March 2024
Sing
Find more music at the bottom of the page ↓↓↓
The songs only appear in web mode
The songs only appear in web mode
Journey into the extraordinary life of Lindsay Wincherauk, a boy born in 1960 under the shadow of secrecy and shame at Beulah Home for wayward women in Edmonton, Alberta. Believed to be the seventh-born child of a family shrouded in deception, Lindsay’s life unfolds as a testament to resilience and self-discovery.
From the sandlots to the football field, Lindsay’s athletic prowess earned him accolades as an All-star + Provincial Champion in baseball and football, even becoming a National Champion and record-holding, inducted into three halls of fame quarterback despite being one-eyed blind. But beneath the surface, Lindsay grappled with a hidden truth that would shape his journey for decades to come.
Tragedy struck early in Lindsay’s life at an early age when cancer claimed the lives of both his parents, leaving him to navigate the turbulent waters of grief and loss throughout his twenties. However, the most shocking revelation came in 2003 during a seemingly routine request for a new birth certificate. In a drab bureaucratic exchange, a civil servant dropped a bombshell: Lindsay couldn’t renew his birth certificate until he contacted his parents and asked them who his real parents were. This demand struck Lindsay like a thunderbolt. He had spent over seven years watching the people he believed to be his parents succumb to illness, rendering the civil servant’s request impossible to fulfil. This revelation shattered Lindsay’s sense of identity, unravelling the carefully constructed façade of his family’s past and plunging him into a profound existential crisis.
As Lindsay embarks on a quest to uncover the truth of his origins, he confronts the ghosts of his past and discovers the painful reality of his birth parents’ identities. Yet, through it all, Lindsay’s irrepressible humour and resilience shine through, offering a beacon of hope amidst the darkness.
In 2016, Lindsay comes face to face with his birth mother on her deathbed, a poignant moment of closure and reconciliation that encapsulates his remarkable journey of self-discovery and forgiveness.
“Lindsay - A Life” is a poignant tale of resilience, redemption, and the enduring power of the human spirit. Join Lindsay Wincherauk as he navigates the complexities of identity, loss, and, ultimately, the triumph of the human heart.
From the sandlots to the football field, Lindsay’s athletic prowess earned him accolades as an All-star + Provincial Champion in baseball and football, even becoming a National Champion and record-holding, inducted into three halls of fame quarterback despite being one-eyed blind. But beneath the surface, Lindsay grappled with a hidden truth that would shape his journey for decades to come.
Tragedy struck early in Lindsay’s life at an early age when cancer claimed the lives of both his parents, leaving him to navigate the turbulent waters of grief and loss throughout his twenties. However, the most shocking revelation came in 2003 during a seemingly routine request for a new birth certificate. In a drab bureaucratic exchange, a civil servant dropped a bombshell: Lindsay couldn’t renew his birth certificate until he contacted his parents and asked them who his real parents were. This demand struck Lindsay like a thunderbolt. He had spent over seven years watching the people he believed to be his parents succumb to illness, rendering the civil servant’s request impossible to fulfil. This revelation shattered Lindsay’s sense of identity, unravelling the carefully constructed façade of his family’s past and plunging him into a profound existential crisis.
As Lindsay embarks on a quest to uncover the truth of his origins, he confronts the ghosts of his past and discovers the painful reality of his birth parents’ identities. Yet, through it all, Lindsay’s irrepressible humour and resilience shine through, offering a beacon of hope amidst the darkness.
In 2016, Lindsay comes face to face with his birth mother on her deathbed, a poignant moment of closure and reconciliation that encapsulates his remarkable journey of self-discovery and forgiveness.
“Lindsay - A Life” is a poignant tale of resilience, redemption, and the enduring power of the human spirit. Join Lindsay Wincherauk as he navigates the complexities of identity, loss, and, ultimately, the triumph of the human heart.
Curriculum Vitae
2._cover___resume_march_2024.pdf | |
File Size: | 245 kb |
File Type: |
Enter the world (mind) of Lindsay Wincherauk.
The creative wonderland of a man in his sixties threading the eyehole of a shrinking needle.
Writing. Photography. Art. Rants. Empathy. Kindness. Love. And Hana the cat!
And a whack of plus signs ++++++++++++++++ (16 = a whack).
The creative wonderland of a man in his sixties threading the eyehole of a shrinking needle.
Writing. Photography. Art. Rants. Empathy. Kindness. Love. And Hana the cat!
And a whack of plus signs ++++++++++++++++ (16 = a whack).
1 March 2024
Over the past few weeks, I’ve received a variety of caring yet misguided words and advice:
“We’ll park our trailer anywhere you like so you can live in it instead of being homeless.”
“What’s the lowest-level job you're willing to accept? I don't want to send you inappropriate leads.”
“Why don’t you just skip your rent payment? They can’t evict you for a month.”
“Have you considered declaring bankruptcy?”
“Do you want me to get you into social housing?” Two days later the person who asked, told me he hates where he lives, it depresses the hell out of him, and he wants to end it all. And besides, the government told me the waiting list is several years.
“Maybe you could lie about your age when job hunting? You don’t look your age.”
I was rejected for a job to be a clipboard person, you know, "Hey, can I ask you a quick question?"
“I know it upsets you when I offer my trailer. I do it because I care. I’m not judging you. I can’t understand why you don’t take any ‘job’ or go back to ‘school’ instead of facing homelessness.”
“Why can’t J find a better job to cover the costs?”
After confessing my disdain for clichés, someone sent me, “Don’t give up; every cloud has a silver lining.”
Some of the people who supposedly cared, when I expressed my disdain for clichés, stopped talking to me altogether - I guess their caring was only when it suited them.
I was even sent an empathetic song lyric and a link to the tune, declaring that I’m part of some metaphorical club. When I didn’t engage, this friend expressed concern to someone else (not me, so, I became gossip), who suggested I reach out to the tune sending friend, to appease the friend’s worries.
