I wrote, recorded, mixed, and edited this sample.
Middle Aged (35-54)
North American (Canadian-General) , North American (General)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
hanging by a slender thread per log. This account an extended flashback of my earlier years was written in 2001. It's now the year 2021. At the time of the pandemic. When many people are examining and reexamining their lives in their lifestyles. I'm sorting and examining too. In some ways this is the life. I always wondered about one in which I no longer work as a university professor. Where there is an end to the constant commuting and packing and wondering in which domicile my passport was this time where peace of mind and mindlessness called to me and I could actually answer before the pandemic struck. One of my women friends reflected wearily to me, I just want to stay home and make ****. I left at the simplicity of how she put it. Now. I marvel at how profoundly wise her words were. I have a closet in my bedroom. It has several plastic containers. These have beckoned to me over the years not to organize them because many of them seem to be very well organized, the way that a university researcher with A. D. D. Can sometimes do, but rather to go through and read them. One of the boxes contained a number of old journals, transcriptions and tapes waiting to be transcribed. In this box. I found a handwritten notebook, But I need to take you back almost 20 years in order to explain. In September 2001, those many years ago, I had driven north to my trailer, my peaceful little refuge on Dark Lake Ontario. I went alone. My partner of a 15 year troubled relationship had stayed back in the city. When I arrived at dark leg, I felt as though something had pushed the pause button on the ceaseless chatter in my brain. It was a landing into nature and into deep silence. The dogs seem to feel the same way they shook the city off their coats and began anointing themselves on the low hanging cedar branches. Their spirits reveled in the scent of the cedar, and their misty eyes showed that they were now far away, connected energetically to the instincts of their ancestors. I let them make their greeting with nature, and then I called for them to join me on a hike. The woods were expansive and quite wild. We passed bear scat, made purposely read from eating raspberries. We wound our way and followed our ears to the little waterfall as I sat down beside it, eating my sandwich. I, too, fell into a dreamy state. The whole hike back. I seem to be walking through a mist. When we arrived back at the trailer, I took a notebook, a pen and a chair, and went halfway to the water's edge. There I sat a small grove of popular trees leaning in towards each other and whispering gently behind me. I have no memory of writing and no sense of how much time had passed when the misty feeling had cleared and I was once again conscious, I looked down at my lap to see that the notebook had become full of writing. That's the notebook that I just now uncovered during the time of the pandemic with the many years past. I find I don't have the same concerns in my life as I did back then. I don't think I speak or think the same way. I think I'm more modest and less dramatic, but my unconscious expressed itself the way it long needed to express itself back then so that it could connect dots for me, make me look at the traumas and experiences that both shaped my life and embedded scars and thorns in my heart without the solitude in nature and without the missed that put my watchful mind to sleep, I no doubt would have waited a much longer time to face and give words to my painful past. What I'm about to read to you is the unedited notebook. None of the words have been changed. The grammar hasn't been corrected. These are the words exactly as they came out of my pen that day I came out of the woods.