Simplicity

4

2010-03-11T09:18:00.001-08:00

effulgence
prescience
parlous
licit
circumvent

Synod the plastic shark rested atop a wooden table, observing the goings-on outside his Brooklyn apartment window. He had been filled with prescient misgivings ever since the weather had turned cold at the beginning of November. An enveloping grey had permeated the city and filtered to the souls of its residents. “This is not a dark place,” he told himself. “It is a dark time.” Perhaps he had forgotten the intervolving of space and time, for he viewed the world as events passing from one to the other in a static environment, without the spatial trajectories of normal experience. I guess that’s what you get for being a plastic shark.

Immobile objects are at once passively receptive and actively judgmental. “Don’t look at me like that,” we cry to the lifeless doll crammed onto the bookshelf. Of course, the piercing eyes are just the incarnation of our own self-directed criticism, but we do not acknowledge this. We refuse to be implicated in the plot against us; we are simply misinformed, misdirected protagonists in a perpetual thespian tragedy. Somewhere deep inside, though, in the disquiet sea of our subconsciousness, a perspicacious voice begs for expression, and takes form in the lifeless, peering effigies we craft after our own image.

Synod was not a big shark. He was a proportionate model of a big shark, but he was only six inches long. Models of sharks are not like models of other things. Human dolls, for instance, are well proportioned, healthy without being overweight, and possess large, round eyes with full eyelashes. They are almost never red, soggy, or covered in afterbirth, and they are certainly never frightening (“Chucky” excluded). Human models are ideal because they are crafted by humans who like to see themselves in the best possible light. Models of other species, though, are different. Synod was not “shark-as-shark”, but “shark-as-human view of shark”. He had light blue skin, a white underbelly, and pin-point black eyes. His gills were bright red, because humans like to associate predators with blood. His mouth gaped open, displaying two parlous rows of sharp teeth. This was a shark ready to kill. Synod had fallen victim to public perception of sharkness. That said, if one wasn’t predisposed to thinking of sharks as barbarous beasts, Synod’s expression could be alternatively interpreted. He could have been choking on a piece of seal meat, or sustaining an operatic note. He also had no insides, and the vacuous, inner cavity running from tail to snout suggested that this was, at best, a shell of a shark trying very hard to look mean. Or maybe he was just aghast at what he saw out the window.

Life was not always busy in Brooklyn. Synod’s apartment was on the rear of the building, so his window overlooked a sort of conglomerate courtyard fashioned from the rear balconies and yards of adjacent buildings. He at times waited for days for anything significant to happen, and during these extended stretches he would contemplate his own life in relation to the world around him. Synod had an active mind; while inactivity causes some to fall into a stupor, he quietly exercised his skills in logic, mathematics, astronomy and meteorology. He did not have a clear view of the sky, so his understanding of weather patterns was somewhat skewed. However, he was able to judge atmospheric conditions by what he observed in the courtyard: an overcast afternoon desaturated the red of the exterior brick walls, and a sunny morning filled everything with bright, effulgent warmth. It is important to note that he did not circumvent his shortcomings with elaborate excuses about being a plastic shark with a limited view of the world; he accepted that his experience was “sui generis”, that is, of the plastic shark variety. If he was unable to walk outside and look into the sun, or feel the rain on his rubbery fell, he would do his best to discover how the elements affected the inside world of a Brooklyn apartment, and the inside world of a Brooklyn resident.

This is not a story about the witness of a murder. With all due respect to Mr. Hitchcock, we’ll leave that to the movies. The courtyard activities were often painfully licit, and on several occasions Synod had inwardly begged for something unusual to happen, but it was not meant to be. Instead, this story is as subtle and achingly attenuated as a motionless observer at a courtyard window. It is about the self-validation of existence, the self-generated meaning of an active mind. It is about a plastic shark who, after a protracted period of looking at the world, learned to see everything and nothing at the same time.

3

2010-02-11T22:16:00.000-08:00

omnivorous
mandible
interline
gestation
apostatize

He was swimming in a sea. A black sea. His movement was congruent with the dips and doodles, wips and woodles of the invisible undercurrent. He twisted, turned, flipped and wormed through the dark void of the inbetween. Up cropped monster mountains of dynamic modality and fecund fields of phatic flora. Suddenly, streamlined schools of spawning superlatives sent him plummeting to a present perfect patch of the palindrome piedmont. The interminable motion of indiscrete terms caused a vortex of vacuity to envelop his being. He was pulled, pulled, pulled
d
o
w
n
into the space between words. And that is where our story happens. If you look deeply between the lines of this text you will see the bubbling, coming-into-being of the underwater world. Do you see it? Do you hear it? It is the possibility of differentiation; those dark bodies emerging from the depth of meaning, protruding now past the surface of intelligibility, joined together somewhere far below. They are moving now, premature limbs of individuation, thin voices of empty speech-sounds. They spread out and multiply, and there is strength in numbers. What exists now is a cacophonous chorus of assertion.

Still, though, lies the deep. A monster lurks there. If you peer into that tenebrous pool you will just see the outline of a giant mandible, overlaid with protruding incisors, ready to assuage an omnivorous appetite. This renegade body negates the possibility of meaning, and threatens to swallow all. Our hero plunges to face that sinister darkness, and the last vestiges of light flicker, playing tricks on his senses. His own existence dims to the point of prevarication. He is no longer able to distinguish between himself and Mephistopheles, and he is startled by the notion that he has already been eaten. As quickly as it arose, though, that thought recedes into the inky blackness from whence it was once created, rejoining the sea of infinite possibility.

game 2.

2010-01-28T23:46:00.001-08:00

hosiery
deference
scourge
stodgy
sublimate

This brief story is about a refrigerator hate crime involving a stodgy pickle and a little girl named Abigail. By “little” I mean smaller than a memory but larger than a baby carrot. Some argue that memory is immaterial but that is because they have never felt the crushing weight of guilt or the immense pain of love lost. Ironically, the sheer size of memory stems from its immateriality. Memory cannot be boxed or shelved or burned or given away, and it certainly cannot be erased. It can, however, be inherited, shared, altered and cherished just like any number of physical objects we pass amongst ourselves. The more negative the memory, the more elusively immaterial it becomes. The positive memories, though, they are different. We clutch them to our chest like tiny lockets of dense, purified metal.

Abigail wasn’t like other little girls. She was a name engraved on a granite stone, embedded in the earth. She lived with the undercreatures: the worms and hedgehogs and creepies and grandparents, but sometimes she visited the fridge world and presided over domestic, chilly matters. The other fridge Contents regarded her with respectful deference, heeding her strange words with cautious obeisance. Sometimes her rulings seemed disconnected from the conditioned world of the Contents, like the time she ordered some frothy milk to receive ten lashings for going bad and unleashing a stinky odour. The scene caused quite a mess as the leather thong splashed about in the bubbles, coating the walls and making the air thick with sour stench. The frothy milk was no worse for wear except for the social humiliation and subsequent castigation of a public flagellation.

