She won.

Perhaps that is cynical, but it's the truth. Even if I were to die with 50 other people on a tour bus, the experience of death and dying is all mine: I am dying. I am dead.

The transition from life to death is perhaps quite scary. What happens next? What about my friends? My family? My obligations? One might lie there on his deathbed, proclaiming in soliloquy, a story of woe to himself, and despite his pleas and the count of his audience, he alone will die; he will die alone.

He lived alone, in fact.

Regardless of his ability to multiply, or the number of his children, grand children, wives or friends, he lived alone. When he smelled flowers, or sang songs or cried for joy or sadness, he alone did those things. Though his choices affected many, none of them affected anyone as much as him. They were his choices alone.

When he spoke precious words to one or to thousands, it was he that spoke the words. When he told her of the love he had for her, he to her of his love, and he loved.

All men live and die and act alone. Every man's life is a soliloquy.

The fear is not that he die alone; but rather, that he die unnoticed.

Every November 11, Rememberance day, was a big day for my dad. We'd go to the community centre or the Catholic Church or some other venue and watch as the Legionaires would march in slowly with reefs of poppies, and crosses of rememberance. Some of the retired men carried their colours, others just carried tears for men they'd lost in Italy, Poland, Germany and other stages where we fought. We fought.

It seems easy for historians to say that "we" fought a war. I suppose that identifying ourselves as one of them is the only way to preserve our history as a country. But every year that my dad took me to a Rememberance day service, the numbers of veterans was smaller. They fought the war. The war ended in 1945, and I reckon that the oldest to survive couldn't have been much younger than twenty, being replacements for those who fell ahead of them. Survivors now are pushing ninety, and surely many of their minds and memories are waning, just as their bodies are failing. In just a decade, all those who fought in the last world war will be gone, and we will remain.

I've never fought in a war and I don't know many people who have. A handful of my friends are serving in Iraq and Afghanistan, and I'm sitting in a hotel in Fresno, complaining because there's no grocery store close by.

No one knows for sure how many people died in WWII. Conservative estimates range from 50 million to other guesses upwards of 70 million. Million. If you think about that, that's the current population of Canada wiped out twice over. That's one quarter of the US population. Those were all people with hearts, and dreams, and fears and girlfriends, and love, and tears. Each one of them had a mother who birthed them, and loved them and prayed for them. Each one hoped they'd live. They didn't.

I never fought, and I hope I never have to; and as for you, I wish the same. Remember the wars gone by. Remember the hearts broken as telegraphs came in saying that our loved ones were killed in action or missing or taken prisoner.

They fought the war. We remember.

Today my trusty, dirty, scuffed up, Brooks shoes will be sent away to some landfill somewhere in the South Valley. I'm not a very sentimental guy, despite being a hopeless romantic. I don't keep things like ticket stubs, or matchbooks or old love letters. I didn't even keep the gum wrapper from the piece of gum I gave Jessica Simpson in the Charlotte airport--she wanted my number, but she had to settle for some peppermint Trident. Things are things, they don't last forever, and sentimentality to me is just another form of denial. Move on.

With all that said, I do feel a slight attachment to my old running shoes. They have seen me through a lot and followed me all over the continent and never complained once along the 400+ miles they've run. I haven't been all that nice to these shoes either. I have mashed them into mud and poop all over the place. They've been on pavement that was way too hot, and on ice that was way to cold. They've splashed puddles and paint and have seen their share of blood and vomit too.

One night in El Paso, my shoes ended up wearing most of my stomach contents when I ran the ten miles to Juárez in a little over an hour. They didn't complain when I wore them in the shower with me to clean them off, though I'm sure the maid at the Hyatt wasn't impressed. There was a midnight run in Columbia where my shoes and me ran from a drunkard and dodged empty beer bottles flung from a redneck in a truck. Later that night, we were picked up by the police because I was lost and had run to the far side of the airport. We were on the "wrong side of the tracks," by the officer's own reckoning.

