The Dharma Bum

By Jaysen Buterin

"When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years." - Mark Twain

And here we are boys and girls, back in the saddle again, the OFF! saddle that is - with you as my passengers and guests for this first class-ticket on a nonstop to nowhere train of thought - where it takes me I don't know, but of course you can expect it to derail in the full sardonic, sometimes recondite, and always insomnia-driven splendour that I can only hope you've come to anticipate with my usual monthly array of idioms, intimations and plain old idiocy. While that just may be the longest sentence to appear in this issue, I lay it upon the altar of genuflection for you as a living, breathing specimen of what I'm slowly coming to believe is my writing style.

That's right true believers; I have finally come to terms with the fact that I have a writing style.

Before those thoughts of my self-deprecating ways and diffident diatribes jump the synapse and light the bulb in that lovely head of yours as a thing of the past, easy there Tex. I just said I have a writing style...I never said it was a good one. As if I could shrug off my neuroses, my facetiously melancholic humour that I've grown to love so well...what fun would that be?

Despite the fact that I still espouse the sentiment that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, it appears that some lads and lasses out there have developed an odd affection or at least feign a believable appreciation for these little monthly musings. Yet, there is one soul out there who has always had unconditional faith in me; who has always held me above all else in the potential he realised was inside me - no matter that it lay dormant, stifled by my own capricious misgivings; a shining, shooting star forever burning crisscrossed paths of possibilities in an endless nighttime sky.

This soul so dear to me is my father, and it is for him and more lovingly, to him, that I dedicate this column.

You see dear readers, my father - the distinguished gentleman - Mr. Thomas G. Buterin, recently celebrated a birthday and a mere half a fortnight before that, an anniversary of his marriage to the other shining star in my heavens, my beloved mama. While burning a candle of sadness at both ends that I've still yet to resolve, it dawned on me how much I miss the both of them and it saddened me to think that the accolades and adulations I poured out on paper for my father to read when he opened his birthday card, would only return his gaze with those simple heartfelt words scribed by mine own hand, and not the unconditional reciprocating gleam in the eye of a son who could only dare to dream that he may one day be able to live up to the old adage, "Like father, like son." Yet despite that sadness it brought a smile to my face to think of just how magnanimous, how larger-than-life, how brilliant and doyenic my father has always been, I was just too stupid to realise it.

Samuel Clemens was right, in more ways than even his sagacity allowed him to imagine. You see, ever since I was a wee lad, my father encouraged me to the utmost of his, and my, limits. He never forced me into sports, because quite frankly, I sucked - but hey papa, at least I got that one base hit in the summer of 1986. He always encouraged my creativity and while he may not have been pleased with the way I cut off all the handles of his paint brushes to make rocket-cannons for my space ships or the way I cut off all the fingers of all the right-handed gloves in the house when I wanted to be Michael Jackson - he still loved, encouraged and guided me. And while he may not have been gracious for the way I tried to save him money by shutting off and restarting the gas pump right before it filled up the car so we wouldn't have to pay (hey I was eight, it made sense to me), he still inspired me to become the gent I am today.

The point is kids, that despite all the accidents, parent-teacher conferences, long hair, blue hair, tattoos and everything else in between, he has always seen and always will see in me what I myself still often fail to recognize - an innate creativity that has fortunately found an outlet thru writing. His loving belief in me and my infinite graciousness, love and respect for him guide the hand that pens these words that stir the tears. To you father, I salute you - I'll see you soon.

To everyone else - I'll see you next month. So as the sun sets slowly in the west, I bid you a fond farewell, where I sit in silent awe, wondering just how smart my father will be tomorrow.