Abigail always appeared in the fridge wearing the same outfit: a red dress with white polka dots, brown stockings and black, shiny shoes with a silver buckle. It’s hard to describe her other features because they were a bit obscured. It was like a pencil drawing that had been smudged with a wet thumb. Some adults might find this account disconcerting or disturbing, but that is because they have never lived with the undercreatures or visited the fridge during a public trial. If they had, they would recognize that while Abigail was earnest in her work, she was also very pleasant. Things are never strange from the inside out. It’s only on the other side of the window that light is refracted and images are distorted. Someone once told me that this story is distorted, but I told them that when they join the undercreatures they will understand.

Time is short, so I must tell you about the hate crime. Strangely enough, it involves Abigail, not as the judge, but as the perpetrator. As it turns out, in another time and place, people actually eat pickles for fun. Being unaccustomed to outside worlds, the Contents were very open with each other, and did not hide in glass jars or plastic baggies. The stodgy pickle thought nothing of sharing its sweet, acidic goodness with its neighbours, and enthusiastically welcomed Abigail whenever she dropped by for a visit. Familiarity breeds trust, and trust breeds indiscretion; these words were foreign to the Contents, though, who bred nothing but hairy mould. That is why this event is known as the Crunch Heard ‘Round the Fridge. It is also why Abigail no longer presides over domestic disputes because, as the thin trail of yellow vinegar trickled from her fuzzy mouth, the Contents realized that they should never trust a girl who lives with the undercreatures and has a smudgy pencil face.

mind games.

2010-01-20T23:58:00.000-08:00

Use each of these words, or a synonym of each word, at least once in a coherent story of 500 words or less.

etiquette
lupine
snipe
feckless
collocate

It was in the festering heat of centre court that Jelly Rogers remembered why he left Compton Hall for the desert of Arizona: the pulsating smell of rubber being ripped across blue acrylic, and the inane applause of a crowd being lulled into a stupor. If finding a reason for being is the paramount human struggle, Jelly had managed to make it this far oblivious to his own yearning. He did not strive. He did not make snide remarks about the happiness of others. He did not collocate successes into a shrine of competence. He lilted through life on the invisible wings of ignorance; not crudeness or willful disregard, but benign oblivion. He had been a feckless wanderer through more than three and a half decades of living, and the meaning of it all had suddenly wafted over his body in a single moment of pungent clarity.

The gamesmanship of the tennis world is what had first attracted him. Void of the fustian rhetoric of other over-paid athletes, tennis celebrated the best of cultivated urbanity. Players of lupine deportment, rapaciously sniping felted rubber over taut netting would pause in a match to observe the minutia of court etiquette, even if it meant breaking concentration. The equidistant rows of numbered plastic seats established a sense of religious order and honour; a high priest held court as combatants battled on the down.

How had he gone so long without seeing himself in this bounded theatre? How had he survived in the absence of delineating chalk squares, fault lines and umpires? This was his subsistence, his essence, his existence.

“ADVANTAGE!” cries the voice from above, as Jelly lowers his shoulder to the opposing target. Two bounces, a toss, arm cocked, pure synergy, explosion. Love to forty in seconds flat.

Things are just beginning.

Smatterings

2008-08-19T01:26:00.000-07:00

I watched Vicky Christina Barcelona tonight and it was other-worldly. I mean, the film as a whole was good good, not great great; but I biked home after (it was raining) and I was provoked in a way I haven’t been for some time. Which character do I identify with? I won’t ruin the film by talking more about it, but after watching it you may find yourself asking the same question.

I’ve watched a lot of good film recently. I finally saw Bergman’s trilogy (Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, The Silence), and last week I watched two Dylan films: Don’t Look Back and I’m Not There. I’m not a film buff (yet), but I’m on the road. I’m close to orienting myself in the local indie/foreign rental place which is the first step. Next step is developing an air of condescension and smoking cigarettes. Hipster progress is slow.

With every film I watch and every book I read I feel closer to writing my own stuff. Not that blogging doesn’t count, but in the grand scheme of things I don’t want to blog professionally. Maybe just compulsively. Quick hits of indulgent smatterings, so I can leave the serious work for serious projects.

I hope you’re not offended (it’s the whole condescension thing… it’s not personal).

What will Willy Wonka write while walking a wanton way? “I’m into incredulous, insane insinuations. Hereupon, here’s history’s hokum: harbouring highschool hallucinations hobbles highbrow, ‘heavenly’ hermits. So, sacrosanct Swami, stop soliciting society’s susceptible schlemiels."

2008-03-22T03:09:00.000-07:00

Why are weddings so damned high maintenance? I have a theory, you can tell me what you think: God doesn’t honour our ceremonies. We pay big money to rent out beautiful cathedrals and perform production-worthy religious rituals all in an attempt to convince ourselves that marriage is sacred. I’m increasingly convinced that this elusive “sacred” is found not in pomp but in the everyday. When Uncle Stu dies you don’t mourn the memory of that one summer roadtrip to Williamsburg, VA; you miss stopping by his house every couple of weeks for caramel squares and small talk. Marriage is caramel squares and small talk, and it’s wonderful. We create the sacred by combining inner attitudes with outer symbols which elicit a response. Weddings have become a gaudy, expensive outer symbol but I fear we often miss the inner attitude. About 50% of marriages convince me that we have missed the inner attitude.

At what point am I truly married? When I say my vows? Sign a piece of paper? No, it’s when I make the inner decision that I am choosing this person for the rest of my life. That I will do my best to make our lives happy until I die. That we will make love to each other, and only each other. This happens long before I sign a document.

So save your money and invest in what matters.

(no, I’m not getting married. But I am standing in a wedding this weekend…)

2008-03-19T00:55:00.000-07:00

"The sky in the summer is majestic. Sometimes his dad and mom come outside and pop popcorn in an old iron skillet. Josh finds this funny because his dad likes to cook using butter and frying pans, and things always turn out burned. But there is something about his father’s cooking that is more primitive and makes everything taste better. It makes Josh feel at home, as if with each kernel he is closer to being tucked into bed.

