The warmth of the Eastern Sun

embracing like mother's arms.

Wisdom of the Bodhi tree

infusing through Nana's recipe.

Tendrel love of a thousand arms,

spreading to all through flashing tendrils.

Life's synthesis may well be a movie,

let's flip the script from Me to We.

Dearest, Professor Ellwood

Happy (belated) birthday! Might I add; it's your big seven-o too! Of course, you never really cared for such trivial labeling; like the course of human growth and development is really observed in such clean, machine-printed terms as those universally perceived and perpetuated throughout society. And, that you, most likely, will never read this letter in the first place as you were wrongfully (in my humble outsider view) plucked from this one of many possible worlds in January of 2020 and dropped– well, nobody really knows with any tangible degree of certainty as death, arguably, provokes humanity's most spectacular questions. In any case, I wanted to take a moment and thank you, mister Neil Ellwood Peart, a.k.a. The Professor or Pratt, for all that you've done to help me navigate and make sense of this wild, oft-confusing world as a fellow immersive introverted extrovert, even though we've never met.

I began my own far less prolific journey on the drums at thirteen years old (sound familiar?). After years of reluctantly putting up with my tapping of beats and patterns on tabletops, desks, chairs, my own thighs, and just about anything I could reach with pencils, pens, or even my own fingertips to whatever music was playing in my mental jukebox, my dad caved to my odd (and increasingly annoying) behavior and bought me my first real drum set; a used silver Pearl Export 5-piece kit (which I still have today, just spray-painted to a wine-red shade similar to that of your classic Tama Superstar set from Permanent Waves and Moving Pictures). He then introduced me to the other-worldly drumming of Keith Moon, and, like you, I was totally blown away! His bewildering combination of chaotic, almost violent technique with a somehow graceful fluidity made the instrument not only look cool but also like an absolute blast to play. I was too neurotic for lessons, so I secretly studied the percussion sections throughout my years of middle and high school symphony bands, taking copious mental notes with my French horn in hand– yes, I played the French horn in those days– then running home after school to practice rudiments and fundamental mechanics on the kit.

Later, thanks to the unstoppable tide of the internet, I then regularly found myself wandering down rabbit holes of classic rock's finest drummers, immersing myself into the rhythmic worlds of guys like Mitch Mitchell, Alex Van Halen, Roger Taylor, John Bonham, and Stewart Copeland. As my musical palate grew to appreciate more progressive styles of rock, diving into bands like Yes and Emerson, Lake, & Palmer, I stumbled upon a humble little Canadian trio called Rush, featuring some weird genius drummer with a massive kit and a cold social reputation, as was essentially voiced throughout the rock zeitgeist of the early 2000s. Well, I didn't give a damn about the critics because I immediately fell in love with the symphonic drum parts coming from the mind and limbs of that very weirdo. I suddenly became thirsty for all things drums and drumming as if I were crumbling in the Kalahari; I wanted nothing more than to get lost in the waves of rhythm and musicality surprisingly made possible by such a seemingly humble instrument hit with wooden sticks.

So, I did. I feverishly built up a collection of albums and concert DVDs and invested whatever cash I could scrape up off the teenage financial floor into a double-bass pedal, roto-toms, and China cymbals to make my kit bigger, more musical, and just more fun! Then, the real work began. I spent countless hours around academia behind the kit and studying your drum parts; reverse engineering licks and patterns and working on my mechanics, but never with the hollow intention of merely covering Rush songs. For it was your innovative fusing of world beat percussion into progressive rock that fueled my own curiosity toward what I could create on the drums; toward finding my own musical voice.

It was through this immersion that I began to peel away the layers of the real Neil Peart; to slowly uncover the heart and soul driving not only some of the most incredible drum parts in rock music, but arguably some of the most thought-provoking and, dare I say, emotional lyrics ever to be voiced throughout the modern music ethos. For I soon learned that you wrote nearly all of the band's lyrics, from your Rush debut of Fly by Night in 1975 to the 2012 tour de force finale of Clockwork Angels. Of course, such a unique approach to lyricism brings out droves of fanatics and haters, Rolling Stone magazine famously joining the latter as they once rated you as one of rock's worst lyricists. I'll never forget your discussion about this on CBC's "Strombo" (formerly "The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos"), riffing about the harsh criticism with a refreshingly humble, good-humored, and essentially Taoist approach of ignoring good reviews as much as the bad ones, as they can both just as easily mess with your mind and throw you off course.

And, after finally reading your life-changing 2002 book, Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road, in 2020, it became as clear as those crystal-blue Quebecois winter skies that you are a genuine humanitarian; a man who truly finds love in lending a hand to anyone within arms' reach treading treacherous water, even as you pick up the pieces of your own life shattered by incomprehensible tragedy. Hell, I still cry whenever I think about that horrible scene when the news of Selena's fatal accident fell upon you and Jackie that fateful August night in 1997; you in a frantic traumatic state trying to console her while uncharacteristically fighting off your dog, Nicky, who was only trying to help. Not that I want to bring up such somber moments, but it's one that immediately etched itself into my brain as a reminder of the colossal challenge you were able to overcome, one little victory at a time.

