Original Post Date: June 3rd, 2009
Take my hand.
It's okay. We don't have to go anywhere today. I just want to show you.
You can't close your eyes, but you can focus your gaze. You can't sleep, but you can shut out the world. I can't tell you what to do, but I can show you what you could.
You can't fly, but you can travel somewhere entirely real.
Now take my hand.
The palm is soft, though not feminine. It is where the heart is held. The fingers kiss back, but don't kiss unbidden. The grip is firm. The bastard knows what he's doing.
Now you have to jump. You have to dissolve mantras and advertising slogans into puddles of alphagetti. Their words must not be given the same weight as true nutrition here! You have to grip faith as your shield and trust that it will hold. An unindulgent mind will let only its enemies through the gates of Eden. And you have to let go of all the things that you know and hold dear. That knowledge will find its own way back to you, without doubt; don't worry.
Lastly, I have a subtle hope, that you have the courage to bring your soul with you. Naked.
JUMP!
To be continued...
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A Double Headed Coin
My friend tells me that everything happens in threes.
Truth is, I learn a lot from my friends. Wisdom can be found on tree trunks and tarot cards, in philosophy and philanthropy. But it always seems to have more impact coming from friends. More meaning. More accuracy. "Real friends will tell you when your face is dirty," my friend says. Tree trunks won't tell you that.
It's a difficult thing to do, to tell a friend that their face is dirty or their fly is down. Personally, I always feel awkward telling a friend that they have something in their teeth. There is something about revealing bad news to good people that is difficult. It doesn't seem to matter that not revealing that news will only make it worse. Somehow, it doesn't empower us to know that if we say nothing, the poor shmuck will have something in their teeth all day. We just feel awkward about being the bearer of bad news. It's because we know that there is a part of every person's soul that hates a good mirror with a bad reflection. No one wants to be the one to hold that mirror. That's why it takes a real friend.
My friend told me that they felt tragedy in the air. She told me that she thought large-scale, deep tragedy would soon occur to her friends. She felt it. She didn't know what it would be, or where or who it would be. She had no idea when it would be. But she felt like it was lingering on the horizon: tragedy. And she was afraid.
We are prophets. Like lightning, tragedy struck.
Exactly three weeks before my scheduled open heart surgery, I lost my job. It was lost in the most emotionally trying of ways. It was unexpectedly and sudden. 2 years of earnest service - not a lot of time in the business world, but an eternity in the world of an internet company - dissolved over a weekend. Though the financial loss was (and due to surgery, still is) palpable, this tragedy was rooted in its needlessness and its lasting emotional damage - a combination no person should ever have to endure.
The whole thing could have been solved with a simple conversation, if they had brought it up. It would have been that easy. Instead, fake smiles and laughter were delivered with one hand while formal complaints were made with the other. With no indication of wrong-doing, a man will willingly and unknowingly hang himself, and then be faulted for it. (And these accusers wonder why they are so often treated like children!) Further still, a management bent on finding proof and protection, rather than truth, finds itself ill equipped and uninterested in impartial inquiry or departmental improvement. (And it wonders why morale and loyalty buckle!) Final nails in a coffin never needed to be made: masked accusers appear. I had no known enemies, and so, these people must be people who smiled at me. Their accusations and identities are protected from me, (their well being an obvious priority over the accused's!) and I am to take the accuracy of their statements as true without capacity for verification or subsequent rebuttal. I am dismissed from my job, left with a garden that houses mystery snakes. Few recognize how lasting or far-reaching a sting it is to be entrenched in a community where some mystery persons within that community has caused you harm. Anonymity and secrecy, with good people, only ever causes suffering. It means that I have not only lost my job, but also my community. For what fool would return to possible mouths that bit him? And, whilst I am permanently alienated by the accusation, they will all be re-integrated by the graces of time and human will. Injustice is tragedy.
Open heart surgery is also tragedy. If it is thought otherwise, then you are mistaking it for a routine procedure. It is routine only for the doctors that perform it - but they go home healthy and happy at the end of the day. They go home and have a beer. And so, while it was planned, that did not make it an event of simplicity. Knowing I had no job behind me, and the volatility with which these things evaporate, another cancellation was constantly on my mind. And it almost occurred! Support, over the wait list months and false alarms, was still strong... but it is hard for it not to erode.
And while some things erode, some things do not. Memories remain. The valve replacement and repair part is easy. I just sleep with IV induced drugs. After I wake up, however, there is a gauntlet of trials that are placed under the convenient veil of "recovery". "Now all you have to do is get well," they say. And while the physical healing *is* the easy part, that does not make it easy. Drainage tubes being yanked, food not staying down, breathing tubes in your lungs during waking hours, terrible immobility, catheters, 3am sleeplessness, stabbing lung pains, uncertainty, endless drugs and scary reactions, an incapacity to make yourself supper, itching scars, constant bruising, not being able to lift more than 10 lbs, the list can go on. It is enough to show that this is an ordeal. They say that pain is something that, once finished, is the easiest to forget. And it's true, I don't remember exactly how the drainage tubes felt coming out. But I remember it. I was there. I was drugged, but I was awake and I watched it. That, just like long sleepless nights, stays with you. And of course, the mental lingers as well. Time passes slowly, and passion vanishes as soon as it has reappeared. Our former talents and skills can seem wasted on the wind. No matter how many well wishes or visitors one receives, rehabilitation is a lonely and frustrating endeavour.
Something is frustrating when it is out of your control, but you feel it shouldn't be by rights. I returned to my hometown, where recovery was to occur, leaving my apartment in the city under the care of my roommate. Shortly after my arrival, however, I got a text message. It was my roommate: he was moving out. In a couple of days. He had no intention of leaving more notice. He had no interest or capacity to leave more rent.
Losing a roommate on such short notice, next to the previous two things, seems a minor setback rather than a third tragedy. But it is in tandem with the previous paragraphs that we see what vices make this particularly problematic. I am stuck an hour and a half's drive away, during the recovery from my surgery. This makes looking for, interviewing, and showing potential roommates my place very, very difficult. I am unable to move more than 10 lbs, which makes it impossible for me to consider moving without significant assistance. I have no job, which means every dollar that disappears is one that is not replenished. This includes dollars lost paying for a 2 bdrm place by myself. In a phrase, this is incredibly bad timing and an awkward burden on a mind already recovering and trying to figure out what it will do with itself.