When I bravely contacted my estranged family after thirty years, a well-meaning friend downplayed the effort, suggesting how my family might feel instead of how hard this was on me.
And it continued... silver linings.
Each piece of ‘advice’ felt like a push off the ledge of a cliff.
. . . . .
Yet, amidst the turmoil, I found kindness.
Strangers praised my writing talent and honesty.
A friend reached out during her partner’s emergency surgery.
Another shared their battle with depression.
And another stated, “When I listen to you talking. It makes me realize how great of a person you are,” and then added, “and it hurts me how people treat you.”
All of these make me want to keep going, because some people get me, and trust me enough to share their experiences with me. I feel incredibly lucky.
. . . . .
Still, the inappropriate advice persists: “Why won’t you take my trailer?”
“Why not default on rent?”
Here’s why: Surrender is not an option for me.
Moving into that trailer seems a step closer to undeniable homelessness (a gateway)—a source of distress. But I understand that your care is conditional on my acceptance of your views of my suffering, and judgement of me not jumping up and down and thanking you for your kindness.
When you can’t grasp someone’s torment, haven’t walked their journey, and aren’t like them—sometimes silence is best. Just offer your care. Hold back on suggestions until you can truly empathize with their plight.
This week, my physical collapse mirrored my emotional state; my heart seemed to stop, and I collapsed. There’ll be no school for me, and should a job interview arise, don’t think I’m unaware of the interviewer’s hidden scrutiny of my age: 63.65479452...—a reminder of the limited years in my prospective career. The clipboard interviewer called me old.
If you are incapable of caring without passing judgment, then you should remain silent.
A true friend would support my creativity, yet it seems that strangers are more encouraging than most friends . Why is that?
Hell, when with a group of friends whilst in, the eye of my life storm, I announced I was trying to find humour in things, and a friend had the audacity, fully aware of how much I’m hurting right now, he had the audacity to say, “Don’t bother, you are not funny.”
And to my other friends: don’t defend those who claim they’re trying to help when they’re not by applauding their lazy words masked as caring. Their words don’t offer solutions; they inflict more pain.
I don’t need your advice. You aren’t me, so please stop dictating your woulds and wouldn'ts as if you could fathom my predicament—a situation I hope you never have to endure. Caring begins with the simple act of listening. If you genuinely cared, you’d probe with questions to understand, not hastily provide a roof after an absence spanning eons. Genuine empathy requires learning who I am now, not proposing impractical solutions that inflict further distress. Stop co-opting my pain to serve your narrative.
I can assure you with virtually absolute certainty that if you were to experience what I am experiencing now, you’d realize why so many well-meaning suggestions can inadvertently cause more harm than good. These often trigger dormant pains buried in my subconscious—pains that may be incomprehensible to you, since my life is not your own.
How can anyone other than the person and their immediate loved ones truly understand the anguish of being unexpectedly laid off at 60? Or the fear of facing an uncertain future at 64?
Can a thirty-year-old empathize? A forty-year-old? How about retirees with secure pensions or those buoyed by family support?
While they may not be able to provide concrete assistance, their well-meaning yet unsought advice sometimes feels judgmental. Even if offered with good intentions, such counsel adds to the burden of those who already feel overwhelmed. It forces them to defend their situation, unintentionally shifting the focus to the perspectives of others and causing them to step gingerly for fear any show of less than full appreciation might lead to further losses. This leaves them beleaguered, restricted, and even more isolated than ever.
I won’t make desperate choices like moving into a trailer or skipping out on rent.
Neither am I going to slice into a metaphorical pie searching for a silver lining. The over 700 rejections have left their mark, making it agonizingly clear there is no work for me.
This week, I did break down. It felt like my heart skipped a beat and I collapsed to the ground, which is alarming—I don’t have time for that because someone sent me another lead to a menial job, and another person sent me a music video.
I share my writings because I believe it’s crucial for everyone to be aware of the way we communicate with one another. In a world where everyone is tired, a display of genuine kindness and efforts to understand one another can significantly contribute to creating a more compassionate world.
Consider it thoroughly before extending an offer of kindness, such as a place to stay.
. . . . .
If you live far away, consider the implications: how would the person manage to uproot their entire life and start anew?
The fear of becoming more isolated and frightened and with fewer options could be overwhelming. Moreover, you must consider the feasibility and duration of your offer. If you haven't been in touch with the person for a long time, your well-meaning gesture might exacerbate their situation. You are unfamiliar with their current circumstances, the individuals in their lives, and the complexity of your proposal. Your offer, though generous, might feel stifling to them. In their eyes, it could be seen as dismissive and demeaning, potentially triggering a negative response.
Even without conditions, such an offer could inadvertently pressure someone already in distress to forsake their current life and relationships for an ideal seemingly beyond reach. While you perceive it as an act of generosity, the recipient—grappling with pain—may interpret it as a further indication that hope is dwindling.
Several people have helped, though I suspect they haven't considered how their well-meaning gestures might undermine my sense of self and leave me feeling obligated to justify my situation. It's exhausting and making me feel less.
Their offers included a trailer for me to live in, suggestions to relocate to a non-tropical island “I don’t understand your reluctance to move away from what’s obviously not working” (I care. I’m not judging), another country, or even a different province. If you read these words and they upset, you...
For those eager to help, there are indeed ways to do so. Admittedly, it's uncomfortable to mention, but financial contributions—though challenging to talk about in hard times—can be a form of support. Asking someone to upend their life even more than it already has been, you may as well grab a hammer and nails. Just saying.
Alternatively, uplifting my creative endeavours would also be deeply appreciated. I have a vision for my future, but time seems slipping away. I worry that accepting a soul-sapping, non-existent, menial job now would be like voluntarily walking off a cliff.
Lastly, as part of my creative projects, you can support me by ordering a pair of custom-designed sneakers for $399.00.
Place your order today, and you can expect delivery by 2027.
