Biden?” And I said, “Worried?” Like, “Of course, I’m worried.” And she looked at me and – she didn’t look, she said, “We don’t worry, senator. We Israelis have a secret weapon. We have nowhere else to go.”

Together, we can talk history—

We can talk faith—

Identity—

We can talk proof—

But with Palestinians, I’d like to talk what we do have in common—

How much we’re all sick of war—

Mourning the innocent—

Having nowhere to go—

And the love it’d take to make peace.

These have been dark enough nights.

From Matthew tonight,

שלום בכל בוקר, בכל יום, ובכל לילה

Peace every morning, each day, and each night.
2023.06.06

June 6th, 2023

This Day to Night

2023.06.06

By 7:23 a.m., a raccoon bit me thrice.

I’ve eclipsed a six hour wait at the emergency ward of North York ‘Gen Hospital.

On my hand, micro impressions of sharp pointed teeth, and the “Green Zone” doctors can’t reach anyone at the Toronto Public Health line.

Marc, my Green Zone liaison, informs me that rabies vaccines are in short supply—

And Toronto Public Health, the sole distributor of that short supply—

Is supremely short-staffed.

When you build on ravine properties—

You deal with the animals.

When they get inside—

They’ve gotta get out.

Using a can of light tuna as bait—

Overnight, I passively captured a trash panda up in the attic—

Which had been tormenting me for a week, tipping the trash bin inside site, each every night—

But by this morning, this raccoon was safely contained in a Havahart trap.

Simply put, that device—

It’s a cage with an open spring loaded door at the front, and when a raccoon enters to take the food bait inside, its weight presses down on a platform, which promptly locks and closes the door of its entry.

It took three tries on three separate nights—

Largely because—

This tricky trash panda, it kept stealing the food, still without triggering the trap.

The first time it happened, I only thought—

Clever girl.

Then, two times more—

I pictured Mission Impossible, in trash panda form.

But then—

Finally—

The bugger got caught.

Seeing it at 6:48 a.m., calm, quiet, chill in the trap—

We eyed each other—

It being cute—

Me with a coffee—

I almost got caught in the feels—

But before I could, I donned some gloves—

And matter-of-factly moved the whole trap—

Trash panda included—

Swiftly outside.

Mission Control:

Mission ACCOMPLISHED.

Call it a duty:

Call it a CALLING.

Placing the trap on the ground, I head back inside for my keys—

Preparing to release the caught critter a few blocks away, after a short little drive—

And then—

Inside—

Beside where I set the first trap—

Movement.

Rustling.

Using my phone camera to zoom—

At first glance, looking like a 4 inch thick, black plumbing pipe—

But then the pipe turned its head—

And I’m staring at a baby raccoon, and this baby raccoon stares right back.

In my head…

Fuck.

I knew I was fucked.

I couldn’t leave him—

‘Cuz at his size—

Like an undersized light loaf of bread—

If I baited the trap once more tonight—

His weight wouldn’t trigger the spring loaded action—

And my gloves were still on—

So simply, I said—

“If you’re smooth, it’ll go smooth—”

“And yeah, you’ll likely get bit—“

“But this could be your ‘Lose Yourself’ one shot at eviction—”

“And hell, there’s no way you DIE.”

Just then, once that baby got back—

Back with its back turned around—

As gently as possible—

I scooped it up.

First, having picked it up from behind—

I was safely set in his blindspot—

And initially, he only star-fished.

That moment, I froze—

Raised in the air, I couldn’t believe he was calm—

Then, my slow steps to the door—

Made him question when he learned how to fly—

And his head turned around—

We made eye contact again—

He fully freaked out—

And pissed as a missile, he chomped my hand with his fiercest raccoon baby bite.

Did it hurt?

Well, if I weren’t wearing gloves—

It would’ve hurt worse—

But when you’re clutching a hissing baby raccoon—

You lack the luxury of assessing the damage.

Before he could bite me again—

Instinctively, I set him down—

Gently—

Like a catch and release fish—

Plopped from the boat back into the lake—

And by doing that, for sure, I bamboozled the hell out of him—

Because he sat there—

Back turned and stunned—

And then I remembered—

MOTHERFUCKER, HE’S STILL STUCK INSIDE!!!

When I grabbed him again—

He was wise to my ways—

And bit again as I picked him up—

Then even more while being bounced from the house.

Holding him far and away from my face, lest he launch at my neck—

Then, outside and clear from the site, I plop him back down—

And he scurries a few feet away—

Now, for scale, peeking out from behind a clear plastic bottle of water, coincidentally upright and stationed nearby.