Given these tragedies, how can a person not be optimistic?
It sounds like sarcasm, but it's not. Given all this immense change, these new social revelations and physical repairs, I find it difficult at times not to grin like the Cheshire cat himself.
I have another friend who says that there are always two sides to the story. She says that the truth can always be found somewhere in the middle. But, in this, I don't agree with her. I don't think that two people, or two entities, or two perspectives, by virtue of the fact that they have had a disagreement must then "meet in the middle" for truth. One should never think that another perspective - simply by existing - invalidates the truth of a former perspective. Sometimes one side works harder to get an accurate account of things. Sometimes, one party is simply wrong. Sometimes both are right and equally (or unequally!) meaningful. People are capable of objective assessment. We should work towards that. Our judgements should be based on truth and ethics, not the middle ground.
But my friend is right in one capacity, there is another way to read my tragic stories of the past month and a half. It is a way that does not make them invalid, but does help to see where my optimism bubbles from.
Let me tell you, then. But let you not forget the former reading, for while the optimism is genuine, it was borne from genuine tragedy.
As a preface, it should be mentioned that I am free. I have no debt. No family dependents or other financial obligations. I'm 25 - young enough for fresh starts, but old enough to know the difficulty of what I attempt. I'm not a genius, but I am smart. Smart enough to be able to attempt any of the traditionally "difficult" career paths: lawyer, dentist, doctor, professor. I have built up a very select few friends and family that I know will never let me down. I've learned that sometimes I may need to ask, but those same friends and family will always be there for me. I have a 4 year degree from a very reputable Canadian university. I am humble enough to realize that that does not guarantee me anything. My ambition is not yet sapped. I'm finally getting skilled at recognizing what makes me happy. I enjoy helping others succeed. I believe in mutual success; in everyone winning.
I don't like leaving my job on terms that I will struggle to explain to future employers. I don't like not knowing who it was that accused me. I don't like the obvious degradation of values in a company that I once loved. These are things that will haunt me. But I do like the freedom. I do like knowing that I can write whatever I want, and I don't have to worry about censorship or the stereotype of a big gigantic company stealing my intellectual property. I feel free to connect myself with the open page, and put my imagination down on paper. "What dreams may come."
And I feel free from the social obligations of wanting to be well liked. It is a particular vice of mine that pops up anytime I am trapped in a room with likable people. I want to be invited to parties and get togethers. I want to be known positively by everyone around me. It is a vanity that I am not proud of, and that I try to suppress whenever I notice it, but it slips in. And in my old job, there were a lot of very likable people. But now I'm not trapped in that room. I will miss those people. I will miss the social interaction, and being a part of a team with a joint mission. But in exchange I have back my capacity to be my own person, and to only make plans when I want to.
I don't like recovery. I don't like that it hurts when I breathe deeply, or that I am stuck in a place with limited guests and limited things to do. I don't like the idea of more blood tests, or the memories of troubled sleep. But I do like the forced freedom. If I am not even allowed to use my hands to help me off the couch, then I certainly can't worry about finding a job. I don't have to worry about it. I'm free to relax, and to dream about the future. I'm given time for a video game vacation, and a time for reflection where no one is expecting results. No one will think less of me for taking the time to wait for passion, because I must also wait for physical repair. My future was once trapped by sloth. Not only has my future now been forced to fend for itself, it's been given the privilege of doing so at its own pace.
I have a new heart valve, and a repaired one. It was successful. How can one not be excited about the prospect of a working heart?
Roommate weaknesses cost money, but that's all. Money and a bit of time. I'm sad that my roommate decided to choose when he did to move out. I don't like that I have to deal with the additional concerns of moving out or moving someone else in during a trying time. But I am excited about the prospect of moving. Of having fresh blood in my living space.
It also reminds me that I am geographically free. That I could move to Toronto tomorrow if I wanted to. Not only am I able to relax, look at my options, decide on a career path that I would like and follow it with zeal, but I can do so anywhere I want. My living arrangements are temporary and without obligation. As the cliché goes, the world is my oyster.
What is the world, if the worst it has to offer me is this? I can go anywhere, I can do anything. Not only am I free to, but I am also capable of doing it. I have cleared my calendar, my obligations, my social network, my physical ties, and my mental worries.
By my tragedies, I have leave to fly.
My friend says that things happen in threes. I believe her. It's poetic and beautiful and something completely worth smiling over.
How can I not?
- Z
Truth is, I learn a lot from my friends. Wisdom can be found on tree trunks and tarot cards, in philosophy and philanthropy. But it always seems to have more impact coming from friends. More meaning. More accuracy. "Real friends will tell you when your face is dirty," my friend says. Tree trunks won't tell you that.
It's a difficult thing to do, to tell a friend that their face is dirty or their fly is down. Personally, I always feel awkward telling a friend that they have something in their teeth. There is something about revealing bad news to good people that is difficult. It doesn't seem to matter that not revealing that news will only make it worse. Somehow, it doesn't empower us to know that if we say nothing, the poor shmuck will have something in their teeth all day. We just feel awkward about being the bearer of bad news. It's because we know that there is a part of every person's soul that hates a good mirror with a bad reflection. No one wants to be the one to hold that mirror. That's why it takes a real friend.
My friend told me that they felt tragedy in the air. She told me that she thought large-scale, deep tragedy would soon occur to her friends. She felt it. She didn't know what it would be, or where or who it would be. She had no idea when it would be. But she felt like it was lingering on the horizon: tragedy. And she was afraid.
We are prophets. Like lightning, tragedy struck.
Exactly three weeks before my scheduled open heart surgery, I lost my job. It was lost in the most emotionally trying of ways. It was unexpectedly and sudden. 2 years of earnest service - not a lot of time in the business world, but an eternity in the world of an internet company - dissolved over a weekend. Though the financial loss was (and due to surgery, still is) palpable, this tragedy was rooted in its needlessness and its lasting emotional damage - a combination no person should ever have to endure.
