MEMORIES OF THE HOITO IN THUNDER BAY

 

 

MEMORIES OF THE HOITO IN THUNDER BAY 

I was introduced to the Hoito when I went to Lakehead University. It was known for its good food and good prices (their famous Finnish pancakes were the attraction), and it became a regular eating place for many students, especially students from out of town; and if I’m not mistaken, it was purchased by a former LU student who came from Sault St. Marie. After university, I had to go to Thunder Bay to pick up supplies for my contract drywall taping and painting business, and I often stopped off at the Shuniah township office and see if my friend Ozzie Kankkunen, who was the former town engineer in Nipigon, was free for breakfast, or lunch. Ozzie loved the Hoito’s liver and onions, and it became one of my favorites as well. And I often went to Chapters in the city with my friend George Zurowski (now deceased) to pick up new books as well as The New Yorker, Atlantic, Harper's, and other magazines; and then we’d go to the Hoito for a meal. George more often than not had Mojakka (fish soup). We would also pick up our mutual friend Ernie, a retired civil servant, if he was free, and we’d have long philosophical discussions with our meals. In fact, I wrote a novel inspired by our friendship called An Atheist, An Agnostic, and Me; but it’s not published yet. I have many wonderful memories of the Hoito, and it’s sad to see it go this way. It will be missed.

New poem: "The Hundredth Monkey"

 

The Hundredth Monkey

 

Until the Wheel of Life turns upside down,

and the up is down and the down is up,

the hundredth monkey of moral accountability

will not come into play; only then will

this covid pandemic go away.

New poem: "Putting My Gurdjieff On"

 

Putting My Gurdjieff On

 

The time has come to put my Gurdjieff

on and go back to sanctuary, where

not even God can reach me, and nourish

my famished soul; —

 

The time has come to say goodbye, it’s

been nice knowing you; but it’s been

such a long time since I’ve been Home,

that I’ve got to be moving along.

 

It’s not this covid pandemic that’s calling

me Home, all of the anxiety and distress

of waiting for death, nor the comfort

and joy of knowing I am Soul; —

 

It’s more a question of the same old thing,

the tiring refrains of not knowing, one

talking head out-doing another, a pouring

of the empty into the void.

 

The time has come to put my Gurdjieff

on and go back to sanctuary, where the peace

and quiet of no desire can nourish my soul;

and when I am strong enough, I can bid

farewell and go back Home.

New poem: "John Hoyer Updike"

 

John Hoyer Updike

 

Re-reading the biography of America’s

preeminent man of letters, Adam Begley’s

UPDIKE, I marveled even more the

second time at John Hoyer Updike’s

writerly accomplishments, which pulled

at me like a siren call to the infernal

depths of writer envy, but I kept myself

from falling as I valued the worth of my

humble life, examining the trajectory

of my own writerly way into the center

of life experience that every writer seeks

but cannot find, and the anguish left my

troubled heart and was replaced with a

gratifying joy for John Hoyer Updike’s

Nobel prize-worthy talent.

New poem: "The Oink of the Lone Pork Loin"

 

The Oink of the Lone Pork Loin

 

“Who will hear the oink of the lone pork loin?”

It’s so far outside the box that to be pounded, tenderized,

and fried alone would truly be poetic irony; —

 

There was once a song in popular culture called “Little Boxes,”

the homes we occupy, our thoughts, dreams, and noble ambitions,

every “ticky-tacky” thing for you and me and everybody; —

 

But as I grew older, I grew wiser mastering the ancient art of Sufi

sausage making, and so thin did I become in my dying that my pants

no longer fit me; and I needed a bigger house to live in; —

 

Standing by the kitchen sink this morning, the four pork loin slices

unwrapped from their cellophane packaging, one slice of loin

stood out in its own see-through wrapper; —

 

I felt sorry for the lone pork loin, estranged forever from itself

and everything familiar, and turning to heaven, I sang in playful anger,

“Who will hear the oink of the lone pork loin?”

 

 

 

 

New Poem: "The Forbidden Fruit of Life"

 

The Forbidden Fruit of Life

 

I listened with rapt attention to an honest

man of the mind talking to a clever journalist

(who makes an obscene living interviewing

people like him) about his book On Consolation:

Finding Solace in Dark Times, and we do live

in dark times with this global pandemic that

has stretched society beyond its limits; but it

was on a personal level that this honest man

of the mind stressed his historical claim that

finding consolation for life’s unbearable suffering

was relative to one’s personal paradigm. As irony

would have it however, this honest man of the

mind had yet to explore the perilous paradigm

of who we are not, and not until he firmly grasps

the nettle of man’s dual nature will this honest

man of the mind console his grieving soul

with the forbidden fruit of life.

New poem: "The Winters of My Content"

 The Winters of My Content

 Looking out my bonus room window

this morning from what Virginia Woolf

called a room of one’s own to write in,

I saw the first snowfall of the year,

and my mind flooded with memories

of the winters of my content when I’m

most free to write at will, my thoughts

for poems, stories, novels, memoirs,

and essays flowing with as much vitality

as the life force in spring. How happy I

am to see all that white, ever so clean

and restful to the eyes after the glorious

colors of our Georgian Bay fall, having

blown and picked up the last of our leaves

the day before our first snowfall!

