The Art Of Giving

Karmic Restoration
A Story About Friendship


I am aware that the people who are taking the time to read my words are those who know me and it’s a good chance that my audience will always be limited to people who are already living within the realm of my existence; I am not complaining, I am humbly grateful for the beautiful humans present in my space who care enough to want to gain some insight into the shadows cast upon the corners of my mind – particularly, when you consider the abundance of amazing words, insights, teachings, musings that the various platforms of the world wide web has made available.

I know the quality that exists across the many forums, I know there are stories, articles, lessons written with finesse that surpasses mine on all sides – and I don’t mean this in a self-deprecating manner at all.  I know this, because I too, am a reader, I read everything, I will read so much and for so long that I don’t realise yesterday is gone and today has long begun.  So I know you could be using your valuable time devouring 1000 words committed to public disposal by somebody else much more talented, with more knowledge and a more interesting and relative tale to portray.  But instead you have extended to me a moment of your own, which to me is a true metaphor for love, respect and humility.  So it is with a sincere appreciation that I offer my own style of love in return.

This is an introduction to a story about friendship, an unrefined embodiment and my first draft;


Iron Overload
An Insight to Hindsight

Hindsight is such an incredible aspect of ones journey through life, for which I have two main questions,

the first is;
would we learn without the existence of hindsight?

and the second;
would hindsight need to exist if we were evolved enough to learn everything as we progressed?

When Jordy was really young, he was a dick, in my opinion.  I never wanted to go over to my cousins house if there was even the slightest possibility that he might turn up.  He was destructive, mean, he was the kind of boy that could put you off men.  He scared me.  Not in a possible sexual predator way, I must stress – more in that he had the potential and the power to humiliate me in the presence of others, had he chosen to victimise me.

I was shy, I was quiet, I had low self-esteem.  Compared to my friends I was also far less advanced sexually and by far less I mean, I had absolutely no experience with my male counter-parts.  At thirteen I hadn’t even kissed a boy.  I didn’t have to kiss many to realise I didn’t actually want to kiss any of them at all – but that’s another story.

I know now, as an adult that being overtly sexually active by the age of 13 is disturbing, but in that time, in the place I grew up where there wasn’t much else to do besides drink cheap spirits, sniff petrol and fuck each other – most of my friends were.

I was different.  I liked boys, but the behaviour of the majority of them confused me.  I was raised rurally by a hard-working, soft-spoken man who taught me to read, write and play backgammon, a diligent teacher and man of the earth who instilled in me the importance of tough grind and the concept of ‘the power of positive thinking’; therefore the idea that my father was once a boy, and most of the boys I knew behaved in an ungracious manner made absolutely no sense to me.

It’s funny what you learn long after the fact.  All men were boys once; a foreign notion to me then, but a simple truth now.

Jordy was best friends with a boy who was the polar opposite of himself – Gregory.  Comical and warm, Gregory was an unambiguous joy to know, whose tender company was revered by many.  Engaging as a boy, he continues now, a grown man and proud father of two sons, to emanate kindness and genuine compassion – in his youth he was responsible for gradually restoring my faith in boys and the sole reason I made the decision to give Jordy a chance to redeem himself, to shake off the ‘dick’ label I had given him as an unapologetic 13 year old with high energy levels, quick unfiltered wit and a sinister laugh.  I figured that if Gregory loved him, and he did, as he so often professed, I too could grow to at least like him.

Although I now know he was just a damaged little boy, projecting his pain and insecurities onto a world he felt had let him down, it has been a long and perilous journey for the boy I once feared, he has traversed the roughest of roads to become the man he is today, the man who second to my father, I most admire.