The whole thing could have been solved with a simple conversation, if they had brought it up. It would have been that easy. Instead, fake smiles and laughter were delivered with one hand while formal complaints were made with the other. With no indication of wrong-doing, a man will willingly and unknowingly hang himself, and then be faulted for it. (And these accusers wonder why they are so often treated like children!) Further still, a management bent on finding proof and protection, rather than truth, finds itself ill equipped and uninterested in impartial inquiry or departmental improvement. (And it wonders why morale and loyalty buckle!) Final nails in a coffin never needed to be made: masked accusers appear. I had no known enemies, and so, these people must be people who smiled at me. Their accusations and identities are protected from me, (their well being an obvious priority over the accused's!) and I am to take the accuracy of their statements as true without capacity for verification or subsequent rebuttal. I am dismissed from my job, left with a garden that houses mystery snakes. Few recognize how lasting or far-reaching a sting it is to be entrenched in a community where some mystery persons within that community has caused you harm. Anonymity and secrecy, with good people, only ever causes suffering. It means that I have not only lost my job, but also my community. For what fool would return to possible mouths that bit him? And, whilst I am permanently alienated by the accusation, they will all be re-integrated by the graces of time and human will. Injustice is tragedy.
Open heart surgery is also tragedy. If it is thought otherwise, then you are mistaking it for a routine procedure. It is routine only for the doctors that perform it - but they go home healthy and happy at the end of the day. They go home and have a beer. And so, while it was planned, that did not make it an event of simplicity. Knowing I had no job behind me, and the volatility with which these things evaporate, another cancellation was constantly on my mind. And it almost occurred! Support, over the wait list months and false alarms, was still strong... but it is hard for it not to erode.
And while some things erode, some things do not. Memories remain. The valve replacement and repair part is easy. I just sleep with IV induced drugs. After I wake up, however, there is a gauntlet of trials that are placed under the convenient veil of "recovery". "Now all you have to do is get well," they say. And while the physical healing *is* the easy part, that does not make it easy. Drainage tubes being yanked, food not staying down, breathing tubes in your lungs during waking hours, terrible immobility, catheters, 3am sleeplessness, stabbing lung pains, uncertainty, endless drugs and scary reactions, an incapacity to make yourself supper, itching scars, constant bruising, not being able to lift more than 10 lbs, the list can go on. It is enough to show that this is an ordeal. They say that pain is something that, once finished, is the easiest to forget. And it's true, I don't remember exactly how the drainage tubes felt coming out. But I remember it. I was there. I was drugged, but I was awake and I watched it. That, just like long sleepless nights, stays with you. And of course, the mental lingers as well. Time passes slowly, and passion vanishes as soon as it has reappeared. Our former talents and skills can seem wasted on the wind. No matter how many well wishes or visitors one receives, rehabilitation is a lonely and frustrating endeavour.
Something is frustrating when it is out of your control, but you feel it shouldn't be by rights. I returned to my hometown, where recovery was to occur, leaving my apartment in the city under the care of my roommate. Shortly after my arrival, however, I got a text message. It was my roommate: he was moving out. In a couple of days. He had no intention of leaving more notice. He had no interest or capacity to leave more rent.
Losing a roommate on such short notice, next to the previous two things, seems a minor setback rather than a third tragedy. But it is in tandem with the previous paragraphs that we see what vices make this particularly problematic. I am stuck an hour and a half's drive away, during the recovery from my surgery. This makes looking for, interviewing, and showing potential roommates my place very, very difficult. I am unable to move more than 10 lbs, which makes it impossible for me to consider moving without significant assistance. I have no job, which means every dollar that disappears is one that is not replenished. This includes dollars lost paying for a 2 bdrm place by myself. In a phrase, this is incredibly bad timing and an awkward burden on a mind already recovering and trying to figure out what it will do with itself.
Given these tragedies, how can a person not be optimistic?
It sounds like sarcasm, but it's not. Given all this immense change, these new social revelations and physical repairs, I find it difficult at times not to grin like the Cheshire cat himself.
I have another friend who says that there are always two sides to the story. She says that the truth can always be found somewhere in the middle. But, in this, I don't agree with her. I don't think that two people, or two entities, or two perspectives, by virtue of the fact that they have had a disagreement must then "meet in the middle" for truth. One should never think that another perspective - simply by existing - invalidates the truth of a former perspective. Sometimes one side works harder to get an accurate account of things. Sometimes, one party is simply wrong. Sometimes both are right and equally (or unequally!) meaningful. People are capable of objective assessment. We should work towards that. Our judgements should be based on truth and ethics, not the middle ground.
But my friend is right in one capacity, there is another way to read my tragic stories of the past month and a half. It is a way that does not make them invalid, but does help to see where my optimism bubbles from.
Let me tell you, then. But let you not forget the former reading, for while the optimism is genuine, it was borne from genuine tragedy.
As a preface, it should be mentioned that I am free. I have no debt. No family dependents or other financial obligations. I'm 25 - young enough for fresh starts, but old enough to know the difficulty of what I attempt. I'm not a genius, but I am smart. Smart enough to be able to attempt any of the traditionally "difficult" career paths: lawyer, dentist, doctor, professor. I have built up a very select few friends and family that I know will never let me down. I've learned that sometimes I may need to ask, but those same friends and family will always be there for me. I have a 4 year degree from a very reputable Canadian university. I am humble enough to realize that that does not guarantee me anything. My ambition is not yet sapped. I'm finally getting skilled at recognizing what makes me happy. I enjoy helping others succeed. I believe in mutual success; in everyone winning.
I don't like leaving my job on terms that I will struggle to explain to future employers. I don't like not knowing who it was that accused me. I don't like the obvious degradation of values in a company that I once loved. These are things that will haunt me. But I do like the freedom. I do like knowing that I can write whatever I want, and I don't have to worry about censorship or the stereotype of a big gigantic company stealing my intellectual property. I feel free to connect myself with the open page, and put my imagination down on paper. "What dreams may come."