After having popcorn, they lay out under the stars and Josh’s father makes some obligatory comment about God’s creation. This gets annoying but soon they get to just looking at things and Josh can relax. It really is amazing. When you look out at the sky like that you realize why people called the galaxy the Milky Way. It really looks like milk. Since Josh really likes cereal he feels he is sort of an expert on the subject and yes, it looks like milk pouring from the pitcher. This makes him feel good and enhances the whole experience. He usually spends some time trying to find the various star formations he learned about in school. The Big Dipper is usually pretty easy, but other than that they’re hard to find. He wonders who it is that decides what stars will make what shapes. It all seems fairly arbitrary. At any time he can locate a bear or a tiger or a unicorn. Anyone with any imagination at all could do this, he thinks. "

- excerpt from the book I hope to finish one day.

2008-03-14T00:51:00.001-07:00

I was on bumbook tonight and was notified that somebody wrote on my funwall. I thought, “Oh!” But then, I realized that I don’t have a funwall. So fitting.

I like magical nights. I mostly like them because you can’t force them to happen, so when they do, they are unexpected and wonderful. This picture represents a magical night for me. I can’t explain it all, but four strangers (2 from Chile, 1 from Indonesia and 1 from Canada) met on the overnight train to Rome and decided to get some food in the middle of the night. Another total stranger, an elderly man, dropped a 100-Euro bill on our table because he wanted us to have a good time. It will never happen the same way again, so that moment will be forever captured here:

(hi Carolina).

crack snorting

2008-03-12T23:55:00.001-07:00

Making decisions can be hard. Sometimes when I really can’t decide I bump my desk and my Dwight Shrute bobblehead bobbles and I try to decipher whether it’s a yes or no. He’s usually pretty ambiguous.

I’ve officially started using aqueous nasal spray on a daily basis. I don’t really like the idea of using medicine at all, so the idea of spraying something into my nose everyday, for the rest of my life, seems unfathomable. That fateful trip to the clinic during a bout of sinus infection altered the remainder of my existence. Plus, it sounds like I’m snorting crack before I leave for school every morning.

Dear Global Makers of Dried Mangos:

Thank you for existing. The anticipatory walk to the bulk section of my local Persion grocery store is among the more electric of my week. You all deserve golden stars and medallions.

hot outfits.

2008-03-12T00:22:00.000-07:00

Wanda was a walrus who wasn’t worried when workload was waning. She shone shoes with the shiniest shoe ‘Shinola’. Most mornings made mentioned maiden marvel at metaphysical mysteries. Philosphy found firm footing, fostering far-fetched phonetic phantasms.

That’s about all my brain can take right now.

a digital cameral would really help me liven this up

2008-03-09T23:41:00.000-07:00

I played the guitar in church today and on old man about twelve rows back kept staring at me and smiling. A scornful smile. I thought maybe my hair was sticking up—it was pretty wrangly today—but all was in place (by my standards). I let it go but then when I sat down during the sermon he kept pointing at me with his middle finger- not giving me the finger, but using his middle finger to point. My new friend Herman said he was trying to get my attention but when I stared at him and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up he pretended like nothing happened. Then the old man next to him started staring at me also. This is one of those stories that doesn’t resolve because there’s nothing else to tell. Except that, when I’m a senile old man, I hope I give someone something to blog about.

I’m drinking out of a 1 L milk carton that expired yesterday. The part where the milk comes out says “SPOUT/BEC” and it seems fitting. Not just by definition but phonetically.

I’ve been playing a lot of covers lately but I’m going to focus on my own songs for a while. It sucks when people like your covers better than your originals, so I say, why give them the option? I’m thinking of going with the moniker “A Lonely Soul” for a myspace artist page but it seems a bit doleful. Then again, if you’ve heard my music, you understand.

oh boy.

2007-12-15T01:36:00.000-08:00

Actual conversation just overheard on the bus:

student 1: Without doubt, Yeats was the greatest poet of all time. What a wordsmith.

student 2: Absolutely. And when you talk about the greatest novelist of all time, only one name comes to mind: James Joyce.

student 1: Without doubt.

student 2: Fuck ya.

Ok. First of all, there's at least a forty percent chance neither of you have ever read Ulysses. Admittedly, neither have I. Yet. Second, you, student 2, just casually used the word "fuck" in a conversation about wordsmiths. Third, you are both clearly pontificating about subjects beyond the realm of your understanding, and should go back to reading formulaic science fiction, lest the greats roll over in their graves and verbally assault you.

*Exhale.....*

Muse

2007-12-07T00:54:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me tonight that it is suffering which makes me alive. If suffering were to cease, than life would become a positive system (in a negative way) in which all things would lose their value at an exponential rate. When this happens, everything we experience would be deemed invaluable and therefore not worth experiencing. The human race would quickly reason that death is the only remaining adventure and we would eradicate ourselves out of boredom.

Suffer, therefore, for it is the gateway to being.

I miss the pub.

2007-12-01T01:21:00.000-08:00

Put in Another Coin

Put in another coin,
Down a draft.
Grab a friend,
Hands clasped.

Move together as butterflies;
Descend the wind.
At once in tandem,
At once apart;
Always in time.

Trust this moment-
It won’t let you down.
You open your eyes,
Only to frown.

So be not worried
At trifle things,
Put in another coin
And let it sing.

Standing in the sun

2007-10-07T00:12:00.000-07:00

Chris was walking home the other day and a thought occurred to him.

The Setting:

It’s a crisp night. There are a few stars out, but not too many because it’s the city. He just got off work and he’s walking home from the bus stop. He was listening to a really great song on the bus, and now it’s playing pleasantly in his head. His breaths are refreshing. He’s not smiling, but in his position some may be inclined to.

The Climax:

Chris was walking home the other day and a thought occurred to him. He realized that he might not ever be this happy again in his life. He walked the rest of the way home hoping it wasn’t
true, but trying to enjoy the moment just in case.

yo momma

2007-09-30T01:38:00.001-07:00

It’s 1:19 am. I’ve had one of those lethargic weekends when you have work to do but you can’t remove yourself from the television or computer. I even tried playing music while I was working on French and it didn’t work. I ended up staring into space, wanting to close my eyes because I felt tired. So what did I do? I watched saturday night live until 19 minutes ago.

It’s strange; there are so many things I could have done tonight. So many. And yet I held homework over my head and cancelled all my plans in order to accomplish all of maybe 40 mins.

Blame it on the rain.

pee

2007-09-25T10:37:00.000-07:00

hello friends. I thought I would post a quick cyber-update. Judging by the flood of recent comments, this is probably long overdue. I'm sorry for holding you in suspense.

School has started. Despite the fact that every day brings a new workload, I'm actually enjoying myself. I've suspected for a while that I may have an academic bent, and this only serves to confirm. I like working my brain until it is overwhelmed, letting it relax, and then working it up again. I wish it to be the strongest muscle in my body. Considering it is not even muscle, that tells you something about my level of fitness.