Naturally, it's just as clear that you would likely squirm a little from all the praise pouring out of such a letter from a total stranger, but hopefully only before finding comfort and gratitude in the genuine love underlying my words. For even though we have obviously never physically crossed paths, ne'er a day goes by in which I fail to gratuitously think about all the ways in which your music, lyrics, books, and interviews have helped me grow into the man I am today– a socially awkward, introverted extrovert with a deep love for not only drumming, but writing, reading, nature, adventure, and, really, my own human experience. And, most importantly, a good human being through your "remote" teachings and wisdom.

To close this rambling tribute to a man I truly feel to be a close uncle whom I never met, I will leave you with one of my favorite Rush lyrics, a nod to the death of Ernest Hemingway from the 1982 Signals deep-cut, "Losing It:"

Some are born to move the world; to live their fantasies.

But most of us just dream about the things we'd like to be.

Sadder still to watch it die than never to have known it.

For you, the blind who once could see

The bell tolls for thee...

Much love,

Keegan

P.S. May our paths cross one day in another of these many possible worlds. I will have a bottle of the Macallan ready.

Here is an abstract recap of my last week (2/28/22-3/6/22).

Note: This piece contains strong language.

Pain – from my world to yours, and everywhere in between.

I'm in pain. But pain often brings healing. And yet, as I hobble through life while my own healing touch works its magic upon my aching muscles, a new pain spreads through tendrils of limitation. Such anguish may hardly endure to the outside eye – merely a few grains in the hourglass of human existence – to eyes strained by a mind in overdrive, the grains cling to the crystalline wall. Every task, every movement, every twitch met with a cursed groan of disbel–

"Jesus Christ! Enough of this flowery language about your fucking glute injury from a shitty beer-league hockey game nearly two weeks ago! Yes, it may be uncomfortable sitting in a chair more than ten minutes; granted, it sucks you can't do most of your beloved yoga poses; of course, it's a bummer you need to miss another hockey game. But my god! At least you can walk your dog, play your drums, meditate, and get on with your damned life! Be thankful there isn't a fucking war literally in your backyard."

Yes, my pain is a soothing menthol sensation in the outstretched shadow of real suffering half a world away. Merciful cries shatter the air as scores of hearts, minds, bodies, and souls are flayed into agony by the marching boots and roaring artillery; skylines of homes and livelihoods crumbled into indistinguishable disaster. A living, breathing nightmare conceived by tattered threads of sanity – a once-mighty being rendered into a soulless vehicle for demonic power play. Hundreds of miles away, another pain plagues many in the Motherland, as fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters take to the streets, turning heartache into vibrant healing energy for their suffering neighbors – their brethren in Ukraine. I may sit uncomfortably, but I join those and comfortably stand for Ukraine.

Well, well, well. Here is my first attempt to wrap up the week that was with more flow and rhythm than one would typically find in a blog or journal.

Voices. All around me voices call; comfort; console.

With growing daylight seeping in through standard-issue blinds, the loving voice of my greyhound rouses me from slumber as outside birds chirp their morning routines. Exquisite beans express their transformation into liquid joy through bubbly chatter while musicians voice their loves, lives, and liabilities through ethereal wind, string, and beat. Voices of good company echo through my ears like the hysterical shouts of excited youth through the tiled halls at toll of the day's final bell. Upon a frozen gameboard, human pieces voice determination to score points through power and speed while I voice my defense through patience and reflex until the triumphant voices of my brethren ring loud in victorious celebration. Upon a lighted stage, my soul strokes, rolls, and crashes its way into the open ears of a joyous crowd in a great release of cacophonic voice.

Alas.

More voices. All around me voices scold; scorn; scream.

From the nineth hour of day one, alphanumeric voices echo through my inbox with unattainable demands from half a world away as my fingers stumble through anxious promise. Soothing music bursts into a symphony of irrepressible bullshit while I retort to an audience of none with sheer disgust. In my mailbox voices once distant returned to announce their presence from envelope homes – not to gift or celebrate reunion, but to peel and scrape me down to my littlest of bones. Moments of restful afternoon silence are shattered by indistinguishable calls from an ever-shifting cesspool of soulless parasites. From the ice to that very lighted stage, a war of words rages in murky subconscious depths; noble voices stand their ground and defend humanistic rebirth while extremists scream for annihilation in the name of a faceless, hateful, omnipresent machine.

All around me –

the voices call.

Soaring high through skies of blue –

riding aerial waves, so pristine.

Like a winged specter on patrol –

I watch your lives below unseen.

A chasm lies between the worlds –

meters to lightyears as faces fade.

I see clearly through the divide –

but action reduced to hollow charade.

Never you mind as onward I fly –

the sky my home with nowhere to nest.

Alas! Gut beckons with mighty growl –

a daily stroll turned noble quest.

Drenched by fear’s tidal swell,

my wings freeze in icy shroud.

All nerves dancing in frenzied haze,

pulsing to the beat of my heart aloud.

Suddenly, a warmth wells from within –

an elixir to a heart in need of a fill.

With survival in reach of resolute arms,

I breathe, breathe, and gather my will.