And I feel free from the social obligations of wanting to be well liked. It is a particular vice of mine that pops up anytime I am trapped in a room with likable people. I want to be invited to parties and get togethers. I want to be known positively by everyone around me. It is a vanity that I am not proud of, and that I try to suppress whenever I notice it, but it slips in. And in my old job, there were a lot of very likable people. But now I'm not trapped in that room. I will miss those people. I will miss the social interaction, and being a part of a team with a joint mission. But in exchange I have back my capacity to be my own person, and to only make plans when I want to.
I don't like recovery. I don't like that it hurts when I breathe deeply, or that I am stuck in a place with limited guests and limited things to do. I don't like the idea of more blood tests, or the memories of troubled sleep. But I do like the forced freedom. If I am not even allowed to use my hands to help me off the couch, then I certainly can't worry about finding a job. I don't have to worry about it. I'm free to relax, and to dream about the future. I'm given time for a video game vacation, and a time for reflection where no one is expecting results. No one will think less of me for taking the time to wait for passion, because I must also wait for physical repair. My future was once trapped by sloth. Not only has my future now been forced to fend for itself, it's been given the privilege of doing so at its own pace.
I have a new heart valve, and a repaired one. It was successful. How can one not be excited about the prospect of a working heart?
Roommate weaknesses cost money, but that's all. Money and a bit of time. I'm sad that my roommate decided to choose when he did to move out. I don't like that I have to deal with the additional concerns of moving out or moving someone else in during a trying time. But I am excited about the prospect of moving. Of having fresh blood in my living space.
It also reminds me that I am geographically free. That I could move to Toronto tomorrow if I wanted to. Not only am I able to relax, look at my options, decide on a career path that I would like and follow it with zeal, but I can do so anywhere I want. My living arrangements are temporary and without obligation. As the cliché goes, the world is my oyster.
What is the world, if the worst it has to offer me is this? I can go anywhere, I can do anything. Not only am I free to, but I am also capable of doing it. I have cleared my calendar, my obligations, my social network, my physical ties, and my mental worries.
By my tragedies, I have leave to fly.
My friend says that things happen in threes. I believe her. It's poetic and beautiful and something completely worth smiling over.
How can I not?
- Z
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wind and Water Droplets
Let the wind howl. It’s good for our souls.
Let the fury of a Mother Nature never fatigued tear the weak wills of man asunder. I always feel more comfortable when the wind is blowing. I feel more comfortable knowing that things are changing, growing, moulding, progressing, reducing, reforming. I feel more comfortable when I can trust that tomorrow brings something new.
But when I can trust that something will simply blow over, and return to a moral drought, I lose sleep. In stagnant weather, hours past midnight look the same as mid-afternoon tea.
Usually, I lose sleep to imaginary conversations. I lose it to the egoist in me, in that wit of tongue that I’ve always dreamt of having. When I cannot trust in change, laying in bed I imagine change in my mind. Without logic or pre-intention, I am transported to some fake scenario where my well placed quips win the day. Where they illuminate fault in the villain, and where they raise me as a smug hero.
One is never enough. Drought begets drought, and I start on a cycle of my own. Over and over and over, I will have conversations in my head. 11pm. Midnight. 1am. We cannot change the world with thoughts alone. Eventually, I will regain my senses, and demand change. A change in thoughts and a change in focus in hopes of finding a change in sleeplessness. Eventually it works.
But lately I have begun to fear that my waking life suffers similarly. That my writing suffers from the same cyclical drought. The words I type sound the same as before. Slightly different subject matter, very similar themes, no real change. I repeatedly envision a revolution of will that is forthcoming, but never comes. And when the winds howl and clouds threaten, my spirit is rejuvenated. But then the storm blows over.
No rain yet. And my Muse becomes depressed. I become discontented. What is a man who likes to write when he only tells the same story? And it is true, when I bore myself, how can I not worry about boring you? When my fingers stutter and stammer, feeling that they type nothing new, it is logical to assume that it might be read with the same lack of zeal. At least my midnight hero conversations only have one spectator.
But, this is not a negative mourning. It’s a plea for patience.
I do believe it is coming. I do believe that sleepless nights and imaginary conversations will be a thing of the past. I do believe I have something new worth saying. And that’s because I do believe I have things worth doing.
Trouble is, I don’t quite know what they are yet. To reveal myself in naked form, I know not what my future holds. Though the future has been thrust upon me, and all around me the world threatens its indifference and same-same lack of change, there is the faintest feeling of growth that lingers.
I do believe a storm is coming. I don’t think it’s going to be easy on me. I will be chilled to the bone. I think I will have to force myself past sleeplessness. I will have to demand change from myself. It doesn’t disappear naturally. I’m going to have to stop leaning on crutches, and force myself to walk every day. And I am terrified that, along with my weak will, all of me will be blown away. But if I am to be better than who I am, I will have to be better than who I have been.
They say that good writers borrow, and great writers steal. I refuse to let my writing be merely a reflection of this trial and journey. I will steal blatantly from the life I want, from the change I believe is coming, and write that. It must not be just a reflection, but also a declaration. A map as much as a history. I’ve never considered myself an artist, but my writing is very intimate to me. It is very much, to cite the cliché, a part of who I am. And so, I cannot let it drag behind on a leash. I must lead with it.
In addition to random updates and little pieces, I will be starting a longer writing project soon. It will be in blog-type instalments, that hopefully reflects this new intention and growth. It may not be pretty, or my best writing, but the purpose is sound. Perhaps it will serve as a draft for an even larger work in the future. I sincerely hope you’ll join me on the journey.
And, of course, don’t forget my project with Leah MacDermid, which is back on track now that surgery is done. Her instalment goes up Friday the 14th. Shameless plugging is okay if it involves someone else.
http://www.awriterandareader.blogspot.com/
- Z
Let the fury of a Mother Nature never fatigued tear the weak wills of man asunder. I always feel more comfortable when the wind is blowing. I feel more comfortable knowing that things are changing, growing, moulding, progressing, reducing, reforming. I feel more comfortable when I can trust that tomorrow brings something new.
But when I can trust that something will simply blow over, and return to a moral drought, I lose sleep. In stagnant weather, hours past midnight look the same as mid-afternoon tea.