In parting, our 13-year-old cat is ill, I'm worried, but I can't do a thing about it. When I shared this with a friend, my friend said, "Why don't you just put her down?" I kid you not.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve received a variety of caring yet misguided words and advice:
“We’ll park our trailer anywhere you like so you can live in it instead of being homeless.”
“What’s the lowest-level job you're willing to accept? I don't want to send you inappropriate leads.”
“Why don’t you just skip your rent payment? They can’t evict you for a month.”
“Have you considered declaring bankruptcy?”
“Do you want me to get you into social housing?” Two days later the person who asked, told me he hates where he lives, it depresses the hell out of him, and he wants to end it all. And besides, the government told me the waiting list is several years.
“Maybe you could lie about your age when job hunting? You don’t look your age.”
I was rejected for a job to be a clipboard person, you know, "Hey, can I ask you a quick question?"
“I know it upsets you when I offer my trailer. I do it because I care. I’m not judging you. I can’t understand why you don’t take any ‘job’ or go back to ‘school’ instead of facing homelessness.”
“Why can’t J find a better job to cover the costs?”
After confessing my disdain for clichés, someone sent me, “Don’t give up; every cloud has a silver lining.”
Some of the people who supposedly cared, when I expressed my disdain for clichés, stopped talking to me altogether - I guess their caring was only when it suited them.
I was even sent an empathetic song lyric and a link to the tune, declaring that I’m part of some metaphorical club. When I didn’t engage, this friend expressed concern to someone else (not me, so, I became gossip), who suggested I reach out to the tune sending friend, to appease the friend’s worries.
When I bravely contacted my estranged family after thirty years, a well-meaning friend downplayed the effort, suggesting how my family might feel instead of how hard this was on me.
And it continued... silver linings.
Each piece of ‘advice’ felt like a push off the ledge of a cliff.
. . . . .
Yet, amidst the turmoil, I found kindness.
Strangers praised my writing talent and honesty.
A friend reached out during her partner’s emergency surgery.
Another shared their battle with depression.
And another stated, “When I listen to you talking. It makes me realize how great of a person you are,” and then added, “and it hurts me how people treat you.”
All of these make me want to keep going, because some people get me, and trust me enough to share their experiences with me. I feel incredibly lucky.
. . . . .
Still, the inappropriate advice persists: “Why won’t you take my trailer?”
“Why not default on rent?”
Here’s why: Surrender is not an option for me.
Moving into that trailer seems a step closer to undeniable homelessness (a gateway)—a source of distress. But I understand that your care is conditional on my acceptance of your views of my suffering, and judgement of me not jumping up and down and thanking you for your kindness.
When you can’t grasp someone’s torment, haven’t walked their journey, and aren’t like them—sometimes silence is best. Just offer your care. Hold back on suggestions until you can truly empathize with their plight.
This week, my physical collapse mirrored my emotional state; my heart seemed to stop, and I collapsed. There’ll be no school for me, and should a job interview arise, don’t think I’m unaware of the interviewer’s hidden scrutiny of my age: 63.65479452...—a reminder of the limited years in my prospective career. The clipboard interviewer called me old.
If you are incapable of caring without passing judgment, then you should remain silent.
A true friend would support my creativity, yet it seems that strangers are more encouraging than most friends . Why is that?
Hell, when with a group of friends whilst in, the eye of my life storm, I announced I was trying to find humour in things, and a friend had the audacity, fully aware of how much I’m hurting right now, he had the audacity to say, “Don’t bother, you are not funny.”
And to my other friends: don’t defend those who claim they’re trying to help when they’re not by applauding their lazy words masked as caring. Their words don’t offer solutions; they inflict more pain.
I don’t need your advice. You aren’t me, so please stop dictating your woulds and wouldn'ts as if you could fathom my predicament—a situation I hope you never have to endure. Caring begins with the simple act of listening. If you genuinely cared, you’d probe with questions to understand, not hastily provide a roof after an absence spanning eons. Genuine empathy requires learning who I am now, not proposing impractical solutions that inflict further distress. Stop co-opting my pain to serve your narrative.
I can assure you with virtually absolute certainty that if you were to experience what I am experiencing now, you’d realize why so many well-meaning suggestions can inadvertently cause more harm than good. These often trigger dormant pains buried in my subconscious—pains that may be incomprehensible to you, since my life is not your own.
How can anyone other than the person and their immediate loved ones truly understand the anguish of being unexpectedly laid off at 60? Or the fear of facing an uncertain future at 64?
Can a thirty-year-old empathize? A forty-year-old? How about retirees with secure pensions or those buoyed by family support?
While they may not be able to provide concrete assistance, their well-meaning yet unsought advice sometimes feels judgmental. Even if offered with good intentions, such counsel adds to the burden of those who already feel overwhelmed. It forces them to defend their situation, unintentionally shifting the focus to the perspectives of others and causing them to step gingerly for fear any show of less than full appreciation might lead to further losses. This leaves them beleaguered, restricted, and even more isolated than ever.
I won’t make desperate choices like moving into a trailer or skipping out on rent.
Neither am I going to slice into a metaphorical pie searching for a silver lining. The over 700 rejections have left their mark, making it agonizingly clear there is no work for me.
This week, I did break down. It felt like my heart skipped a beat and I collapsed to the ground, which is alarming—I don’t have time for that because someone sent me another lead to a menial job, and another person sent me a music video.
I share my writings because I believe it’s crucial for everyone to be aware of the way we communicate with one another. In a world where everyone is tired, a display of genuine kindness and efforts to understand one another can significantly contribute to creating a more compassionate world.
Consider it thoroughly before extending an offer of kindness, such as a place to stay.
. . . . .
If you live far away, consider the implications: how would the person manage to uproot their entire life and start anew?
The fear of becoming more isolated and frightened and with fewer options could be overwhelming. Moreover, you must consider the feasibility and duration of your offer. If you haven't been in touch with the person for a long time, your well-meaning gesture might exacerbate their situation. You are unfamiliar with their current circumstances, the individuals in their lives, and the complexity of your proposal. Your offer, though generous, might feel stifling to them. In their eyes, it could be seen as dismissive and demeaning, potentially triggering a negative response.