We ran away from Blood's or Crypts or both one night when I took a left instead of a right and ran through the heart of Compton around one in the morning. I know the difference between the sound of firecrackers and 9mm now; so do my shoes.

My shoes and I took leisurely jogs along the both coasts. Their favorite was Myrtle Beach I think, though I prefer Santa Barbara. We've seen much of Canada, including Nanaimo in the winter. We also spent a great deal of time in the high altitudes of Colorado, Utah and New Mexico. We've sped along the rivers in Austin, Calgary, and Wichita. We ran from dogs, and hoodlums in Huston and San Antonio. We sat inside on cold days in Des Moines when it wasn't smart to run. We crashed into a car in Charlotte. We saw the ships in the harbor in Norfolk, and we've checked out our fair share of women Burbank. When we did see a pretty gal, my shoes always gave me an extra bound and I squared off my shoulders just a little more than normal.

We ran three mountains in San Luis Obispo, stopping by Cal Poly to check out the sights there. We ran Roanoke too and saw the sights at Virginia Tech. We ran the river with my dad and his shoes too once or twice when I took them to visit in Canada.

When I was injured, my shoes and I ran slowly on the treadmill at the gym. My shoes were just as bored.

My shoes have taken a beating many times when I just didn't know how to deal with what was going on in my life. They stayed right there for me, under my feet. We sure have seen a lot, my shoes and I, and now, they've reached the end of their road. So long shoes.

I don't really want to write about things that inspire any more. After all, pine needle flavored beverages inspire me these days. Not even my passion for flying inspires me to write. My mentor calls my life a cautionary tale, and I suppose he's right, but I'll be God damned if I'm going to go down in history as an Icarus.

Tonight I went to the bookstore to find a book on regular expressions; basically geek reading. Probably to my benefit, I did not find a decent book on regular expressions; however, I found a book on algorithms that I also did not buy. Luckily, I had a second objective tonight, that was to find a new day planner. I mean a nice day planner, not like the day planner that keeps my bed level in Phoenix.

Walking into Borders I noticed a old, young woman who was stocking shelves. She had well-kept, straggly, long, brown, greasy hair that wasn't kept at all, and geeky glasses kind of like mine. Her torso too skinny for her butt, and legs too skinny for her torso, she slouched and had bad complexion and a rather beautiful set of teeth. A tattoo of a dragon, butterfly, or other such nonsense peeked out from underneath the sleeve of her "Earth day, 2006" t-shirt. I wondered if she had gotten the tattoo in hopes that it would change her life and maybe make her into someone she certainly isn't now.

"Hi," I said, in the way that I do, "could you point me in the direction of your day planners?" Stunned like a dear in the headlights, and with deafening silence she looked to the floor and pointed to the staircase that climbed up to the store's mezzanine. My head tilted in an attempt to gaining eye contact with the girl. Her head moved farther too her left to avoid my gaze. I said "thank you" with a puzzled look. 'Doesn't she know we have the same dorky glasses?'

Upstairs I found all sorts of cool things. Like books not to be purchased on Kama Sutra and algorithms; both equally interesting to me, although the Kama Sutra book had pictures. I found the day planners and thought of all the cool and neat and exciting things I could write in them like, call Wells Fargo, buy more Tanqueray, run 1,000 miles, beat the piss out of my housemate's cat. And then I reflected. 'what the eff am I going to really use this day planner for?'

The girl's tattoo looked dark and violent, just like she wasn't. Although, I do remember taking a class called Career and Life Management (CALM) in high school that taught me never to stereotype; a lesson I routinely ignore. I suppose there is a chance that this girl-woman, timid and fearful, is actually a cold-blooded killer, but my instincts and keen intuition tell me this is not so. I wonder if she regrets getting the tattoo. Some things just don't suit some people.

I didn't get the day planner either.