Usually, I lose sleep to imaginary conversations. I lose it to the egoist in me, in that wit of tongue that I’ve always dreamt of having. When I cannot trust in change, laying in bed I imagine change in my mind. Without logic or pre-intention, I am transported to some fake scenario where my well placed quips win the day. Where they illuminate fault in the villain, and where they raise me as a smug hero.
One is never enough. Drought begets drought, and I start on a cycle of my own. Over and over and over, I will have conversations in my head. 11pm. Midnight. 1am. We cannot change the world with thoughts alone. Eventually, I will regain my senses, and demand change. A change in thoughts and a change in focus in hopes of finding a change in sleeplessness. Eventually it works.
But lately I have begun to fear that my waking life suffers similarly. That my writing suffers from the same cyclical drought. The words I type sound the same as before. Slightly different subject matter, very similar themes, no real change. I repeatedly envision a revolution of will that is forthcoming, but never comes. And when the winds howl and clouds threaten, my spirit is rejuvenated. But then the storm blows over.
No rain yet. And my Muse becomes depressed. I become discontented. What is a man who likes to write when he only tells the same story? And it is true, when I bore myself, how can I not worry about boring you? When my fingers stutter and stammer, feeling that they type nothing new, it is logical to assume that it might be read with the same lack of zeal. At least my midnight hero conversations only have one spectator.
But, this is not a negative mourning. It’s a plea for patience.
I do believe it is coming. I do believe that sleepless nights and imaginary conversations will be a thing of the past. I do believe I have something new worth saying. And that’s because I do believe I have things worth doing.
Trouble is, I don’t quite know what they are yet. To reveal myself in naked form, I know not what my future holds. Though the future has been thrust upon me, and all around me the world threatens its indifference and same-same lack of change, there is the faintest feeling of growth that lingers.
I do believe a storm is coming. I don’t think it’s going to be easy on me. I will be chilled to the bone. I think I will have to force myself past sleeplessness. I will have to demand change from myself. It doesn’t disappear naturally. I’m going to have to stop leaning on crutches, and force myself to walk every day. And I am terrified that, along with my weak will, all of me will be blown away. But if I am to be better than who I am, I will have to be better than who I have been.
They say that good writers borrow, and great writers steal. I refuse to let my writing be merely a reflection of this trial and journey. I will steal blatantly from the life I want, from the change I believe is coming, and write that. It must not be just a reflection, but also a declaration. A map as much as a history. I’ve never considered myself an artist, but my writing is very intimate to me. It is very much, to cite the cliché, a part of who I am. And so, I cannot let it drag behind on a leash. I must lead with it.
In addition to random updates and little pieces, I will be starting a longer writing project soon. It will be in blog-type instalments, that hopefully reflects this new intention and growth. It may not be pretty, or my best writing, but the purpose is sound. Perhaps it will serve as a draft for an even larger work in the future. I sincerely hope you’ll join me on the journey.
And, of course, don’t forget my project with Leah MacDermid, which is back on track now that surgery is done. Her instalment goes up Friday the 14th. Shameless plugging is okay if it involves someone else.
http://www.awriterandareader.blogspot.com/
- Z
Friday, August 7, 2009
Be Like a Duck
Original Post Date: July 15th, 2009
I had to laugh.
I'm not sure when the last time was that you spent some serious time in a coffee shop, but it's one of my favorite activities. When you spend enough time there with your book and your obligatory drink, and ignore both for long enough, everything seems to change. It starts to look different. Civilization starts to be revealed as a caricature. People start to look like kids playing at pretend. We're all playing house.
Underneath the line up, and the commentary on the economy, and the smiles and the thank you's... underneath the masks of living life properly are real people. And they're all kids. We're all kids. And we all have no idea what we're doing.
And while it's evident in everyone walking past the window, or waiting for their drink, I notice it most loudly in myself. I'm not sure what to do when life changes. I don't know how to act around my friends when bad things happen. I haven't the slightest idea how to go about bringing all the good things I know are out there into my own heart. I'm just guessing, like everyone else.
I once heard some great advice from my high school band teacher. If you aren't confident, fake it. Eventually, that fake confidence will breed real confidence.
When I'm upset at something or someone, I usually recite the mantra "I don't have time for..." I don't have time for situations that only cause discomfort. I don't have time for people who waste my time, or who aren't interested in my well-being. I don't have time for systems that are broken. I don't have time for immoral people.
I fake it a lot. Truth is, I do have time.
I have a friend who thinks that getting sick is funny, because you get to experience all of the strange sensations that the body does when its sick. No one's laughing at a migrane, but the experience is surreal. It's why I joke about being stabbed. I don't think it wouldn't hurt, but it would be a hell of an experience.
I've always found the same admiration with mental experiences. There is nothing quite like experiencing that strange mental, emotional experience when your mind is hurt (or, to be positive for a moment, deleriously overjoyed). It's a glimpse into that inner child who is desperately playing pretend with everything else. Those overwhelming concerns, that bewilderment, that euphoria... it's more who we are than any mask we enjoy wearing.
And it is then, that caricature is revealed in full. And it is funny. I spend countless hours reciting to myself "I don't have time for...". I catch myself obsessing about, as a greater priority than anything else, these things I suggest I don't have time for. At a glance of someone or the mere suggestion of something, my heart can jump into my throat, pounding so hard I can't see straight. My chest and fingertips are driven to that strange, cold, overwhelming nervousness with the greatest of ease. And, while I do my best to stand up straight, and I always look 'em square in the eyes, I feel like I will collapse at any moment.
And so, I cannot help but laugh. How could we not?
What strange world is this where we have rules and ethics and regulations and ego and all sorts of good intentions, yet our body still goes weak in a tense situation and our mind turns to mush. What beautiful comedy where the little can intimidate the big, and silence can condemn louder than words. Where the girl we really like and want to spend all of our time with, we can't say three words to. Where we can all line up for coffee, complain about our day to our friend, and then tell the cashier with a smile that we're doing just fine, thanks.
I love it.
We have no need to suffer. No need to be awkward. We have no time to not pursue happiness. Let's fake it until we believe it.
Paddle like hell,
- Z
I had to laugh.