Thoughts settle, my vision clears –

I scan for prey, refreshed from rebirth.

Target locked by laser-guide eyes –

the floor drops, and I shoot to the earth.

I dive; body bound by adrenal ties –

driven to land intact without fault.

The wind; relentless in arrowhead siege –

my downy phalanx diverting assault.

Surroundings blurred at breakneck speed –

the earth launches for mid-air strike.

I brace to fight the unreckoned force –

straining my mind and matter alike.

I near a blow with the rocky ground –

but in dire hunger, I push with all might.

Talons plunge into cushioning still.

I feast in ease, then ascend –

into flight.

Age defines never thy manhood –

merely the climbs and falls of thy craft.

One has many crafts to be understood –

stockpiled success builds thee thy raft.

Take thy raft and ride the great torrent –

joyously, but rocks may strike thee dead.

Help ashore comes from those abhorrent –

stay afloat to Man’s tranquil waters ahead.

Worn and scathed from attack all around,

the spotted caterpillar finds his new home.

Timing so perfect from life’s harsh ways,

our triumphant crawler begins his new days.

A beautiful chrysalis within which he will thrive,

calm and secure from threats near and far.

Months of solace in great transformation,

reborn, he will rise from past degradation.

@EvelynDawn I wrote this poem as an analogy to my long-time bout with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. These last two months have been the opening stages of real, refreshed transformation after years of therapy and medications.

With paranoia towards contracting new strands of Influenza, the Common Cold, and other contagious ailments seemingly (and rightfully) on the rise, it's inevitable that an aversion towards shaking hands with your fellow man (or woman) would follow suit. However, there is something about a particular ever-growing alternative that leaves me shaking my head, cringing, or even feeling a little queasy - the "fist bump."

I have always been late to the party of new bro-tastic handshakes and other physical greetings. The handshake-bro-hug combo, that one where two bros pound fists top-to-bottom, then bump from the front (never cared to learn the name), and that one where there is some form of double sideways hand-slapping before ending in a bump immediately come to mind. It's doubly-awkward when an individual whom I have never made any form of physical contact with decides to pull one of these kinesthetic concoctions out of the bag, leaving me to react in an anxious, dumbfounded manner. In my mind, the "fist bump" is firmly planted within this realm of bro-centric physical greetings.

You see, I play hockey in a couple of men's leagues (beer leagues, if you will), and I have played the sport for over twenty years. I am certainly no stranger to "fist bumps." To me, encountering such an exchange between teammates at the rink is to be expected, mainly because an air of machismo surrounds hockey and renders any form of fist-centric greeting outside of a formal handshake acceptable. Of course, this does not count the customary "handshake line."

However, the "fist bump" has infiltrated more formal realms within American society, and I have struggled to adapt to this invasion. For example, I have a 9-5 job in an office, and the "fist bump" has unceremoniously found its way into my professional life. It is not a widespread invasion yet, but an attack nonetheless - one for which I do not have defenses built. When a "fist bump" situation presents itself in the office, or in any other formal environment, is it wrong that I am overcome with bewilderment - a feeling of "what the hell just happened?" after the deed is done? To take it a step further, am I the only hockey-playing "millennial" who finds the "fist bump" excessively awkward outside of the hockey rink?

Dearest Logical-Self:

Hello! It's me again - your subconscious mind. Listen, I know you are still rather frustrated with me. I mean, I deserve it. Let's face it, I have not exactly lived up to the grand promise I made three weeks ago - that promise of allowing you to live the life you want to live without the clutch of my overbearing nature. In fact, I'm certain it was my overstepping which ultimately led to this week's breakup of which you were on the receiving end.

To put it mildly, I know you really liked her. In fact, I know you had never felt such strong feelings toward another woman so quickly - a rush to a point where you weren't entirely sure how to process everything. I mean, you were fairly certain that the potential of her becoming a part of your life for many years was 100% genuine. Naturally, after seeing similar past experiences end up in sheer heartbreak, I couldn't bear to watch from a distance any longer. Like a protective mother to her child, I felt like I had to step in and make sure you were getting not only what you wanted, but what you deserved.

However, it was this action which was a complete 180 against my recent promise to you - a promise where I would unconditionally trust your strength and kaizen-like drive towards becoming the man you ultimately want to be. Therefore by the end of this brief relationship with her, you were not the determined man with a fire of vitality and passion roaring within as demonstrated in the onset - a fire further fueled by my care and guidance. Rather, my presence ultimately became a cloak which smothered that fire within and further reduced you to a feeble, hesitant pile of burning ash. For that, I am truly sorry.

So, here I am - once again - pleading for your acceptance of my apology. I now understand that such transformations require a lot of time and great patience - two things I honestly did not consider when I first reached out to you for partnership from out of those murky cognitive depths. I also understand that while my intentions will 100% be with your best interests in mind, I know (as I am human) that I will overstep my boundaries now and again out of a natural protective drive, regardless of my faith in you. However, I promise to do my very best to work with you from within my boundaries, not against you. It will take some time, no doubt, and we will rub each other the wrong way now and again, but I believe that we will make great things happen! So, please, accept my apology.

Sincerely,

Your Subconscious Mind