Even without conditions, such an offer could inadvertently pressure someone already in distress to forsake their current life and relationships for an ideal seemingly beyond reach. While you perceive it as an act of generosity, the recipient—grappling with pain—may interpret it as a further indication that hope is dwindling.
Several people have helped, though I suspect they haven't considered how their well-meaning gestures might undermine my sense of self and leave me feeling obligated to justify my situation. It's exhausting and making me feel less.
Their offers included a trailer for me to live in, suggestions to relocate to a non-tropical island “I don’t understand your reluctance to move away from what’s obviously not working” (I care. I’m not judging), another country, or even a different province. If you read these words and they upset, you...
For those eager to help, there are indeed ways to do so. Admittedly, it's uncomfortable to mention, but financial contributions—though challenging to talk about in hard times—can be a form of support. Asking someone to upend their life even more than it already has been, you may as well grab a hammer and nails. Just saying.
Alternatively, uplifting my creative endeavours would also be deeply appreciated. I have a vision for my future, but time seems slipping away. I worry that accepting a soul-sapping, non-existent, menial job now would be like voluntarily walking off a cliff.
Lastly, as part of my creative projects, you can support me by ordering a pair of custom-designed sneakers for $399.00.
Place your order today, and you can expect delivery by 2027.
In parting, our 13-year-old cat is ill, I'm worried, but I can't do a thing about it. When I shared this with a friend, my friend said, "Why don't you just put her down?" I kid you not.
Follow Lindsay's War on Depression + Uncertainty (With Movement)
ON THIS PAGE
|
|
Content
Subject to change without notice,
or whenever I please.
I was going to say 'want' but I think 'please' is softer.
Subject to change without notice,
or whenever I please.
I was going to say 'want' but I think 'please' is softer.
↓The Big Days↓
There comes a point in life (maybe an age) where if we are not spending most of our time cultivating our passions and chasing our dreams—eventually, you'll become nothing more than small talk.
|
Statistics
2024 Totals
Dear Universe,
I have a few requests for 2024!
2024 Totals
Dear Universe,
I have a few requests for 2024!
Monday, March 18
Next Update: March 25
Next Update: March 25
Steps Total = 1,860,319
Average Steps Per Day = 23,850 Miles Per Day = 12.15 Total Miles = 1,048.53 Seawall Laps = 188.61 Consecutive Days (Fitness Asylum) = 175 Monday, March 25 it will = 182 (if the streak continues) Resting Heart Rate = 36 Record Year: 2023 Steps Total = 8,141,057 Average Steps Per Month = 678,421 Average Steps Per Day = 22,304 Miles Per Day = 11.13 Total Miles = 3,997.69 Seawall Laps = 719.11 Record Month: July 2022 Steps Total = 1,243,230 Miles Total = 624.61 Record Day 2023: (November 2) Steps = 42,077 Miles = 21.57 All-Time Record Day 2022 (July 19) Steps = 50,572 Miles = 25.04 Steps Since 2020 = 28,980,082 (14,365.31 miles) Books Read (2024) = 11 Books Written (2024) = 3 Manuscripts Pitched = 880+ Jobs Applied For = 850+ Red = World Record |
THE MOVEMENT RECORD BOOK
1._movement_stats.pdf | |
File Size: | 931 kb |
File Type: |
March 18Flashback Monday
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
|
Who is Lindsay Wincherauk?
Lindsay entered this world in a place where unwed mothers were ostracized, their ‘bastard’ offspring swiftly torn away, only to be trafficked into adoption, all in the name of rectifying their ‘error’ and protecting the façade of family and church.
Lindsay's not-dad Eulogy (written by Lindsay)
“Hello, my name is Lindsay, and I’m the son of my loving father. But here’s the thing - he wasn't really my father. It was the times. Screw the times. My not-dad was a hard-working man, albeit a bit of a coward. It was the times. When my mother, who wasn’t really my mother but was, got pregnant out of wedlock (with me), my dear not-dad sent her to a religious place to fix her and get rid of me. It didn’t work. Nobody wanted me. Not-dad loved to drink. He worked hard, I think, but who knows. He told me I was Romanian royalty. He also told me that the Premier of Saskatchewan’s son, Colin Thatcher, murdered my cousin, ‘Girl in Saskatoon.’ He also told me I was his son. He raised seven children lovingly, well, actually only six. I spent most of my life trying to get his attention. It didn’t work. After my football games, he would gush about one of his other sons. Are you laughing? That was the funny anecdote. When I turned 18, I got to spend six or seven years watching him slowly die - it felt like the times were still chasing us. Let me backtrack for a moment. He taught me how to drive, but he only let me drive in reverse. Maybe that’s the funny anecdote. Every night when he came home from work, he would fight with my mother in front of me, always about money and how burdensome it was to have another child - which I assume was me. During these fights, he would often punch himself in the head. I have to thank him for that, because it taught me to punch walls when I start slipping into fits of rage. His lung collapsed due to smoking. After, he snuck cigarettes in the bathroom. The smoke drifted under the door. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my not-dad, and I appreciate that he fed me and provided for me, taking the pressure off me having to do it myself. If there’s one thing, I want you to remember about my not-dad, it’s that his decision to keep me has left me haunted by ghosts throughout my life. After my not-dad and not-mum died, our family splintered apart, and I was finally gotten rid of, and I’m constantly reminded that I was never truly part of the family - I was nothing more than an expensive and unappreciated inconvenience.