I'm not sure when the last time was that you spent some serious time in a coffee shop, but it's one of my favorite activities. When you spend enough time there with your book and your obligatory drink, and ignore both for long enough, everything seems to change. It starts to look different. Civilization starts to be revealed as a caricature. People start to look like kids playing at pretend. We're all playing house.
Underneath the line up, and the commentary on the economy, and the smiles and the thank you's... underneath the masks of living life properly are real people. And they're all kids. We're all kids. And we all have no idea what we're doing.
And while it's evident in everyone walking past the window, or waiting for their drink, I notice it most loudly in myself. I'm not sure what to do when life changes. I don't know how to act around my friends when bad things happen. I haven't the slightest idea how to go about bringing all the good things I know are out there into my own heart. I'm just guessing, like everyone else.
I once heard some great advice from my high school band teacher. If you aren't confident, fake it. Eventually, that fake confidence will breed real confidence.
When I'm upset at something or someone, I usually recite the mantra "I don't have time for..." I don't have time for situations that only cause discomfort. I don't have time for people who waste my time, or who aren't interested in my well-being. I don't have time for systems that are broken. I don't have time for immoral people.
I fake it a lot. Truth is, I do have time.
I have a friend who thinks that getting sick is funny, because you get to experience all of the strange sensations that the body does when its sick. No one's laughing at a migrane, but the experience is surreal. It's why I joke about being stabbed. I don't think it wouldn't hurt, but it would be a hell of an experience.
I've always found the same admiration with mental experiences. There is nothing quite like experiencing that strange mental, emotional experience when your mind is hurt (or, to be positive for a moment, deleriously overjoyed). It's a glimpse into that inner child who is desperately playing pretend with everything else. Those overwhelming concerns, that bewilderment, that euphoria... it's more who we are than any mask we enjoy wearing.
And it is then, that caricature is revealed in full. And it is funny. I spend countless hours reciting to myself "I don't have time for...". I catch myself obsessing about, as a greater priority than anything else, these things I suggest I don't have time for. At a glance of someone or the mere suggestion of something, my heart can jump into my throat, pounding so hard I can't see straight. My chest and fingertips are driven to that strange, cold, overwhelming nervousness with the greatest of ease. And, while I do my best to stand up straight, and I always look 'em square in the eyes, I feel like I will collapse at any moment.
And so, I cannot help but laugh. How could we not?
What strange world is this where we have rules and ethics and regulations and ego and all sorts of good intentions, yet our body still goes weak in a tense situation and our mind turns to mush. What beautiful comedy where the little can intimidate the big, and silence can condemn louder than words. Where the girl we really like and want to spend all of our time with, we can't say three words to. Where we can all line up for coffee, complain about our day to our friend, and then tell the cashier with a smile that we're doing just fine, thanks.
I love it.
We have no need to suffer. No need to be awkward. We have no time to not pursue happiness. Let's fake it until we believe it.
Paddle like hell,
- Z
Our Demons Don't Sleep At Night
Original Post Date: July 13th, 2009
The World and I have a curious relationship. I flirt with it's daughter endlessly. She flirts with me. This is who we are. This is who we were meant to be.
It's divine.
When Hurricane Katrina sank New Orleans, that was a tragedy. The World was angry. Or maybe excited. Maybe it was sending a message, or maybe it was an apathetic movement of a succession of weather systems that cumulated into an unfortunate series of events.
But it was the World.
What devastates me is the tragedy that is not created by the World. To be fair, I have never experienced the tragedy of an earthquake, or a hurricane. I've been fortunate enough to never have been wiped out by a flood or a drought. Local fires of so long ago never threatened my home.
But we, in our holy capacity, create much better tragedy. Like everything that we work to improve upon, tragedy has come to have new meaning. We have given it new depths and personal percision strikes. What bilogical weapons did for war, emotional warfare does for tragedy. The signature is civilization's EMP. Labels give birth to devils and demons in ways lightning never could.
The recession is always my example. It always makes me disappointed. Of homes going empty, and families going hungry. Of food that can't be sold and people without shelter. Both, at the same time. We have lost no capacity to live, and yet we invent reason to suffer. I hate seeing large, empty office buildings at night, next to freezing homeless people on the street. We may not kill them - jury is still out on that one. But as a society, there is no doubt that we let them die.
It is man and woman made tragedy that I find truly tragic.
It's a person-made tragedy that we encourage, not discourage. It's person-made tragedy that we accept, rather than rage against. It's person-made tragedy that we will justify and forget, rather than remember. And it is person-made tragedy that happens every day, right beside us.
When it hits too close to home, we want to blame the World.
It's been a rough couple of weeks. And for a few of us, that's an understatement. Devastating, World-Altering, and Tragic, would be better words. Perspective is important - we still have what we still have. But any subject that can cause tears to well visibly and fears to fumble out deserve more than the description "rough."
Person-made tragedy attacks trust. Trust in others - suddenly everywhere there are unknown enemies, instead of well known friends. Trust in yourself - people are not who you thought they were.
It challenges transparancy. Can you be who you are? Is what happens behind closed doors so different than it appears?
It makes you wonder whether you were right or wrong. Whether you are a good person. It makes you question who you are.
The World doesn't attack that. The World has never had an interest in attacking that. It may take away homes and riches and lives. But it doesn't take away your sense of understanding, and it doesn't challenge your morality.
My favorite silver lining is that tragedy enables (and forces) people to show their true colours. Not only can it call trust and transparency into question, it must also thrust it upon us. It is in tragedy that people are as they are and we cannot help but hope they will be the people we hope them to be. There is no other option. To that extent, I love it.
When my friend encounters some unfortunate fate, I am empowered with the capacity to actually be there for them. I am able to show them that, in me, their trust was not misplaced. To show them that I am as I appear, and want to know them for who they are. To show that I do not always get everything right, but I am a good person.
And so, recently, I have been profoundly fortunate to be able to experience that silver lining in others directly. Despite the shadows that threaten eternal haunting, and devils that threaten scathing, I have friends and family that don't give a fuck. They have come through - unrequested and unbidden - in beautiful colours. How lucky I am.
The World's daughter is ready to move our relationship to the next level. But I have to ask permission first.
Surgery's on the 27th.