Once I released his mother, they leave in peace—

Then, removing my glove, I check out my hand—

——————

Then I check in at my doctor’s.

“Yes, hi, I’m a patient here, I don’t have an appointment, but a raccoon bit my hand a whole lot—“

Staring blankly at me, the receptionist sees what I am—

Sincere and seeking true help—

And she clinically says:

“You need a rabies vaccine. Go to ‘emerg at the hospital.”

——————

From emergency triage, I’m directed towards the Green Zone of the hospital.

They can’t tell for certain if the bites broke the skin, but the impressions are deep enough that it’s worth being cautious.

During my waiting room wait—

A steady procession, parents rushing in kids wounded by today’s recess injuries, and in my mind, I’m outing the ones milking it for the free day from school.

The kid who “tripped” and fell “face-first” into concrete—

He seems legit—

There’s now a dent in his forehead, and he’s either headed to surgery for frontal bone cranial fracture, or straight to fame as a great make-up artist—

But the young girl to my left—

Elbow on ice—

Slouched sideways like soon she’ll faint-

Her mom 20 minutes too deep in a talk with the flirty, busted foot Trinidadian man who sat down beside her—

And bless the man, he’s making progress—

I can’t help but smile when the nurse calls my name—

And I refrain from telling the young girl to stay strong—

After all, her arm might be broken—

But physical pain, I’ll let it distract her, numbing the torture of this psychologically awkward new scar.

——————

Mercifully, I’m attended by doctors.

They ask how it happened—

And before I respond—

One offers up—

“Gardening?”

………….

Of course.

Spot on.

Bit while I was gardening.

In this city—

In this economy—

By my white picket fence—

As our affordable housing reality becomes communal commitment to fake member cards for entry slash eligibility to five finger discounts from the ‘TENT’ aisle at Costco—

I was bit gardening.

——————

As doctors explain my prognosis—

They mention typically, the vaccine takes time to arrive.

Naively, I wonder aloud—

“Like what, an hour?”

Dead-pan—

And recognizing I’m in precisely no pain at all—

A terse doctor says—

“No. HOURS.“

Internally, I question when the healing begins, because all of a sudden—

This newest wound feels the most savage.

——————

On my phone, making calls from my waiting room office—

I’m coordinating as best as I can from off-site.

Before I left—

I put the right people in charge—

And told them I’d return in short order.

If I stopped answering calls—

I trust within minutes—

They’d frame a new window opening—

Perched with a view of the sea—

Where, like lamenting fishwives they’d gather—

And watch ocean waves—

Wondering when winds would shift to bring me back home.

——————

At two—

Marc, my Green Zone liaison, informs me that rabies vaccines are in short supply—

And Toronto Public Health, the sole distributor of that short supply—

Is supremely short-staffed.

As of yet, they haven’t reached anyone at the Public Health line.

With respect—

I thank him for keeping me in the loop.

I’m being patient and the staff seem unnerved and skeptically cautious.

——————

Two hours pass—

I’m in the PREMIUM waiting room seat—

Head-on, direct view of the TV—

CBC re-running marathons of “Escape to the Country”.

Doris and Michael desire an open-concept interior, and in Norfolk, they’re being shown a quaintly converted barn house with a garden—

Just then, a nurse calls my name—

“Matthew?”

“Yes?”

Instinctively, I’m looking up—

Then, across the whole room she announces—

“A few hours more, but the vaccine’s on the way.”

Seated in my central position—

All eyes on me—

And I hear every thought—

“Did she say vaccine…?”

“Wait, is he CONTAGIOUS?!”

“GOOD GOD, PLEASE GOD HELP US ALL”

Nonchalant, I focus back on the TV—

Back on Escape to the Country—

Say nothing else—

And pretend they must’ve meant some other Matthew.

In my peripheral, total tension, everyone slinks in their seats slowly further away.

——————

Approaching a ten hour wait—

Finally, I’m called in for my shot.

On the phone with my boss, I’ve just explained how to lock site.

Way back this morning, I thought this vaccine would be a quick prick and I’m out—

But by now, all I’ve eaten is a Tim’s BLT and a coffee—

And I’m concerned I’m delirious, so I have to ask—

“Sorry, could you please repeat that?”

Nurse JoJo repeats the requirements.

One deltoid injection—

She points to her arm—

Four in the abdomen—

She points to four spots on her stomach—

Then also multiple injections in the spot of the bite.

I look at my hand—

I look at nurse JoJo—

I look at the ground—

I sigh—

Then I roll up my sleeve.