Lindsay’s Eulogy (written by Abe):
Lindsay was a kind-hearted man, taller than average, and possessed a striking handsomeness. Most people found him likable, except for those who found him loud and exhausting. He had a remarkable ability to run swiftly and hit a golf ball over 350 yards, perhaps even more than once. Above all, he cherished his family, even though he doesn’t know who they are. Except for J and Hana of course, and perhaps Patchy. Lindsay had a wonderful sense of humour and brought joy and laughter to those around him, a gift he developed through his own pain. He was a diligent worker, known for his unwavering loyalty, sometimes to his own detriment. Misunderstood by many due to his loud and alluring voice, some believed he spoke more than he listened, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Lindsay abhorred racism, and although some urged him to lighten up, they were categorically wrong. He is in three different Halls of Fame as a one-eyed blind, quarterback. Ultimately, he aimed to make the world a slightly better place each day.
“Hello, my name is Lindsay, and I’m the son of my loving father. But here’s the thing - he wasn't really my father. It was the times. Screw the times. My not-dad was a hard-working man, albeit a bit of a coward. It was the times. When my mother, who wasn’t really my mother but was, got pregnant out of wedlock (with me), my dear not-dad sent her to a religious place to fix her and get rid of me. It didn’t work. Nobody wanted me. Not-dad loved to drink. He worked hard, I think, but who knows. He told me I was Romanian royalty. He also told me that the Premier of Saskatchewan’s son, Colin Thatcher, murdered my cousin, ‘Girl in Saskatoon.’ He also told me I was his son. He raised seven children lovingly, well, actually only six. I spent most of my life trying to get his attention. It didn’t work. After my football games, he would gush about one of his other sons. Are you laughing? That was the funny anecdote. When I turned 18, I got to spend six or seven years watching him slowly die - it felt like the times were still chasing us. Let me backtrack for a moment. He taught me how to drive, but he only let me drive in reverse. Maybe that’s the funny anecdote. Every night when he came home from work, he would fight with my mother in front of me, always about money and how burdensome it was to have another child - which I assume was me. During these fights, he would often punch himself in the head. I have to thank him for that, because it taught me to punch walls when I start slipping into fits of rage. His lung collapsed due to smoking. After, he snuck cigarettes in the bathroom. The smoke drifted under the door. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my not-dad, and I appreciate that he fed me and provided for me, taking the pressure off me having to do it myself. If there’s one thing, I want you to remember about my not-dad, it’s that his decision to keep me has left me haunted by ghosts throughout my life. After my not-dad and not-mum died, our family splintered apart, and I was finally gotten rid of, and I’m constantly reminded that I was never truly part of the family - I was nothing more than an expensive and unappreciated inconvenience.
Lindsay’s Eulogy (written by Abe):
Lindsay was a kind-hearted man, taller than average, and possessed a striking handsomeness. Most people found him likable, except for those who found him loud and exhausting. He had a remarkable ability to run swiftly and hit a golf ball over 350 yards, perhaps even more than once. Above all, he cherished his family, even though he doesn’t know who they are. Except for J and Hana of course, and perhaps Patchy. Lindsay had a wonderful sense of humour and brought joy and laughter to those around him, a gift he developed through his own pain. He was a diligent worker, known for his unwavering loyalty, sometimes to his own detriment. Misunderstood by many due to his loud and alluring voice, some believed he spoke more than he listened, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Lindsay abhorred racism, and although some urged him to lighten up, they were categorically wrong. He is in three different Halls of Fame as a one-eyed blind, quarterback. Ultimately, he aimed to make the world a slightly better place each day.
In "Possibilities," Lindsay wrestles with the final lines of this mesmerizing manuscript, recognizing a memoir, while a testament to the past, is only a moment frozen in the flow of life. As the author bids farewell to these pages, he embraces the essence of possibilities life offers, acknowledging that even amidst depression, uncertainty, fear, and pain, there lies potential for growth and transformation.
Being a memoir writer, Lindsay knows that life's journey doesn't end with the exclamation mark on the manuscript. The path continues to unfold before us, and it is the beauty of possibilities that keeps us moving forward. Along this path, he emphasizes the significance of movement — the act of continually evolving and remaining true to ourselves. Every step we take leads us closer to the person we are meant to be.
Lindsay recognizes the value of listening — to others, ourselves, and the world around us. Empathy and compassion become essential tools in understanding and connecting with others. In addition, he celebrates the unbridled joy found in comedy, recognizing the power of laughter to heal and uplift.
While Lindsay’s journey has been filled with grief and uncertainty, he reminds us that healing and recovery do not adhere to rigid timelines. Life’s challenges may be unpredictable, but every sunrise presents a new opportunity to move forward and embrace the possibilities that await us.
As the final lines of the manuscript take shape, Lindsay leaves the reader with a poignant message: Life is a journey, and though its path may be challenging, it is rife with opportunities for growth, understanding, and connection.
Embrace the possibilities that come your way, for they hold the key to shaping who you are meant to become. And as you continue along your path, remember to keep moving, even in the face of adversity, for tomorrow’s sun will rise, and new possibilities will emerge.
Lindsay Wincherauk from "My Days: July 2023"
Being a memoir writer, Lindsay knows that life's journey doesn't end with the exclamation mark on the manuscript. The path continues to unfold before us, and it is the beauty of possibilities that keeps us moving forward. Along this path, he emphasizes the significance of movement — the act of continually evolving and remaining true to ourselves. Every step we take leads us closer to the person we are meant to be.
Lindsay recognizes the value of listening — to others, ourselves, and the world around us. Empathy and compassion become essential tools in understanding and connecting with others. In addition, he celebrates the unbridled joy found in comedy, recognizing the power of laughter to heal and uplift.
While Lindsay’s journey has been filled with grief and uncertainty, he reminds us that healing and recovery do not adhere to rigid timelines. Life’s challenges may be unpredictable, but every sunrise presents a new opportunity to move forward and embrace the possibilities that await us.
As the final lines of the manuscript take shape, Lindsay leaves the reader with a poignant message: Life is a journey, and though its path may be challenging, it is rife with opportunities for growth, understanding, and connection.