New poem: "A Writer True to His Calling"

 A Writer True to His Calling

 

I walked gingerly through a barren no-man’s

land of the great writer’s dismay as I read MORE

MATTER (Essays and Criticism), by America’s

distinguished man of letters, his journey through

memories of his own published works, ideas

that he nurtured with loving care that he saw

fading into the sink hole of lost time, wondering,

in his usual elegant prose, was it worth the effort?

But he also said to Jeffery Brown in his PBS

interview, “There is a kind of spiritual health

in trying to express reality. When you feel you’ve

captured it, if only in a phrase or correct adjective,

there is something very happy-making about it.”

The great American man of letters wrote stories

“to give the mundane its beautiful due,” and

dismayed or not, sink hole or no sink hole, he

wrote because he never tired of “creation’s giddy

joy,” and he did not die like another great American

writer so depressed and paranoid that he blew his

brains out with his favorite shotgun, but with

the grace and dignity of a writer true to his calling

to the ENDPOINT (and Other Poems) of his

satisfying well-lived 76-year-old life.

New poem: "Shadow of My Past Life"

 

 

Shadow of My Past Life

 

I would never have seen the shadow

of my past life had she not told me,

the change in my personality because

of my grey whiskers. “I want you

to shave tomorrow,” she said to me.

“You’re not yourself when you’re

like this. You’re grumpy and miserable.”

It puzzled me, not seeing the causal

connection of my long grey whiskers

and disposition, and I stared at my love

in confusion. But knowing how keen

her to be in her innocence of sight,

I looked at myself in the mirror and saw

that she was right. The person that I

saw was a stranger to me, an old self

from a past life who struggled in vain

to be me; so, I shaved my grey whiskers

in the morning, and my happy new

self stared back at me.

New poem: "The Darwinian Thing to Do"

 

The Darwinian Thing to Do

 

Oh, how clever they are, these

hybrid creatures who want their cake

and eat it too, autonomy without

the responsibility; but at what point

does one stop blaming their government,

parents, teachers, coaches, good old

uncle Bob and every person who looks

at them the wrong way, slights hidden

out of sight, and take responsibility

for their own life? Wouldn’t that be

the Darwinian thing to do?

New poem: "Turkey Day in Georgian Bay"

 

Turkey Day in Georgian Bay

 

Yesterday was turkey day in Georgian

Bay, a day of thanks for life’s goodness

and pleasure, and despite all the misery

of this pernicious virus that’s brought

the world to a sudden pause, it’s given

us time to reflect on where we’ve come;

and when I snuck down to the refrigerator

in the middle of the night for my favorite

sandwich of turkey goodness, I thanked

the love of my life for the consummate

pleasure of being my wife.

New poem: "No Easy Compromise"

 

No Easy Compromise

 

The two Michaels are back;

so, it was tit for tat: what’s

right for you, is wrong for us;

what’s good for us, is bad for

you; and finding mutual ground

was no easy compromise.

New poem: "The Voting Booth"

 The Voting Booth

 

I stood in the voting booth,

still not knowing who to vote

for, a dreadful feeling of doubt

that shook me to the core; but

I had to mark my X in one box,

and I stopped thinking and asked

my heart, “Who’s the best man

for the job?” And for the first

time in my voting life, I chose

the man and not the party, and

when the CBC declared my party

the winner, I felt no regret voting

for the man my heart deemed most

worthy to lead this great country

of indigenous people and

immigrants like me.

New poem: "The Zen of Life"

The Zen of Life

Does one have to be enlightened to know

that chopping wood and carrying water

is the way to enlightenment? Does it matter

to the unenlightened?  The way is the way,

whatever we do in life, and all the teachings

in the world know this in their own blind

way; but the more wood we chop and water

we carry, the more we wake up to who

we are, until we become enlightened;

and that’s the Zen of life.

New poem: "Life Never Stops"

 

Life Never Stops

Greatness comes, and greatness goes

like waves on the shores of life;

 

There can be no tomorrow like today,

and no yesterday will ever be the same;

 

The end happens on its own, and beginnings

come and go; but life never stops, —

 

Until it does.

New poem: "Victim of a Larger Paradigm"

 Victim of a Larger Paradigm

 

I want to feel sorry for all these good people,

but my heart refuses to bleed for them;

and I have to wonder why.

 

Have I become so hard-hearted? Has this

covid pandemic inured me to their suffering?

Where has my empathy gone?

 

I’ve seen the images on the national news,

thousands of Afghans fleeing from the wicked

Taliban; but I’m not moved.

 

I want to reach out to them with all my might,

but my compassion has gone into hiding;

and I cannot puzzle out why.

 

Gnostic wisdom says a horse can be led to water,

but the same wisdom tells us that the horse

will only drink of its own volition;

 

Is this why my compassion has gone missing

in action? Why my heart refuses to bleed

for the Afghan people?

 

Gurdjieff said that the old world would one day

clash with the emerging new world; is this what’s

happening in Afghanistan?