Deltoid goes normal, no problem.

Then, I remove my shirt and lay back.

Picture my six-pack, glistening in perfect light—

Still to be purchased, still in the refrigerator of a near LCBO.

That’s how I distract myself as JoJo warns me not to tense up.

Full disclosure—

Needles don’t bother me—

But abdominal needles did stretch the limit of what I could stomach.

After that, I start to sit up, ready for the shots in the hand—

But JoJo still says sit back, because these next ones for sure hurt the worst.

The bite itself—

On top of my hand—

Across my right thumb—

Extending along the meaty bridge to my index finger—

I warn JoJo politely—

“If I say FUCK, it’s not about you”.

From there, JoJo did work—

I never said FUCK—

And we got it all done.

——————

On the way home, I stop by the site.

I check if it’s locked—

Then check inside to assess what work got done.

3 days, then 7 days, then 14 days from first bite—

I’ll require follow-up shots on each one—

But now—

Site being secure—

I start checking out—

And can’t help but note what might make my night.

There’s an unnumbered draft—

In an unclosing folder—

And it’s well on the way to being all right.

Last item left—

I check if the trash is tipped over—

And confirming it’s not—

I lock up and head home—

Admire the wildlife photography taken on site—

Then clock in as normal and dig in to write.

From This Day to Night,

Good morning, good day, and good night.

Wildlife Photography

(All models featured are real people, not actors)

iPhone SE (2nd Gen) photo, ISO 32, F/1.8, 1/120 s
Trash panda, detained temporarily, posing beside Clover Leaf Tuna from Metro

iPhone SE (2nd Gen) photo, ISO 25, F/1.8, 1/120 s
Blue Steel supplied by the model, stunning but still unsuited for purposes of structural construction

iPhone SE (2nd Gen) photo, ISO 640, F/1.8, 1/120 s
Tiny trash panda, camouflaged and masquerading as 4″ ABS pipe

iPhone SE (2nd Gen) photo, ISO 640, F/1.8, 1/120 s
Tiny trash panda, looking at me, then looking just like, “Buddy, don’t even”

iPhone SE (2nd Gen) photo, ISO 80, F/1.8, 1/120 s
Plastic bottle for scale, later to be disposed of in environmentally-responsible fashion
(placed in a paper bag, transported by bicycle, pedalled to the ocean, swum to the Western Pacific, then weighted-down, sunk and crushed by the immense pressure of Mariana Trench)

iPhone SE (2nd Gen) photo, ISO 80, F/1.8, 1/120 s
Side-eye and gas-lighting, like I had bit him

iPhone SE (2nd Gen) photo, ISO 80, F/1.8, 1/120 s
Mr. Tiny Steal Yo Trash and Yo Girl
2023.02.22

February 22nd, 2023

This Day to Night

2023.02.22

Mr. Matthew, are you married?—

This time it’s Carlos that’s asking—

But prior—

First Sandy, then Bryan, then Czongar, then Junior, then Chiquito Manuel…

Love is funny.

You find it when you aren’t looking—

You embrace it within and without—

And the timing of love is so uncontrolled.

On site, the first time someone asked if I’m married, I chalked it up to just conversation.

The second time, I still felt the same.

But the more I kept being asked—

The more others engaged with the answer—

The more I looked at myself and assessed my own path.

With a buzzed head of black and still scattered greys, plus now salted beard stubble starting to mix with the pepper, even I question which age I’m at.

And during an average day on the job—

I’m acutely aware of when, where, and which character switches I choose to flip on.

Sometimes, people don’t sense that at all—

And all times, that’s the foundational principle of me doing the job.

Sandy often reminds me to smile—

Then I do smile, telling Sandy that what he sees on my face is just focus.

Lots falls on my head all the time—

And if I unpacked my whole head on site, thats when I’d pack it all up.

At work, it’s not that I suppress who I am—

But considering myself, and especially considering whether I’m in tune with myself, I keep returning to two simple questions—

What can I show in each moment—

And what will that show if it’s wrong?

There was a point in my life where that wouldn’t matter.

There was another point in my life where I couldn’t care—

But in this moment right now—

Things are far beyond truth.

Thing is—

Things can work out.

Often not always as you’d expect—

But that’s the reality of life.

If you find love, I believe in that love.

If you do wind up married, I believe in that too.

If you’re at the opposite end—

Things can still change—

And things can be different—

But instead of finding a “this” or a “that”—

Just try opening up —

And see who has you feeling what’s true:

Each every day—

For each other—

We do love one another—

Each loving you more as you.