Embrace the possibilities that come your way, for they hold the key to shaping who you are meant to become. And as you continue along your path, remember to keep moving, even in the face of adversity, for tomorrow’s sun will rise, and new possibilities will emerge.
Lindsay Wincherauk from "My Days: July 2023"
From an obfuscated beginning, shrouded in neglect, life unfurled in riddles indecipherable. Serendipitously, kindred spirits—companions and their kin—extended salvaging hands, and under their warmth, the seeds of my imagination began to sprout. Aimlessly I drifted, a compass without north, a perpetual ricochet against life’s relentless walls. Chaos reigned supreme—until mortality’s cold whisper, grief’s clenched fist, and the leering specters of abandonment and trepidation jolted my essence violently. A detonation sent shockwaves through my being: disarray embodied, shattered, trembling in the abyss.
In the theater of chaos, I encountered the phantoms of death, heartache, isolation, and fear, each act escalating until an explosive revelation shattered my essence. My soul, ravaged and laid bare, I plunged into the wreckage of my past, desperate to piece together the fragments of a life disarrayed.
Amidst the tumultuous journey of self-destruction, where sabotage stripped away the scant shreds of good in my existence, I imploded, sinking to nadirs unseen. However, from that abyss, the careful hands of camaraderie reached out, hauling me toward redemption.
I, with my often spoke of sexy feet, turned ash and despair to the fuel of my resurrection. Like the mythical phoenix, I soared from my own incineration—tears streaming, knees buckling, yet enduring the relentless cycle of life’s ricochet. In spite of renewed cascades of sorrow, the unshakable truth persisted—I was, am, and perhaps will ever be, beautifully flawed.
Amid the resurgence, Europe’s eclectic chorus sang an ode to the beauty of imperfection. Embraced in their melody, I ascended once more—only to find myself in a solitary free fall, kinless, hitting the cradle of rock bottom yet again. Sobs wracked my frame; yearnings for nonexistence clung like ivy to my thoughts. Alienation’s cold fingers prodded at my resolve until, defiant, I stood anew, a smile defiantly painted on my lips, a question mark shaping my identity.
Discovery beckoned as anger ebbed; but life, relentless in its whims, struck with surgical precision: the youngest, my beacon of kinship, stricken from existence—followed too soon by the architects of my creation and kindred blood. A cataclysmic ailment rent my vessel, yet amidst cascading loss, empathy blossomed—for mother, for father, for their progenitors, tangled in a lineage of unanswered enigmas.
Truth gnawed at my core: blame is but a fool’s errand in this starkly human pageant. Yet, through the sorrows and unwitting falsehoods, I stand resolute—smiling must transcend the days, as regrets hold no dominion over the soul I have crafted from this maelstrom of existence. I emerge not with regret, but with profound recognition of the person I have become.
- The Days in the Life of Lindsay Wincherauk ~The Travails of an Unwanted Son~
In the theater of chaos, I encountered the phantoms of death, heartache, isolation, and fear, each act escalating until an explosive revelation shattered my essence. My soul, ravaged and laid bare, I plunged into the wreckage of my past, desperate to piece together the fragments of a life disarrayed.
Amidst the tumultuous journey of self-destruction, where sabotage stripped away the scant shreds of good in my existence, I imploded, sinking to nadirs unseen. However, from that abyss, the careful hands of camaraderie reached out, hauling me toward redemption.
I, with my often spoke of sexy feet, turned ash and despair to the fuel of my resurrection. Like the mythical phoenix, I soared from my own incineration—tears streaming, knees buckling, yet enduring the relentless cycle of life’s ricochet. In spite of renewed cascades of sorrow, the unshakable truth persisted—I was, am, and perhaps will ever be, beautifully flawed.
Amid the resurgence, Europe’s eclectic chorus sang an ode to the beauty of imperfection. Embraced in their melody, I ascended once more—only to find myself in a solitary free fall, kinless, hitting the cradle of rock bottom yet again. Sobs wracked my frame; yearnings for nonexistence clung like ivy to my thoughts. Alienation’s cold fingers prodded at my resolve until, defiant, I stood anew, a smile defiantly painted on my lips, a question mark shaping my identity.
Discovery beckoned as anger ebbed; but life, relentless in its whims, struck with surgical precision: the youngest, my beacon of kinship, stricken from existence—followed too soon by the architects of my creation and kindred blood. A cataclysmic ailment rent my vessel, yet amidst cascading loss, empathy blossomed—for mother, for father, for their progenitors, tangled in a lineage of unanswered enigmas.
Truth gnawed at my core: blame is but a fool’s errand in this starkly human pageant. Yet, through the sorrows and unwitting falsehoods, I stand resolute—smiling must transcend the days, as regrets hold no dominion over the soul I have crafted from this maelstrom of existence. I emerge not with regret, but with profound recognition of the person I have become.
- The Days in the Life of Lindsay Wincherauk ~The Travails of an Unwanted Son~
Lindsay Has Worked As
Dishwasher + Gardiner + Waiter + Bartender + Hotel Manager + Coach + Bartender + Sales Representative + Shipper/Receiver + Hair Model + Bartender + Insurance Agent + DJ + Bartender + Landscaper + Opinion Editorialist (24 Hours Vancouver) + Telephone Solicitor + Construction Worker + Bar Manager + Core Sample Tester + Hair Product Huckster + Bouncer + Almost Nude Model + Movie + Television X-tra + Night Security + Human Resources Guru + Event Planer + Editor + Humourist/Comic + Author.
A Life of Experience
Throughout my career life spanning over 45 years, I have held a diverse range of roles, each contributing to my wealth of experience and skill set. From my humble beginnings as a Dishwasher and Gardener to leadership positions such as Hotel Manager and Human Resources Guru, I have continually adapted and thrived in various industries and environments.
My journey includes stints as a Waiter, Bartender, Sales Representative, and Shipper/Receiver, where I honed my customer service and organizational abilities. I ventured into creative fields as a DJ, Opinion Editorialist for 24 Hours Vancouver, and Author, showcasing my versatility and passion for expression.
