Paul J James

Six weeks ago I had one of the better experiences I can recall over the past decade when a last minute conference call was organized so that I could chat to Canadian soccer alumni in support of the social justice I had been fighting to access for so long. As the cold wind whistled by the phone box on Queen Street West in Toronto, I opened up the dialogue by giving the 60 listeners a definition: "The Stanislavski Method" A renown methodology actors have used for many years in

Dear Bob Bearpark, Its been 22 years since you departed this world. I wanted you to know. You are missed by so many. Most especially the players you coached, the coaches you influenced, by Leslie Wilson, by Tony Waiters, myself and of course the awesomeness of your beloved wife Sharon. Two decades on it is breathtaking for me to experience Sharon's unrelenting support and understanding of my life and myself as a person during this very difficult period. I remember the car

Travel with Paul James to his 'home' in the streets of Toronto. Paul shows us the dreadful conditions he faces on the street in defiance of injustice as he continues to confront the stigma of drug addiction.

And so I'm finally lying down in my alcove. Its 2am...ish on Monday November 12. A guy walks by dressed in blankets covering his head. He has a flask of whiskey which he offers. I politely say no thank you. He was a nice enough guy. Better not to trust anyone in this environment. I begin to reflect on the past 36 hours as I close my eyes. Well I'm still breathing. A few hours earlier I said goodbye to Frank Woods after his "world-wind" trip to Toronto from Victoria, BC

Its 9.30am Saturday November 10, 2018. Terrible night. The cold was jolted by what seemed like hurricane force winds. Two sleeping bags and four layers of clothing became redundant. Submerged under the covers I peek through a little slot to see if anyone is in sight. Still too easily embarrassed. Once I see the road is clear I rise....in what felt like world record time I scrunch up my belongings into two black garbage bags and dump them into the bin behind the shed. O

Wednesday 1am I hear an angry voice coming my way. It has to be loud to gnaw through the wind gusts. A middle aged, grey haired man passes by my alcove. As I "fuck you" stare him down from my hooded second hand Canada Goose coat I have an eerie feeling this is an extreme case. Three peeking laps later I decide to get up out of my sleeping bags. I sit on the window ledge of the facility. Experience teaches you to show no fear. Appear weak and trouble will follow. The guy

Its 12.45am Monday night as I arrive at the bin which houses my bag stuffed with two sleeping bags. But its not there. For fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks sake is my primate scream. I'm thinking its Kevin and Peyvand. Those guys have taken it. So I will buckle into accepting accommodations. Well nice try but that won't work. Two hours of shivering later as I lift my head off my bag and rise from the filthy concrete - I think for a nano-second their strategy may just work this t

Its 2am Sunday morning my second day back on the concrete slab after a night at Peyvand's. As the cold wind whistles' my eyes close as I travel on another magical carpet ride of meditation. Brian Hughes the Welsh-Canadian has just passed away signifying the end of an era of unique individuals (Bob Bearpark, Bill Thompson). They called them old school. Well then, give me integrity, fight, humor, smarts, specificity of talent, class as individuals, any day. I only met Brian a

Hello everyone, So yesterday it's 12.15am as I step off the streetcar and begin walking across the street to my current home alcove on the Lakeshore. From a distance I can see the brake lights of a vehicle at the concrete slab where I sleep. 48 hours earlier I awoke at 3am in the morning staring at a guy hiding in the bushes who was looking at me. When I got up I scarpered to another area of the city as the person put whatever instrument was in his hands back into his tro