What I really long for is to be writing all the time. And playing my guitar. Maybe throwing a football. These are things that I enjoy, things that are important to me. Not that Geography 1180 isn't important, but ClO + O2 atoms don't really get me going in the morning. They do, however, let an inordinate amount of UV rays into the Antarctic and Australia. For that, they deserve my scorn.

I hope you are well. Yes, that's my pee.

Silence

2007-09-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

Silence is looming; almost tense. She is a building waiting to crumble, a tree waiting to fall. She is nothing and yet everything. She is a reverend, immutable force summoned only through the removal of all else. When you listen, she speaks, beckoning you to her hypnotic embrace. She is unsafe; a wild gypsy leaning out of a dark tent, sensual, mysterious, and wise. She arouses passion yet retains control, exerting her authority. I release fear and inhibition and give myself to her. She is surprisingly gentle, and my deepest emotions surface. She comforts, whispering in my ear a secret she learned in some distant land, which I lock inside my soul forever.

2007-08-21T00:23:00.000-07:00

"Then his mother tells him about a trick that will make the night train go lickety-split, helter-skelter, quick as a streak. 'Shut those wide-awake eyes,' she whispers. 'And shh, don't speak.' When she cuddles him close, he can hear her heart and a soft, sudden whoosh as the night train starts."

-Mij Kelly, William and the Night Train

I hope you are well, reader. I am off to join Sir William in nighty-night land. Tonight I consumed more than my share of pork ribs, a cigar, whisky, and a delectable brownie served with scrumptious vanilla icecream (compliments of a culinary legend).

Just thought you should know.

2007-08-18T02:38:00.001-07:00

When camping
you can leave a lot of things to chance.
Like food, for instance.
But not toilet paper.
No, not toilet paper.

I was washing my hands at the kitchen sink the other day
and saw my stash of unrecycled recycleables.
There were 4 kilograms worth of empty peanut butter jars.
My roommates are both from Asia.
They don't eat peanut butter.

If I Was Someone I'm Not

2007-08-10T23:56:00.000-07:00

sometimes I wish I was someone else so I could be with you.
I look in the mirror, shocked by the stranger I see:
I have to remind myself again and again of who I am,
knowing full well that I
dance solo.

I wish to gain the whole world
in one embrace
but know the cost
would be too great
so I turn away and head for home
that land of solitary contemplation.

I want what they had
when they stood on the corner and kissed
as they parted for the last time.
In some ways it's the perfect picture
intimacy locked in a secret box forever
never again to be opened.
Tomorrow is already here.

So I'll hold you close in my thoughts
the only way I know how.
Just close enough that I can imagine
what things could be like
If I was someone I'm not.
And drift alone
In the sea of being,
satisfied.

worship

2007-08-10T08:48:00.000-07:00

I wrote this during prayer at church last night:

Here am again, empty page in hand
And I write.
I write because I can;
For as I freely distribute words and phrases,
Lines and paragraphs,
Declaring the goodness of my God,
Truth is exposed,
Like a discoverer unearthing a dusty scroll,
Unraveling it and standing
Enamored
Illuminated
By the wisdom of so many years ago.
The digging and searching and planning and waiting
Drift away
And what is left is a single moment
When the very atoms within me conspire together
To be still.
Even the sun and wind comply.
And there is nothing but God.
Like in the beginning,
When all was Him
And He was all
And He created
Me.

little games and things

2007-07-23T02:31:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in my usual spot outside of the Jewish Community Centre of Vancouver: on the ground, back against the wall, inbetween the 2nd and 3rd bike racks. My ipod was droning on. A man walked by and up to the pay-parking machines, which are always interesting as people try to figure them out. I’ve never actually looked at these ones but they must be confusing- maybe they’re written in Hebrew? Yiddish?? I joke. He was a tad confuddled. Out from the centre walked a middle aged woman holding a little girl, who I immediately took to be her daughter. The little girl was clearly adorable and seemed keenly interested in me. I smiled my “hi, you’re cute” smile (strangely applicable, for very different reasons, to various female age brackets) and got an “I’m playing coy” dismissive grin. Mommy’s shoulder needed attention.

Aside: I like kids. I think they’re funny and refreshing. They say what they want (what they mean) and they poop unabashedly in front of anyone, male or female. They giggle infectiously, give good hugs, and snuggle up for story time. They take naps, trust easily, and aren’t bound by social convention (except that which has been introduced by their parents). At one time I would have told you that I hated (fondly) children, but I just didn’t know. I didn’t know. Now I know.

The woman recognized Mr. Confuddled. They exchanged quasi-awkward but candid greetings and began talking. The little girl, though, was interested in the curious large-haired boy playing on the sidewalk. I glance up; she smiled and looked away. I played busy, then looked up again; she giggled and turned quickly. This was a game. We were working out the rules as we went but it was pretty clear that she would win by default and I was just a pawn, there for her entertainment. Jester at your service, Queen. Her mother didn’t even know I was there, which worked in my favour. Generally adults don’t react well when sloppy looking drifters (or, in this case, daycare workers) take up residence outside their well-kept religious gathering place. Oh wait, that’s just my church on Sunday. I joke. Now I lie. Regardless, mommy was oblivious, and the stage was all mine. She thought little monkey was just amusing herself, so shifted her arms in a silent plea for a moment’s rest. The game continued. Hee hee. We were co-conspirators.

Soon the two were done talking, and parted. As mom and daughter were walking away, Queen looked over mom’s shoulder at gave me a big smile. Goodbye Jester, I suppose you’ve done something useful today, by amusing me.

Anything for Your Royalty, I replied sincerely.

“She smiles at you.”

“What’s that?” The man at the machine, still fumbling around like an idiot, turned around to face the two. Mom had stopped, noticing her child’s strange excitement.

“She smiles at you.”

The man looked confused, and mumbled some reply. Didn’t she know he had parking to pay for? He had to remember his stall number and everything.

This was pure enjoyment. Selfish indulgence. Life had granted me a gem, enough currency to see me through another day. It was all the recognition I needed.

This was about just another day at the daycare.

...

2007-06-16T17:37:00.000-07:00

Why do I get urges to blog when I’m tired? I don’t think I classify it in the same realm as tv and facebook which can produce hours of monotony when I should be dreaming. Blogging is different- more legitimate for me in some way, and yet I’m only able to do it when I’m half awake. Oh well. At this point all that matters is that I’m here and so are you so we might as well have a chat. Tea?

(pause to make chamomile…)
(and a couple phone calls…)

I don’t feel like talking in real terms right now. Here’s a cheesy love poem:

Love,
Escape me not on this leaden aft.
Come to your own defence and champion your cause,
Lest I abandon you once more.