Matthew—

Some time in the future—

Don’t forget to shut up.

From This Day to Night,

Good morning, good day, and good night.
2022.12.28

December 28th, 2022

This Day to Night

2022.12.28

We’re fresh out of lids, so I’m drinking fresh dust—

Tim Hortons coffee is mixed in there too, but it’s Wednesday morning, I could not sleep all night, and I’m seeing through walls—

Thanks, in part—

And in spite of—

The dust.

Old lumber newly exposed—

Derrick, Mattias and crew are on ladders, knocking drywall off walls—

Vladimir (Ecuadorian) is working with Lucho (Chilean) breaking slate tile, cutting open spruce plywood sub-floor beneath, searching for consecutive joist pockets unimpeded by pipes, ducts, and wires in the ceiling below—

Seeking some suitable spot for our provisional stairs headed straight to the basement, and once it’s been found and then framed, we’ll build one staircase more, this time from main floor to second.

Provisional—

It sounds so much smoother than temporary.

Here’s our addition:

We’re adding eight bedrooms—

Nine bathrooms—

Gutting and renovating six more—

Tacking on a 3 car garage—

And clearing way for an elevator—

Which, for reasons I have mixed feelings about—

Has to rise through this happy house’s existing mechanical room.

Its ceiling space, its jammed but still neat, and looking up—

There’s 4 trunks of ducts (from 4 separate furnaces servicing only this side of the house), the main plumbing line, four plumbing drains, three hard-pipe natural gas runs, three primary electrical panels, four or five low voltage pony panels, plus all the line voltage wires powering 10,000 square feet of existing house—

Managing to all overlap but not intertwine—

Cluck cluck cluck—

Cluster-fucking the space—

To chicken-shit states of free-range insanity…

And it all has to move, to open clear path for the elevator.

Believe it or not—

With six months to finish the main floor wheelchair accessible wing—

And fifteen months total to complete the rest—

By day three of the project, two thirds of the house has been sectioned off—

Allocated as living space for our friends the homeowners, as they wish to remain on the property throughout the construction.

In respect of these homeowners, our plan was always to build site dedicated stairs (suitable, so provisional) within our own section, all to establish their living space privacy and avoid tracking dust through the house.

And the homeowners have spoiled us.

This coffee I’m drinking, it’s courtesy of their generosity.

Two cartons a day of Tim Hortons coffee—

UberEats keeps delivering.

It has to be from the homeowners.

It has to be.

Because if it’s not—

If it’s been coming from somewhere else—

Perhaps, say, from a parallel otherworldly dimension—

That could indicate that this house is haunted—

And soon workers will start disappearing—

Potentially as tribute—

Unvolunteered—

To replenish the strength of our most merciful Coffee Roast Ghosts.

With our second construction project so close nearby—

We can’t tempt the spectre of powers we simply don’t understand.

The risk is too great.

Each time I briefly exit the house with my lidless coffee—

I pour out the top eighth of liquid—

The absolute least that I can—

Refraining from affronting our hosts—

To filter the dust that keeps drifting in.

Sawdust, mortar dust, O.G. ordinary regular dust, plus dust from drywall, they’re all so thick in the air, come closing time, I heavily slap my jacket and pants—

Freeing enough dust to cloud clearest dusk—

Then hop in and warm up my truck.

The plan for this evening, have a quick bite to eat, review structural drawings as preparation for tomorrow, then shift gears entirely and continue refining a long-standing screenwriting project, which I develop as much as I can every weeknight, but solidly stays my main focus each every weekend.

Tomorrow—

I fully expect—

Plenty more dust—

With no guarantee on the coffee—

But as far as today—

Past the house and its owners—

My headlights dispel—

All harboured ghosts—

In the heaviest haze—

Of this winter’s fog.

Learning to make strange things work—

It’s fundamental, so crucially transferable and worth it to have.

Tough to first see—

But not so tough to later on find.

Eleanor,

As always—

The children were right.

From This Day to Night,

Good morning, good day, and good night.
2022.10.26A

October 26th, 2022

This Day to Night

2022.10.26A

often

perceptions are honest

but once truly tried

they’re working

yet broken

false crescent moons frozen

true total

truth steeping

’round night sky

beside
2022.10.26B

October 26th, 2022

This Day to Night

2022.10.26B

remember the walk

past noise

past bars

block after block we would walk

the whole way

the midway

so far
2022.10.26C

October 26th, 2022

This Day to Night

2022.10.26C

drift to deep waters

no shore to see

first float

then dive

to dub land

dry isle and

rock place

of

future former

non fish

who turned fish past its quay