I have found out that some of the best friends in the world can be found in the most unlikely of places, and can be borne out of the most shady of circumstances. I have also learned that some people claiming to be "best friends" will tuck-tail and run when the water gets a little deep.

I got divorced this year. In fact, the final papers came in the mail last week. Everyone said that it would be good to finally get some closure; but I'm finding that closure isn't something that can't be delivered in the mail.

I know that there are some people watching this blog like a hawk to see if I have updated it. For some reason juicy gossip surrounding my divorce is precious to a few people. If you came here to get my side of the divorce story, you've come to the wrong place. I won't talk about why I left my marriage, or what was whose fault in any of it. I will say this, a lot of case building has been going on in the last year and I refuse to participate. If you want my story, be my friend. If you haven't asked, I assume you either don't care, won't believe me, or have made the decision to be my friend no longer. In any case I'm fine with it.

In re-reading that last paragraph, it would seem that there is some anger, or at least some resentment, in its tone. There really is not. I suppose that's why I am writing this particular blog.

The obvious question is why did I stop writing? My answer to this: I was getting divorced. There is very little a man wants to talk about publicly while in the middle of what is the most painful time in his life. Words said in the heat of the thing would have either been tainted by grief, started a fight, or used against me in mediation; probably all the above. No one ever accused me of being the smartest man alive, but I know I'm not the dumbest. Publishing my thoughts, especially pertaining to the divorce would have been at best foolish and at worse libel. In a year full of flame, heartbreak, shame, guilt and grief, drama from my personal website was something I simply did not need.

I have posted three entries, not including this one, since the day I left in July of 2008. The first, They Live..., was about people in the airport. It was written in a hotel lobby in Atlanta after a long day and much gin. Humbly and sadly, it may have been the finest writing I have ever done, and since it was written I have received much feedback on the entry. I wrote it because I suddenly realized that everyone who walks has a story, and I could see that though my life was "falling apart at the seams" others had lived though it and made it to the other side. It was a small flicker of hope in the darkest hour of my life.

The second entry made was a story about my dad and me eating breakfast in Calgary. They say laughter is the best medicine and that may have been the first uncontrived gut-laugh I'd had in a month.

The last was written about a week or so after I left therapy. I had returned to my life with some new found knowledge and some tools to get me though my days. Then I hit a wall. My life had become unmanageable (despite the purchase of a day planner that now rests under my bed in Phoenix). That story about my dad's cabin always gives me hope.

Will I start writing regularly again? Perhaps; but not likely in the prolificity of former times. There are volumes of things that I would love to write down, many records I'd love to set straight and misconceptions I would love to quash, but that would amount to nothing more than the yammering of a weenie trying to defend himself. You wouldn't read it and I don't really need to defend myself.

I don't know if this means that I'm "back" or not. It simply means I'm not dead. I'm alive and well, and I've found a great deal of peace. I'm happy to write again.

He loves to tell me a story from his experience building that cabin; in turn, I love telling this story to anyone who will listen. It gives me hope in times of trouble and it brings me peace to know that I am just one man.

Shortly after the title to the land was handed over to dad, he was faced with the daunting task of clearing a spot to lay the foundation of his mountain home. To paint a picture, standing on the road looking at the property, there was nothing but dense, dense forest. The acre, covered with mostly conifers, had a tremendous amount of under-growth which made it difficult to walk even a few steps off of the road. The foliage was beautiful, however, the undergrowth needed to be cut out as it posed a fire hazard to a home. Somewhere in the thicket, a driveway would also need to be laid, but thick pines and spruce trees freckled the lot and clearing a path would be difficult.

Dad jumped right in, demolition has always been his forte. With a chainsaw and more than a few gallons of two-stroke fuel he cleared many of the trees that stood where his home would someday be. He fell tree after tree and cut out bush after bush piling all the remnants toward the centre. In a matter of a few days he had cleared all he needed to clear, leaving some of his favourite trees as if he had carefully placed them there himself. As he cut the last of the growth and added to the pile he brushed himself off with a smile. He had done a lot of work.