 

Have the values of the modern world threatened  

the rigid Taliban order, forcing them to stand their

sacred ground, or wither and die?

 

But what about all the innocent people, the men,

women, and children who want to be part

of this new world order?

 

What did they do to deserve all the suffering

inflicted by the Taliban rule? Is all their suffering

their national karmic due?

 

Has life come calling to change the cultural patterns

of their old ways that can take them no further

on life’s redemptive journey to wholeness?

 

I dare not think such frightening thoughts, it’s much

too cruel; but I’m a victim of a larger paradigm,  

and I know that suffering is not for fools.

 

It doesn’t really matter which path we take in life,

they all lead to the self; but the self cannot be born

again, until we die to what we are not.

 

This is the terrifying paradox of the Afghan people,

trapped in the chaos of the old world and new;

but only they can square their circle.

 

I want to feel sorry for these poor souls, but my heart

will not comply; but now that I know the reason

why, I must let go and let God decide.

New poem: "One of Those Days"

 

One of Those Days

 

“It’s going to be one of those days, is it?”

I said to myself when I stuck my lawn sprinkler

into the ground this morning and the pointed

plastic insert broke off because I pressed it

into the ground on a slant and the pressure

caused it to snap, and as I went about my day

as I usually did, whatever I did went slightly

askew, nothing significant, but obvious enough

to let me know that if I continued in that rhythm,

my whole day would be ruined; so, I pleaded

with my inner guiding principle to set my day

straight, and in silent contemplation it came

to me that I had slipped out of the natural rhythm

of my daily life because I had broken the pattern

of my morning routine by adding two glasses

of tap water to the coffee maker because I did

not have enough water in our Brita water filter

that I always use when making coffee, and out

of the blue it came to me that to get back into

syn with life, I had to put myself into a state

of grace and align myself with the harmonious

rhythm of life, and I sat back again and closed

my eyes and filled my mind with thoughts of love,

remembering all those wonderful moments in my

life that filled my heart with the holy goodness

of joy and laughter; and I knew, as certain as God

made little green apples, that grace was the way

to chase the trickster away and get my life back

on track with my destined purpose of living

my life to the fullest.

New poem: "The Magic Ring"

 The Magic Ring

 I’ve done a lot of reflecting

during this pandemic, wondering

why it’s taken so long for people

to see what’s been there all along,

the weak links in our system

that keep impeding the evolution

of social improvement, like taking

care of our seniors in LTC homes

that Covid-19 shamelessly exposed

to be deficient in so many ways

that our Premier promised to put

an iron ring around them to keep

our vulnerable seniors safe; but we’re

going into the fourth wave of this

pandemic, a Delta variant that’s proven

to be easier to transmit despite being

doubly vaccinated, and—surprise,

surprise! — LTC homes are still

waiting for the magic ring that was

promised to ensure the safety

of our beloved seniors.

Poem for a friend: "Like Gold from Heavan"

A poem for my friend and neighbor
Antonio Capalbo for his 80^th Birthday,
Thursday, August 19, 2021
 
Like Gold from Heaven
 
Blessed is he who has a good friend,
someone who understands him without
asking the questions. Just one look
tells you that he knows, and there’s no
need to explain; that’s the bond that
Tony and I share, something that can’t
be put into words but will always be
treasured like gold from Heaven.
 
Orest Stocco,
Tiny Beaches, Georgian Bay
Friday, July 30, 2021
 

New poem: "The Conundrum"

 

 

The Conundrum

 

Reincarnation may be moot

to the secret meaning of Christ’s

teaching, because NOW is the

only context no matter which life

we live; but it matters all the same,

because logic and reason cannot

fathom the purpose of our existence;

it takes a lens of perception outside

the box of human thought to make

sense of why we are here. That’s the

key to the conundrum that all great

thinkers of the world will never

perceive until they step outside the

matrix of their mind, however

brilliant it may be.

New Poem: "A View from the Water"

 

 

A View from the Water

 

I got a view from the water the other

day as we cruised the Penetanguishene

and Midland harbors on our neighbor’s

pontoon boat, and my love and I got

to see how the upper side lived, lake

house after lake house, one more

enviable than the other, and without

a twinge of rancor or resentment I smiled

in respectful appreciation of the more

accomplished and successful, spending

their precious few hours and stolen

weekends during our finite summers on

their boats to destress from their business

and profession that allows them to enjoy

the simple pleasures and sweet comforts

of their beautiful lakeside home on

the shores of Georgian Bay.

New poem: "A Disease of the Soul"

 

A Disease of the Soul

 

There’s a very strange disease

in our world today, and no,

it’s not COVID-19, or variants;

it’s a disease of the soul, not

the body, and I don’t know what

to call it. No one does. But once

it catches hold of you, it won’t

let go, and it spreads like a virus

from one person to the other,

tearing the soul apart until there

is no more desire to aspire. Not

everyone catches this strange

disease, and that’s what makes

it so perplexing. There is a cure

for this strange disease, but those

who catch it refuse to own it, and

they beg the government for more,

and more, and more assistance to

ease the woes of this strange

disease that’s entirely

self-infecting.