Additionally, I’ve contributed to various sectors, including Construction, Insurance, and Entertainment, bringing my expertise to diverse projects and challenges. From managing events and editing content to providing humour and insight as a Humourist/Comic, I have embraced each opportunity with enthusiasm and dedication.
My career life been marked by adaptability, resilience, and a relentless pursuit of excellence.
My journey includes stints as a Waiter, Bartender, Sales Representative, and Shipper/Receiver, where I honed my customer service and organizational abilities. I ventured into creative fields as a DJ, Opinion Editorialist for 24 Hours Vancouver, and Author, showcasing my versatility and passion for expression.
Additionally, I’ve contributed to various sectors, including Construction, Insurance, and Entertainment, bringing my expertise to diverse projects and challenges. From managing events and editing content to providing humour and insight as a Humourist/Comic, I have embraced each opportunity with enthusiasm and dedication.
My career life been marked by adaptability, resilience, and a relentless pursuit of excellence.
Curriculum Vitae
2._cover___resume_march_2024.pdf | |
File Size: | 245 kb |
File Type: |
31._possibilities_-_dream_chasers.pdf | |
File Size: | 640 kb |
File Type: |
what i do every day?
The Given
The Given
- i update the site.
- i Write.
- i usually go to the Fitness Asylum.
- i Pitch.
- i Read.
- i Walk.
- i Write More.
- i Create.
Oh yeah, and an autodidact, to boot
A Lindsay Musing
The crying heart does not seek an echo; it seeks solace, aid—a hand to hold.
IN THE PRODUCTION LAB
Book Lengths: A Guide for Writers
Flash Fiction: 1-1,000 words.
Short Story: 1,000-10,000 words.
Chap Books: 4,000-10,000 words (20-40 pages).
Novelette: 7,500-20,000 words.
Novellas: 17,500-40,000 words.
Novel: 50,000+ words.
Short Story: 1,000-10,000 words.
Chap Books: 4,000-10,000 words (20-40 pages).
Novelette: 7,500-20,000 words.
Novellas: 17,500-40,000 words.
Novel: 50,000+ words.
surviving_life__a_passage_from_humans_bistro_.pdf | |
File Size: | 164 kb |
File Type: |
corporations_caring_for_the_people.pdf | |
File Size: | 195 kb |
File Type: |
Cover Art: Lindsay Wincherauk
2021 ~ 2022 ~ 2023 ~ 2024
↑↑↑ LW original art ↑↑↑
Book Passages or |poems|
Tru + Joy Find Love by Lindsay Wincherauk
$5.00 of each book sale goes to "The Falling Through the Cracks Foundation.
Battling homeless one donation at a time - judgement-free.
Battling homeless one donation at a time - judgement-free.
Homeless @ 63 + This |Poems|
+ Food Insecurity + Never Give Up + Carbon Footprint + Fear Personified + Depression
homeless___63.pdf | |
File Size: | 910 kb |
File Type: |
My Freshest Book Thoughts
Completed + Almost Manuscripts
|I wrote or am in the process of writing|
|I wrote or am in the process of writing|
- Lindsay - The Memoir
- Glue
- Chasing Neon
- Canned: Fired @ 59
- The Stairs
- Drawings by Harlan
- Tru & Joy Find Love
- A 60-Year-Old-Man Running in Flip Flops
- Laugh
- I'm Not a Poet: Volume 1
- E.X.P.E.R.I.M.E.N.T.A.L
- My Days: June 2023
- My Days: July 2023
- My Days: August-September 2023 (Featuring: Abe)
- Lindsay Musings: Volume 1 or if you prefer:
- The Days in the Life of Lindsay Wincherauk: The Travails of an Unwanted Son - Vol 1: 'Have' and 'Have Not'
- The Days in the Life of Lindsay Wincherauk: The Travails of an Unwanted Son - Vol 2: Half Blind
- The Days in the Life of Lindsay Wincherauk: The Travails of an Unwanted Son - Vol 3: Plus 15
- The Days in the Life of Lindsay Wincherauk: The Travails of an Unwanted Son - Vol 4: Prose
- We Remember the Darts
- Humans' Bistro (In the Production Lab)
I want to make a difference in this world!
Follow Me on Instagram
Where I Am @ Now
where_im_at_now.pdf | |
File Size: | 244 kb |
File Type: |
Now Open!!!
The Sleeping Seagull Bookstore
All books $20.00
$5.00 Held in Trust For:
The Falling Through the Cracks Foundation
The Sleeping Seagull Bookstore
All books $20.00
$5.00 Held in Trust For:
The Falling Through the Cracks Foundation
1._sleeping_seagull_books_-_2024_catalogue.pdf | |
File Size: | 6655 kb |
File Type: |
$20.00 per book
$5.00 of each book sale goes towards The Falling Through the Cracks Foundation (in trust)
+ Battling Poverty Judgement Free
$5.00 of each book sale goes towards The Falling Through the Cracks Foundation (in trust)
+ Battling Poverty Judgement Free
Falling Through The Cracks Foundation
Battling Poverty One Donation at a Time: Judgment Free
Battling Poverty One Donation at a Time: Judgment Free
$25 CAD raised of $50,000 goal
Join the Movement
At 63, he finds himself trapped in a purgatory where he is too young to retire yet not old enough to receive sufficient support from Old Age Security. It has been twenty years since he last had to search for a job, and now he is thrust into a job market that no longer recognizes his worth or experience.
The last time he searched for work, the internet was still in its infancy. No matter how hard he tries, all he has to offer are his life experiences, which seem to hold little value in this chaotic world.
The last time he searched for work, the internet was still in its infancy. No matter how hard he tries, all he has to offer are his life experiences, which seem to hold little value in this chaotic world.
For what it’s worth, I’ve started a GoFundMe Page.
Perhaps Humanities Priorities are Skewed
Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.
Who are you?
If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or . . . ?
Sparkly's key role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!