I long not for songs of solitude and distress,
Which, though humorous for a time,
Erode my soul.

Alas, a light flickers within,
Suffocating slowly.
Breathe fresh fuel from heightened places,
Of which I can only dream.

I realize that I am clutching my $300 ipod... (written May 9, 06)

2007-06-11T01:07:00.000-07:00

It's almost 1 am. I've had the munchies for about an hour now... 7 Eleven is just down the street and I'm salivating over mental images of big feet and peanut m&m's. Not sure why that combination, but it seems right for the moment. After a long sigh I roll myself off the soft couch (my home for an embarrassing length of time this night) and head to the closet to put on my $6 Value Village kicks (I'm so proud of the cheapness).

The night is crisp, but I feel warm in my Jacket. It feels nice to be out of the apartment; the air is clean, the road is relatively clear, the night has settled to a dull mixture of city sounds. I catch a few lines of the song I was listening to earlier; a worship tune that brings me back to better times. But it's not right for tonight. I scroll down to Iron and Wine and allow the muffled melody to become my soundtrack. It's perfect. I glance around me; Houses are softly lit by porch lights and veiled living room lamps, the moon is shining bright. I love this area of town. I somehow feel connected to this place. If it were a piece of clay I would run my hands through it and appreciate again the cool, rich texture.

I suddenly realize that maybe I am missing something. I pull the headphones from my ears. No, can't be. I put them back in. But this nagging feeling persists. I consent. Pulling the player from my pocket, I turn it off and wrap the headphones around it as I have done so many times before. I place it in my zippered jacket pocket, and leave my hand there for warmth. I glance around me again. Slowly, the sounds of the night permeate my shell and I realize that only now have I begun to 'experience' this place. How much of our lives do we spend inside our well-dressed cacoons, earbuds in place, experiencing life as we wish to experience it? I may tell myself that today is a White Stripes day. Or a Blue Rodeo day. But really it's an eastside Vancouver day. It doesn't need my prompting. The cars drive by loudly. Clusters of people wait at bus shelters, staring emptily eastward for their chariot (you know it's coming, but it's like christmas. There's always a ray of light when #9 Alma appears over the crest of the hill). There is a crack of electricity as a bus goes by ahead.

I am nearing the store. I suddenly feel more alive, more vulnerable. This is a big place. It's a long way from home. I realize that I am clutching my $300 ipod, as if I am protecting something. I realize that this small instrument is a symbol of my security. Without it, I am brandless, moneyless, directionless. I picture myself packing it away with the rest of my toys and hitting the open road. Living life with no attachments, nothing but the default soundtrack. Could I do it?

I'm at the store. They're out of big feet. I settle for Smartpop White Cheddar Popcorn, m&m's, and a can of concentrate juice. I realize that I spent the same amount on these three items as I did on a week's worth of sandwich material. I've always had a knack for senseless indulgences.
I again enter the crisp night.

This was about my trip to the store.

I just deleted myspace and facebook.

2007-06-11T00:55:00.000-07:00

Why do I get inspired at midnight? My heart is restless tonight. I am a vision of a worn spinning top slowly unraveling as it careens out of control. Only my decay begins in my heart and enters my head and slowly works its way through my being. Only a straight bolt of lightning can jolt me back into existence. I met her last Saturday. Frig. Don’t mess this up.

This is my story (written Feb 4, 07)

2007-05-14T21:05:00.000-07:00

This is my story. Not anyone else’s, just mine. The difficulty in being a writer is that half the battle is figuring out what to write about. The irony, of course, is that there’s no shortage of subjects. A glance out the window reveals a world of people, things, and exchanges between the two, all with stories to tell. I suppose, like a photographer, I could walk up to anything, point and shoot, and there you go. However, is that art? One could argue that art is based on subject alone. Or conversely, that it relies on skill and that a master always creates a masterpiece. History shows that to be false, though. Art, you see, relies on depth. Or rather, layers. A story isn’t good enough unless it has an interesting backstory, and a backstory about that backstory. The modern media knows this. How many times have we heard, “But that’s not all!! The man was actually a WOMAN with multiple nipplessss!!!!” Or something of that sort. Da Vinci was an amazing man, and an even more amazing artist. However his most famous piece (arguably), the Mona Lisa, is rather quite diminutive. You could walk past it in the Louvre and not even notice it, save for the small crowd of admirers. What makes this painting so famous, though, is its backstory. “Famous Artist Wrestling With Own Sexuality Paints Himself as Woman.” Ultimately, this work extends beyond style and colour to the world of Da Vinci himself. Separated from its artist, it’s really nothing at all.

So in all of this, what do I have to say? I’m really rather normal. I don’t have an interesting backstory. In fact, the only potentially interesting thing about me is that I’m writing this piece and not sitting in a church office somewhere. I’m supposed to be a minister, I should probably make that clear. God conspired with the stars, gods, and my parents to create the perfect incubator for a budding cleric. Simple upbringing, decent looks, athletic tendencies, and a sensitive soul. Oh yes, and years of one-sided indoctrination based on the teachings of my father and other like-minded charismatics. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t intend this to be disparaging or cynical in any way (not a sarcastic statement). My parents are good people, and although simple in many ways, they display a deep love for people and a heartfelt faith that God works for the good of those who love him. I’m not sure what happened to me. Maybe I allowed Satan to gain a foothold in my life, and now I serve him unwittingly despite paying my taxes and taking out the garbage. Maybe, along the same line, I’ve turned out to be a deviant, and those years of repressed urges which I discounted as vile and impractical are coming to the surface for some air.

I still feel like a good person, though. I feel, in many ways, that my faith is stronger than it has ever been, based on the fact that I relate to God as a real human being as opposed to an above-reproach cockroach. When I used to attend church and various conferences I felt the need to search for God in obscure places, places guarded by secret doors that required specific incantations to open. Now, though, I see and feel God almost all the time. I see him when I look over to my bed with its knitted covering and magazine issue. I feel him when I look up and see the stack of books which have been read and are waiting to be returned, and the box of green tea which rests beside them. I see God in my closet, stuffed with character sweaters and warm socks and more books. I see him in my guitar which I never used to like but is now one of my most valuable possessions. I see God everywhere because everywhere I look I see myself. Not some right-wing, conservative projection of who I’m supposed to be, just me. I’m not advocating myself as God, don’t misconstrue. I’m just saying that if God truly is interested in who I am, shouldn’t I sense him all the time? Shouldn’t I sense him when I watch the Superbowl later? Shouldn’t I sense him at work, assuming that what I do is a reflection of who I aspire to be? I’ll tell you this: I’m writing this story because as I do, I feel God. This story that’s about me, not anyone else, just me.