- Z
The World and I have a curious relationship. I flirt with it's daughter endlessly. She flirts with me. This is who we are. This is who we were meant to be.
It's divine.
When Hurricane Katrina sank New Orleans, that was a tragedy. The World was angry. Or maybe excited. Maybe it was sending a message, or maybe it was an apathetic movement of a succession of weather systems that cumulated into an unfortunate series of events.
But it was the World.
What devastates me is the tragedy that is not created by the World. To be fair, I have never experienced the tragedy of an earthquake, or a hurricane. I've been fortunate enough to never have been wiped out by a flood or a drought. Local fires of so long ago never threatened my home.
But we, in our holy capacity, create much better tragedy. Like everything that we work to improve upon, tragedy has come to have new meaning. We have given it new depths and personal percision strikes. What bilogical weapons did for war, emotional warfare does for tragedy. The signature is civilization's EMP. Labels give birth to devils and demons in ways lightning never could.
The recession is always my example. It always makes me disappointed. Of homes going empty, and families going hungry. Of food that can't be sold and people without shelter. Both, at the same time. We have lost no capacity to live, and yet we invent reason to suffer. I hate seeing large, empty office buildings at night, next to freezing homeless people on the street. We may not kill them - jury is still out on that one. But as a society, there is no doubt that we let them die.
It is man and woman made tragedy that I find truly tragic.
It's a person-made tragedy that we encourage, not discourage. It's person-made tragedy that we accept, rather than rage against. It's person-made tragedy that we will justify and forget, rather than remember. And it is person-made tragedy that happens every day, right beside us.
When it hits too close to home, we want to blame the World.
It's been a rough couple of weeks. And for a few of us, that's an understatement. Devastating, World-Altering, and Tragic, would be better words. Perspective is important - we still have what we still have. But any subject that can cause tears to well visibly and fears to fumble out deserve more than the description "rough."
Person-made tragedy attacks trust. Trust in others - suddenly everywhere there are unknown enemies, instead of well known friends. Trust in yourself - people are not who you thought they were.
It challenges transparancy. Can you be who you are? Is what happens behind closed doors so different than it appears?
It makes you wonder whether you were right or wrong. Whether you are a good person. It makes you question who you are.
The World doesn't attack that. The World has never had an interest in attacking that. It may take away homes and riches and lives. But it doesn't take away your sense of understanding, and it doesn't challenge your morality.
My favorite silver lining is that tragedy enables (and forces) people to show their true colours. Not only can it call trust and transparency into question, it must also thrust it upon us. It is in tragedy that people are as they are and we cannot help but hope they will be the people we hope them to be. There is no other option. To that extent, I love it.
When my friend encounters some unfortunate fate, I am empowered with the capacity to actually be there for them. I am able to show them that, in me, their trust was not misplaced. To show them that I am as I appear, and want to know them for who they are. To show that I do not always get everything right, but I am a good person.
And so, recently, I have been profoundly fortunate to be able to experience that silver lining in others directly. Despite the shadows that threaten eternal haunting, and devils that threaten scathing, I have friends and family that don't give a fuck. They have come through - unrequested and unbidden - in beautiful colours. How lucky I am.
The World's daughter is ready to move our relationship to the next level. But I have to ask permission first.
Surgery's on the 27th.
- Z
Flying
Original Post Date: June 24th, 2009
I think that, if there is a God, His purpose for me is to observe His art.
It sounds a quaint statement. And then it sounds a meaningful one. Then on deeper analysis, it seems a very arrogant one. But, humility needn't defend itself. I watched an old man tip his city bus driver. It was beautiful.
I was on my way to the Greyhound station, getting ready to zone out, when the old man got on the bus. He ambled, and I was in one of the front seats. The bus was crowded. He sat down next to me, after cordially asking if he could. I, with the most respect and mom-and-pop-raised civility I could muster, looked him in the eye and said "of course!" I hadn't even noticed that he had a wife, who had taken a seat close by us.
I knew he'd want to talk. Old people always want to talk. He spoke about how much Kelowna has grown. How small it used to be. He spoke about how he had thought to retire in Toronto, but then he couldn't handle how much it made him perspire. That was his word. Perspire. Now he was retired here, and had watched it grow.
I had begun to worry that I may have to ask this man to get up, so that I could catch my stop, but that was only Nature making sure that I would pay attention. The bus stopped - one stop from mine - and it was his. He hoped I would have a good day, reached for his cane, and got up. His wife got off using the exit in the middle of the bus. He didn't follow. He ambled, very slowly, up the center of our grungy bus, past a few questionable glances, and dug his hand deep into his right pocket. It took him a while, and though he was matter of fact, his pocket mining and speed denied him subtlety. Finally reaching the front of the bus, he produced a small quad of coins and deftly placed it in the bus driver's hand. He'd been doing that for a long time. A quick but hearty exchange followed while we all waited, and then he exited the bus to rejoin his loved one.
I swear I saw, through the window, his equally aged and waiting wife smirk.
~~~
I overheard someone my age hit on a 35 year old woman on her birthday at the bar. They were going to hook up. Apparently he had a girlfriend. Apparently she found out. Apparently the girlfriend's in Alberta. Obviously, she didn't care how far away the girlfriend was, the point is, he fucking had a girlfriend.
I bought her a shot. That's something worth celebrating. Happy birthday.
~~~
I had an unexpected lunch today with a friend. I listened as he told me of his newly discovered role of fatherhood. He is ambitious: This kid will do well in middle school. It's good for him.
My friend never did well in school. It was good for him. He's more successful than me, and I did very well in school. I had nothing to contribute, except that I was writing more than usual. He, on the other hand has grandiose plans: for himself, for his new family, and his new (step-)child. His only regret was that a small set-back a long time ago had delayed his career advancement for a few months.
And, as he sighed over this set-back, he also told the tale his soon-to-be wife explained to him: If it were not for this delay, they might never have met. All things happen for a reason, she had said to her lover.
I found myself wondering where I would have been if my ex-lover had felt as adamant as the birthday girl. If things had gone a different way. Perhaps I would have been more successful, earlier. More ambitious. Living one of the many lives I watched. I wondered whether that kind of a life would have been better, or worse.