Who are the voices in your head?
Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.
Who are you?
If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or . . . ?
Sparkly's key role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!
Who are the voices in your head?
Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.
Next Issue: Indefinitely on hold.
|
Next Issue: Indefinitely on hold.
|
Currently Reading
- You - Chantel Neveau (Translated by Erin Moure)
- Into the Continent - Emily McGiffen
- The Bible - Various Writers
Most Recent Book Thoughts
- How You Were Born - Kate Cayley
- Listen For The Lie - Amy Tintera
- Blue Notes - Anne Catherine Bomann
- Where Was Goodbye? - Janice Lynn Mather
- Atlas of AI - Kate Crawford
- The Obesity Code - Jason Fung, MD
- How to Eat - Mark Bittman + David L.. Katz. MD.
- The Singularity - Balsam Karam
- trust the bluer skies - paulo da costa
- Your Whole Heart Solution - Joel K. Kahn, MD
- Like Happiness - Ursula Villarreal-Moura
Praise for "Junie" |by Chelene Knight|
THE PAST PULSES TO LIFE IN THIS SUBLIME COMING-OF-AGE STORY! — LINDSAY WINCHERAUK
How did the book make Lindsay feel?
”I live in Vancouver. I have walked, driven, across, under, and around the Georgia Viaduct thousands of times, ignorant of the vibrant Black community that used to lay where the viaduct is now. I was introduced to Hogan’s alley in the fantastic book, Becoming Vancouver (Daniel Francis). Even with the introduction, I remained blind to the thriving community erased by gentrification and the displacement of those who added matchless character to the city. Systemic racism saw to that. The city’s leaders decided moving cars in and out of the city’s core was more important than protecting a beating, thriving heart. I’m appalled. Thanks to Junie, when I walk under the viaduct now, in the now nondescript area once known as Hogan’s Alley, the area springs to life. I can hear cheerful souls rejoicing, jazz floating through the air. The fragrance of different tickles the senses. Chelene Knight is masterful at bringing what once was to life and reminding us of what could have been if we had only evolved. Are we evolving, even today? In this enchanting coming-of-age story, Knight explores what it is like to be a young Black girl growing up in a harsh world where her mother does not relish the role because alcohol and unreachable dreams have muddied her mind. Her mother’s unquenchable thirst for the spotlight, coupled with neglecting her daughter’s needs—turns Junie into the matriarch by default as she tries to find her way in a racist world. Knight arouses the enormity facing Junie (including sexuality), as she has to be strong, not only for her mother but also for her best friend, whose mother, the polar opposite of Junie’s, also doesn’t relish the role of motherhood. I walk by where Hogan’s Alley used to be once more; it pulses to life. I see Junie walk on by, smiling.” — LINDSAY WINCHERAUK
Winnipeg Free Press Interview
CK: It was my hope that folks who were unfamiliar with the area would be inspired to walk through it and picture the living that took place there. It’s easy enough to follow “fact” and resurrect a place on the page but I wanted to do something different. Something bigger. The other day I received an influencer review that captured my hope for the book. In the review Lindsay Wincherauk says, “Thanks to Junie, when I walk under the viaduct now, in the now nondescript area once known as Hogan’s Alley, the area springs to life. I can hear cheerful souls rejoicing, jazz floating through the air. The fragrance of different scents tickle the senses. Chelene Knight is masterful at bringing what once was to life.”
THE PAST PULSES TO LIFE IN THIS SUBLIME COMING-OF-AGE STORY! — LINDSAY WINCHERAUK
How did the book make Lindsay feel?
”I live in Vancouver. I have walked, driven, across, under, and around the Georgia Viaduct thousands of times, ignorant of the vibrant Black community that used to lay where the viaduct is now. I was introduced to Hogan’s alley in the fantastic book, Becoming Vancouver (Daniel Francis). Even with the introduction, I remained blind to the thriving community erased by gentrification and the displacement of those who added matchless character to the city. Systemic racism saw to that. The city’s leaders decided moving cars in and out of the city’s core was more important than protecting a beating, thriving heart. I’m appalled. Thanks to Junie, when I walk under the viaduct now, in the now nondescript area once known as Hogan’s Alley, the area springs to life. I can hear cheerful souls rejoicing, jazz floating through the air. The fragrance of different tickles the senses. Chelene Knight is masterful at bringing what once was to life and reminding us of what could have been if we had only evolved. Are we evolving, even today? In this enchanting coming-of-age story, Knight explores what it is like to be a young Black girl growing up in a harsh world where her mother does not relish the role because alcohol and unreachable dreams have muddied her mind. Her mother’s unquenchable thirst for the spotlight, coupled with neglecting her daughter’s needs—turns Junie into the matriarch by default as she tries to find her way in a racist world. Knight arouses the enormity facing Junie (including sexuality), as she has to be strong, not only for her mother but also for her best friend, whose mother, the polar opposite of Junie’s, also doesn’t relish the role of motherhood. I walk by where Hogan’s Alley used to be once more; it pulses to life. I see Junie walk on by, smiling.” — LINDSAY WINCHERAUK
Winnipeg Free Press Interview
CK: It was my hope that folks who were unfamiliar with the area would be inspired to walk through it and picture the living that took place there. It’s easy enough to follow “fact” and resurrect a place on the page but I wanted to do something different. Something bigger. The other day I received an influencer review that captured my hope for the book. In the review Lindsay Wincherauk says, “Thanks to Junie, when I walk under the viaduct now, in the now nondescript area once known as Hogan’s Alley, the area springs to life. I can hear cheerful souls rejoicing, jazz floating through the air. The fragrance of different scents tickle the senses. Chelene Knight is masterful at bringing what once was to life.”
Music Bullpen
173 Songs in Waiting
57 57 57 + 2
57 57 57 + 2
Write. Read. Sing. Dance. Be Kind.
THIS SITE IS BEST VIEWED ON A DESKTOP OR IN WEB MODE
unconditional
|