Abelard's Assertion

2007-03-07T23:55:00.000-08:00

How do you teach a child that sometimes life is not fair, and you just have to deal with it?

That’s what I was thinking at work today, at an afterschool daycare. I was watching some boys play soccer outside when suddenly the situation erupted into a yelling fest. Two boys, one older with autism and one younger with developed soccer skills, were playing alone with the ball. Another boy, much smaller and far less skilled, decided he wanted to join their game. They didn’t like the idea, but the older boy devised a scheme by which he would allow the smaller boy to play until he lost, at which time he would be refused further entry. The smaller boy, of course, disputed the ruling by observing rightly that the odds were stacked against him. Not wanting to adjudicate quite yet, I allowed them to banter back and forth, interjecting as little as possible so to facilitate a reasonable settlement. It became quite clear, though, that no matter the arrangement of teams the little boy would come out on the losing side. He stuck it out for a bit, but after a couple of goals he began to cry, and decided to call it quits.

I stood there for a bit considering the situation. I could easily have forced the other two to allow him to play, but our daycare (thankfully) believes in facilitating confrontation which will benefit the children down the road. As I saw it, the two boys who began the game “owned it”, and therefore had the right to determine the rules. I encouraged the smaller boy to ask them if he could play, which he did, but he was clearly outmatched and wasn’t going to have it his way. After determining this, and putting up a fuss, he quit.
I hate quitting. I hate it because I used to have a bad attitude about losing in competition as well, and wanted to quit many times. However my father beat that out of me, literally. Now there seems nothing more indecent to me. I wanted to pull that young boy aside and tell him that sometimes things in life just won’t be fair, and you have to make due. You have to keep fighting.

That’s when it happened.

Not thirty minutes later, after snack time, another soccer game had broken out. This time, the same little fellow was on a team with the strongest player of them all. His team was easily the best out of the two, and the weaker team was continually crying out that the situation was against them. It was. Instead of making the teams even, though, and bettering the situation, what did the little boy do? He yelled back. He laughed. He cheered.

You know what I thought? You can’t teach a child that life is unfair, that sometimes you just have to make due. Instead, you must look that child straight in the eye and say, “Man’s heart is deceitful above all else. Take what you deserve, you little prick, because when the cock crows you will have returned the favour to some other swine who deserves it.”

And to think that just two days ago in a conversation I defended the goodness of man. I argued that man is not totally depraved, and that she is capable of good. I fear I have sold short the work of Christ and bought into a theology of works whereby we shall all be eternally condemned.

Candies n stuff.

2007-03-06T02:16:00.000-08:00

Why is it that we always want what we can’t have?

Cars, women, candy. I’m supposedly on a diet right now and all I can think about are peanut m&m’s and 5 cent candies. It’s terrible. In my fridge though, are perfectly good food selections which I know will benefit both my weight and my health. Things like raw fruit and vegetables, or tuna (which is technically in my cupboard).

Our daydreams are constantly in the realm of the intangible and unattainable.

I make no apologies for it. I percieve it to be a noble cause, or at least a romantic one, in the unlikely boy-meets-childhood-love-now-that-he’s-not-a-dweeb type of way. I don’t know. Maybe I’m foolish to allow myself to dwell in places or situations which do not and likely won’t ever exist (unless I’m talking about the candy, it exists in my belly right now). I’ll tell you this, though, it makes life easier sometimes. That’s why I think heaven, if someday it comes out that it is a made-up concept by some dude from Compton, would be a genius concept, because it makes a lot of people joyous about otherwise distasteful ordeals.

We’re supposed to realize our dreams.

Just ask Oprah. But if I don’t, if dreams are just God’s way of giving me a break from my mundane reality, I’ll be glad for them. I’ll be glad because they unmask potential which exists regardless of my desire to give it flight.

Air It Out

2007-03-02T00:49:00.000-08:00

I want to get some things down on paper while I’m thinking of them. I apologize in advance for the content of this email, it is highly sensitive and may cause me to appear conceited. This is not hubris. I’m merely thinking ‘aloud’, and I hope this is the type of conversation people will soon be willing to engage in openly.

I’m talking about money. I’m talking about the billions of people living in extreme poverty. I’m talking about inequality in the global economy. I’m talking about people dying because of various poverty-related diseases (aids?- lack of education. malaria?- lack of mosquito nets. To be simplistic, of course.).

Here is an assessment of my wants and needs as they relate to my average monthly budget.

Physical Needs

Primary

1. Air- free.
2. Water- free. (incl. in rent)
3. Food- $200 per month. I am currently evaluating this amount to see if I can get it down. I could if I wanted. It includes things like tea which are cheap but unnecessary.

Secondary

1. Shelter- $350 per month. This includes all utilities, laundry facilities, heating, cooling, internet, and furnishing.
2. Transportation- $20 a month. I ride a bike or walk. This money is more than enough to cover maintenance costs or the occasional bus ride if I’m being lazy.
3. Household (toiletries, cleaning, etc)- $30. Meh.
4. Cell phone- $50. This is almost an indulgence, and maybe it is, but it is very helpful in finding employment and connecting with others. I am in a constant struggle to keep this bill down, and the fucking phone companies don’t help.

Indulgences (i.e. Wants)

1. Electronics- $110 per month (until next year sometime). This one hurts me. Last spring I bought a laptop and an ipod that, including warranties, came out to approx. $2,600.00. So stupid. The ipod, well, it’s mostly noise and it definitely didn’t need to be brand name. The computer? I probably could have found one for free if I asked around. I use it a lot, but probably only 20% (a guess) of the time I spend on it is worthwhile. It definitely didn’t need to be so expensive. Does anyone know if there’s a way to sell back your electronics to Best Buy?
2. ‘Me’ Stuff- last month, this came to $100. This includes music, movies, coffee, beer, clothes, candy, and other such useless, time consuming garbage. I need to bring this down.
3. Misc.- last month I bought a birthday present for my friend’s kid. $10.59. I don’t really value birthday presents, and he will probably never read the book I bought him (The Magician’s Nephew- a good one, too), but I wanted him to know I cared.

So, totalling all this out, it comes to $871. Last month I spent $944 on all these things combined, because I overspent on me (too much drinking), phone (see above re: companies), and food (ate out too much).

My point is this: if I can pare this down a little, it will free me up to MAKE AS MUCH MONEY AS POSSIBLE and GIVE MOST OF IT AWAY, as an investment in the Kingdom of Heaven (call it what you want, “goodwill”, “charity”, whatever, my inspiration comes from Jesus).