The smile faded quickly.

What remained on the property was a huge pile of debris. The pile overshadowed his work. It was twice as tall as dad and at least forty-feet deep and almost that wide. In spite of all of his labour, he faced a pile of garbage that overwhelmed him. Standing next to his half-ton truck he recalls, "the sight of the thing nearly brought me to tears." The spot where his cabin would go was occupied by a massive task that was bigger than the cabin he intended to build. How was he ever going to move this pile?

Fear and frustration consumed him. He took pity on himself as he stood there looking at his daunting bane. It got worse. What about those stumps? There were so many of those, and they'd need to be dug out, which anybody will tell you is not easy. The pile dwarfed my father's truck. It dwarfed him. Overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness and impotence, dad looked to the sky saying, maybe to God, "how am I ever going to do this? Where do I even start?"

God did not answer, or at least not in the way I think dad expected him too. With tears welling up and weighed down by his task he asked himself again, "where do I start?"

Looking at his feet, he saw a branch from a tree he had cut down. At first he sighed, then a feeling of peace came over him. Still looking at the branch he said to himself, "well, I guess I'll start right here." He picked up the branch and threw it in the back of his truck.

Many, many unexpected things happened over the period of time that dad built his cabin. Problems came up. Worker's hired and paid, didn't work or do the things he hired and paid them to do. The weather caused setbacks. Pipes froze. Trucks broke. Boards and logs measured twice and cut once still came up short. Chaos insued at times. But he built that cabin; he's still building it.

Dad's cabin is one of my favourite places on earth to be. It's very peaceful there. I enjoy sitting on his couch next to the fire and drinking coffee in silence. Out the front windows the view is of a few well-placed trees and a driveway where stumps once sat. Sometimes I wonder if that cabin is a great metaphor of my father's life. He is, after all, a hopeless romantic, and building that cabin may have been a courtship. You see, dad, at 47 years old had never really met himself, he'd never really liked himself either. But in building that place he met someone new. He met someone strong and brave and loving. In the two-years it took him to build a home in the mountains, dad fell in love with a truly remarkable person; a person who he had never gotten the chance to meet. He built a home, and met himself.

It all started with a single stick at his feet.

He and I were eating breakfast at My Marvin's Deli in Downtown Calgary this morning. The food was decent but the service was terrible. I was able to overlook the terrible service because there were no less than three gigantic flat-screen televisions tuned into the Red Bull Air Race. It was good. Dad and I sat there talking to each other neither looking at each other as our eyes were fixed on Peter Besenyei.

At about the time that Besenyei got a penalty for flying "too high" through one of the inflatable gates, I looked away. A homeless man was walking by the deli's gigantic windows. He was a sight that is for sure. He was the portrait of derelict. He wore a ratty old Calgary Flames toque with wiry grayish-brown hair that in bent and broke in all different directions. He had the thickest, dirtiest beard that I have ever seen. It looked like an oriental fan made out of trash and the pubic hair of an elephant. A cigarette dangled from his lips and he gazed forward but his eyes didn't look focused on anything. His shoulders were slumped. His hands were cracked and dry.

His shirt, dirty. His pants, torn. And he pushed the token shopping cart full of trash bags, and trinkets and cans and broken furniture. The front, left wheel spun and bumped around like it had a mind of its own. I let out a sigh, as both the conversation I had been having with my dad and the sight of this bum depressed me. The air race was not consoling me any longer. I looked at my uneaten hash browns.

"Dad," I began, "I think my biggest fear is that I'm going to end up just like that guy."

My dad looked over his shoulder at the bum, and chuckled.

"Oh Jack," He smiled and put a fatherly hand on my shoulder, "don't you worry about that. There is no way you could grow a beard that thick."

Thank God for fathers.