My biggest issue right now is that I can work very little and sustain my lifestyle month to month, but I’m doing little in terms of exploiting the marketplace in which I live for the cause of the less fortunate. SO, I need to start being career-minded, and find something that I enjoy which allows time for a balanced lifestyle yet also allows me to make a generous income so I can be generous with others. That’s my hope.

I welcome discussion!!

A Can of Yellowfin Tuna

2007-02-25T13:18:00.000-08:00

I have decided to write a book. It doesn’t have to be a good book, or a book about anything in particular. Just a complete book. My plan this fall was to go back to school for creative writing. However, in discussions with those closest to me, I have decided that school may not be the best plan. If I am to be a writer, the two tools which will help my development the most can be attained without paying tuition: reading other authors (thus developing my style and vocabulary), and writing incessantly. Also, literary critics can easily be accessed through my network of friends and acquaintances. A veritable cesspool for a burgeoning little literary amoeba. Only one with a happy countenance and no viral properties.

So thus my journey begins. I intend to allow you, the a-proximate (thank you, CJB) reader occasional peeks into my progress, by way of word count updates and intermittent excerpts.

Thank you.

for you.

2007-02-05T01:56:00.000-08:00

There are a couple of things I learned from my shift at work tonight:

1. Learning a new job is stressful.

and

2. Norah Jones provides great stress relief.

I don’t have her new album yet (“Not Too Late”), but I could listen to “Come Away With Me” until the cows come home (they’re grazing somewhere over near Frasier and 42nd). I’m pretty sure she could be confidently prescribed medically, for any of you MDs who are reading.

My job is with a friend who has cerebral palsy, and he’s totally rad. The only thing is, it’s gonna take me a while to figure out how he likes everything done. For instance, simple things like putting on a jacket or a shirt take on new meaning when you’re attempting to do it backwards on another person. So far he’s been pretty gracious with me, which I’m thankful for, but I’m waiting for the day he drops the hammer and starts bitching. Today was only my first shift alone, though, so I think I’ll be fine.

Anyways.

I moved into a new apartment, which is cool. I owe a huge thanks to Corrie and Dawn Block for letting me stay at their place for a couple of weeks… who does that? I had an awesome time. We played video games, chilled with their kids, ate popcorn, and watched three Kevin Smith movies (Dogma, Clerks, and Mallrats). Good times.
I’m tired. Enjoy the pic of my circa 1985 (a total guess) apt, and me, having new apt feva.

today

2007-01-24T21:33:00.000-08:00

hello again, Mr. Blog. I had an interesting day. Care to hear?

I'm trying to help my friend write a book so I thought I'd better work on it today. I wrote about how annoying it is at church once you graduate from youth group. At least at most churches. You graduate with all the idealism and enthusiasm in the world, a veritable fire for Jesus, only to be struck with the prospect of spending the next fifty years of your life in a pew giving money to the "kingdom" (church mortgage and Africa). Not overly appealing. Church leaders are just now starting to figure out that no one is staying, at least no one with half a brain and at least a little ambition to do something worthwhile with their life. I mean, if I wanted to give money to Africa, I'd visit Bono. And if I wanted to give money for the church mortgage...well, I don't. I understand that we need a roof over our heads and the pastor's family needs to eat, but, I suppose they can come over to my house and have service there. I'll even feed them. Sure, my place isn't worth a few million bucks, but we can find somewhere else to use the money that isn't a state-of-the-art sanctuary and a professional chef. (Actually maybe we'll keep the chef).

When I was walking home from the bakery I passed a little laundry and dry cleaning shop. It had a sign in the window that said "new watch batteries here". I liked that. I once went to a similar shop that had key-cutting, sewing, locksmith, etc. I suppose all of those things are in the same "to-do" category. Or maybe there's a high percent chance that your watch may die when doing your laundry or getting your keys cut.

Somethings I'll never know. But I'm ok with that.

strife

2006-12-30T20:57:00.000-08:00

It bothers me how people who love each other play games with each other. (I just used ‘each other’ twice, and I endeavour never to use the same word group twice in a single paragraph. Any suggestions? How about, “it bothers me how two people in love play games with each other”. Yes.) For instance, Man B may be upset because Woman A (subtle attempt at equality) does something annoying. Let’s say, they are dating and he wants to see her but she is busy. Jealousy excluded, he gets annoyed because he has to find another way to occupy his time and certainly won’t be getting a piece tonight. Instead of resigning himself to his circumstance, Man B decides that he will fight back by avoiding Woman A next time they see each other. He hopes that she will then understand what it means to experience said “shaft”. Woman A may feel genuinely sorry for having inconvenienced Man B, but she will now be forced to endure isolation under an entirely new set of circumstances which will likely confuse her at first, and which will certainly cause great strife for Man B when she figures it out. Man B feels forced into this situation because he doesn’t want to appear dependent on Woman A, and yet can’t tell her how he really feels because, well, that’s just gay. Whereas, if Man B can curb his initial enthusiasm at wanting to see Woman A, and direct it towards some constructive way of expressing his feelings towards her, he will reap the benefits not only of her presence at a later time, but of her willingness to recompense him (in whichever way she sees fit) for his efforts. Win-win.

And why am I single?

*sigh

2006-12-03T22:03:00.000-08:00

I had the shittiest day today. I mean, I'm not that surprised, considering I've been feeling a bit down lately. Plus, I pulled an all-nighter two nights ago to get some homework done and I haven't quite recovered. Regardless, today was a string of bad events. It all started with a physical feeling... just waking up and not feeling greatest. For me that most often manifests itself as stomach problems, especially when I'm tired, stressed, and/or haven't been eating well. I'm mostly tired. It just sets a bad tone for the day. Then, I get a call from my workmate that she's acting in a movie with her boyfriend (they did a scene with Charlize Theron. What the hell), and wants to switch shifts with me. That means that I have to start work two hours earlier, and won't get to take a nap. Whatever, I can live with that. Then, I was playing floor hockey with this kids group that I volunteer for and my friend twisted his knee and was writhing on the floor in pain, screaming. Maybe it was embellished, but I'm thinking to myself, 'Perfect'. Fast-forward events, and I make it to work but I'm not fully there mentally. I'm thinking about my friend, and about my stomach, while trying to supervise a really busy coffee shop, including taking care of all the cash. By the evening, I had somehow screwed up the tills, the safe wasn't balancing properly, and I couldn't find the deposit from yesterday. I tried to stay calm, but I was kind of freakin. (In the end, I think the cash will be worked out tomorrow, and we found the deposit). Meanwhile, I get a call from my 68-year-old neighbour who is clinically depressed. She is having problems with the building caretakers and wants to write a letter to the manager. After months of paying lip service, I finally tell her that they're probably pissed off because she finds reasons to knock on their door every week and she's not respecting their privacy. When I get out of work, there's a nasty voicemail on my phone, as well as a letter at my apartment door, renouncing our friendship. That's what I get for being honest.

I'm glad to be home and alive. I am left wondering, however, what causes days like this? Is it my own bad attitude? Is it negative attitudes being directed towards me? I want to bring light to the world, not darkness. On days like today, though, I feel like there's a cloud hanging over me that rains on me and everyone around me (my manager even got a ticket for running a red light). To combat this, I will spend the next couple of days praying that my attitude will change, and speaking love and peace on everyone around me, including my crazy neighbour(s). Maybe that sounds cheesy, but I really do believe in the power of good to overcome evil.

pure light shines
and the depths of my soul
are illuminated
with the glow of joy
and sounds of mourning
turning to laughing
children singing
and dancing

my neighbour just called. I think we're going to work things out :).

2006-12-03T00:23:00.000-08:00

I made my blog black. It was white, but then I realized that some of what I write doesn't belong on white, so I made it black.

something.

2006-12-02T23:43:00.000-08:00

Shadows run long from her eyebrows to her chin because she tilts her head towards the sun and doesn't let anyone see her eyes. Sorrow has become her companion and secretly keeps guard of her heart from others, but mostly from her. She longs only for a warm hand to grab her spine and lift her to a better place, so she pours icy water down her back until the feeling goes away.

Suddenly she awakes and, newly inspired, lifts her eyes to the light and basks there. For the first significant moment in her life she lets the warmth of the sun invade her skin, so delicate.

She realizes that she doesn't recognize herself anymore, and doesn't like it. So she drives a knife into her heart and looks down for the last time. Her blood is freezing cold, and the rain begins to fall. She is joined again with the earth, and smiles as if greeting an old friend.

Turning away, the artist once again picks up a brush and tries again.

my blog layout sucks. I guess I'm not gonna do anything about it. Sometimes I journal in a book, or even on my computer. Today I'm going to journal in my blog. I turned on some music after I finished the poem, so I might not think as much. Maybe I'll be more honest, or maybe not. Sometimes I feel down, and I feel at home there. I guess that's what my poem's about, indirectly. What was it about for you? I keep everyone and everything at a distance, because they might smell my imperfections. Or maybe it's more than that.

I hope that if I do die alone I'll make the most of my time here. There's no sense being a waste of space, paint is expensive.

Love someone today.

somethingtochewon

2006-11-07T11:07:00.000-08:00

I'm forcing myself to write today. Sometimes writing is such a chore, but it's like doing homework- I usually end up enjoying myself once I start. Or at least I learn something. Unless I'm blogging about statistics or something stupid and scientific. I work hard at being a pretentious artist.

I finally started seeing some positive developments with school. For a while there I started to feel like I somehow got a lot dumber since I finished my last program, sort of like how our bodies decay when we get old. My hunched-over-with-a-cane brain. Luckily, though, I took a little viagra and danced my way to an 'A', accompanied by a big band and a middle-aged woman with perfect teeth.

Really, getting good grades is all about adjusting to your environment. When I was in bible school I could pump out idioms I learned in sunday school and everyone thought I was a genius. Thinking for yourself is heretical- remember that kids. Here, it's a different breed. I have to explore a little bit outside of classical theology, which gives me the cold sweats, but its ok because I can rush home and take a warm bath and read Max Lucado. Not too warm, though- heat leads to sensuality and eventually teen pregnancy.

My battery is running low, so I'll quit. But I'm happy to be getting some good grades. Everyone knows life is meaningless unless accompanied by independent approval.

goodbye.

ipassionatelyhatechamelions

2006-11-05T22:30:00.000-08:00

This makes three days in a row. Maybe I've found something in blogging.

Is your life compartmentalized? Work; School; Music; Church; Reading- those are my big five. Each component holds a special place in my life, and yet may or may not interact with the other four. On crazy days I experience multiple compartments and feel like a different person each time. I think it's a flaw; I don't like the feeling that I'm not the same person all the time. When I go to work I play the role of supervisor, guiding others and interacting with customers (which has actually become my trademark in the store). Then I go home and turtle in my shell with a book and may not talk to anyone all night, and be perfectly happy. The next day I'll talk music with my 'jamming' partner, who would never understand a night alone in literature-land. Then I'll attend church and people look to me for spiritual direction, and I try not to tell them that instead of reading the bible yesterday I read Dostoevsky, even though reading the Bible is probably a better investment. Then I go to school and have little to talk about with anyone because they don't care to hear about coffee or church, and they don't know any of my friends. But I'm ok with this too because by compartmentalizing everything I gain control over my environment and limit how much people know about me. But then I go home and blog, and, well, so much for that. Although I've only told one person about this blog so far, another fellow blogger, because he's already in that compartment so it's ok.

Have a nice night.

abowlofpoopforyou

2006-11-04T23:30:00.000-08:00

today blows. My friend Ben from Ontario just stayed with me for a couple of weeks, and I dropped him off at the airport this morning. When I moved to Vancouver I was so stoked to have my own place- I'm a bit of a loner at times so enjoyed the privacy. This was the first time I'd had a visitor for more than a night or so, and we had a rad time. Nothing fancy, just movies before bed, sarcasm, laughs, etc. It's funny how different life can be when someone else is present.

Anyways, I guess I'm just a little bummed to be sitting in an empty apartment. There will be better days.

On a lighter note, I'm feeling better now (I love statements which presuppose knowledge that doesn't exist). I finally went to the clinic and got some antibiotics, so if anything I'm mentally appeased. The melting glacier is dripping into my throat, though, and causing a serious cough. I'm relying on Buckley's to get me through the night without waking up my building. Holy shit that stuff is toxic and wonderful.

Planning out the next year or so in my head... I'll post more when the time's right.

sohere'sthething

2006-11-03T12:36:00.000-08:00

I caught up with the times with myspace, but it does nothing for my blogging urges. Maybe it's just TOO public. Either way, I'm embarking on a new journey here, which will hopefully take me to new places of self-expression and wasting time. In the very least I can say I tried. I'm not entirely sure what makes a blog interesting... is it openness? humour? wit? Not likely will you find much of that here, save for instances of pure enlightenment/insanity. I'm far too rational to be funny in a creative way, and far too lazy to be profound in an intelligent way. But this ultimately is for me, so be patient. If I find I'm not bold enough for disclosure of certain details I probably won't last long; no sense wasting time convincing you I'm something I'm not. But in a few months I'll look back to find something that's worth finding, and if I don't, I'll dig up sand somewhere else.