But that was only Nature making sure I would pay attention. This next move was important.
~~~
A co-worker reminded me, yesterday, about quantum physics. God's dice.
I don't know a lot about the stuff, but I know the cat metaphor: Place a live cat in a box. Close the box and set a gun next to it, so that when you open the box to check on the cat, the cat is shot dead. Is the cat alive or dead?
Point is: it's both. But observation changes things.
~~~
Tonight, I was catching up on the archives of a blog of a woman I have come to appreciate beyond measure; a woman I would never have met meaningfully if things had progressed differently with my ex-lover. I didn't know she had a blog. She never told me. I never thought to ask.
It was going to make for a quaint night. She's a good writer. As I got lost in her old discussions, I found myself particularly taken with one entry about her soul's pilgrimage. It spoke to me. I felt happy and weightless reading it.
As I swirled the entry around in my mind's mouth, I realized that she used exactly the same metaphor that I had used months ago to describe to a friend of mine, the sense of freedom a heart and mind should have.
Then I smiled as my thought process ambled up along my grungy memory. That friend of mine just so happened to share the namesake of this woman beyond measure. Same metaphor. Same meaning. Same name. Then I dug deeper.
The blog entry was posted at the same time that I had used the metaphor; it was the same date.
Watching me then, God must have smirked.
Tip your bus driver,
- Z
I think that, if there is a God, His purpose for me is to observe His art.
It sounds a quaint statement. And then it sounds a meaningful one. Then on deeper analysis, it seems a very arrogant one. But, humility needn't defend itself. I watched an old man tip his city bus driver. It was beautiful.
I was on my way to the Greyhound station, getting ready to zone out, when the old man got on the bus. He ambled, and I was in one of the front seats. The bus was crowded. He sat down next to me, after cordially asking if he could. I, with the most respect and mom-and-pop-raised civility I could muster, looked him in the eye and said "of course!" I hadn't even noticed that he had a wife, who had taken a seat close by us.
I knew he'd want to talk. Old people always want to talk. He spoke about how much Kelowna has grown. How small it used to be. He spoke about how he had thought to retire in Toronto, but then he couldn't handle how much it made him perspire. That was his word. Perspire. Now he was retired here, and had watched it grow.
I had begun to worry that I may have to ask this man to get up, so that I could catch my stop, but that was only Nature making sure that I would pay attention. The bus stopped - one stop from mine - and it was his. He hoped I would have a good day, reached for his cane, and got up. His wife got off using the exit in the middle of the bus. He didn't follow. He ambled, very slowly, up the center of our grungy bus, past a few questionable glances, and dug his hand deep into his right pocket. It took him a while, and though he was matter of fact, his pocket mining and speed denied him subtlety. Finally reaching the front of the bus, he produced a small quad of coins and deftly placed it in the bus driver's hand. He'd been doing that for a long time. A quick but hearty exchange followed while we all waited, and then he exited the bus to rejoin his loved one.
I swear I saw, through the window, his equally aged and waiting wife smirk.
~~~
I overheard someone my age hit on a 35 year old woman on her birthday at the bar. They were going to hook up. Apparently he had a girlfriend. Apparently she found out. Apparently the girlfriend's in Alberta. Obviously, she didn't care how far away the girlfriend was, the point is, he fucking had a girlfriend.
I bought her a shot. That's something worth celebrating. Happy birthday.
~~~
I had an unexpected lunch today with a friend. I listened as he told me of his newly discovered role of fatherhood. He is ambitious: This kid will do well in middle school. It's good for him.
My friend never did well in school. It was good for him. He's more successful than me, and I did very well in school. I had nothing to contribute, except that I was writing more than usual. He, on the other hand has grandiose plans: for himself, for his new family, and his new (step-)child. His only regret was that a small set-back a long time ago had delayed his career advancement for a few months.
And, as he sighed over this set-back, he also told the tale his soon-to-be wife explained to him: If it were not for this delay, they might never have met. All things happen for a reason, she had said to her lover.
I found myself wondering where I would have been if my ex-lover had felt as adamant as the birthday girl. If things had gone a different way. Perhaps I would have been more successful, earlier. More ambitious. Living one of the many lives I watched. I wondered whether that kind of a life would have been better, or worse.
But that was only Nature making sure I would pay attention. This next move was important.
~~~
A co-worker reminded me, yesterday, about quantum physics. God's dice.
I don't know a lot about the stuff, but I know the cat metaphor: Place a live cat in a box. Close the box and set a gun next to it, so that when you open the box to check on the cat, the cat is shot dead. Is the cat alive or dead?
Point is: it's both. But observation changes things.
~~~
Tonight, I was catching up on the archives of a blog of a woman I have come to appreciate beyond measure; a woman I would never have met meaningfully if things had progressed differently with my ex-lover. I didn't know she had a blog. She never told me. I never thought to ask.
It was going to make for a quaint night. She's a good writer. As I got lost in her old discussions, I found myself particularly taken with one entry about her soul's pilgrimage. It spoke to me. I felt happy and weightless reading it.
As I swirled the entry around in my mind's mouth, I realized that she used exactly the same metaphor that I had used months ago to describe to a friend of mine, the sense of freedom a heart and mind should have.
Then I smiled as my thought process ambled up along my grungy memory. That friend of mine just so happened to share the namesake of this woman beyond measure. Same metaphor. Same meaning. Same name. Then I dug deeper.
The blog entry was posted at the same time that I had used the metaphor; it was the same date.
Watching me then, God must have smirked.
Tip your bus driver,
- Z
It Takes Two to Tango
Original Post Date: June 8th, 2009
Men are often attacked - in that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt - with the phrase "chivalry is dead."
I had intended on cooking dinner with the Muse, and then settling into a little blogging foreplay with regard to the recent Convocation up at my local University. Some incredibly talented people recently graduated, and provided me with the circumstance (and pomp, of course!) to write. But that intention, as Louis Armstrong sang to me and my taco meat sizzled, was halted, completely, when the divine Slut demanded my attention be turned immediately to a different direction.
In that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt.
In Her defence, she was probably just jealous. I was thinking of other women. When the heart aches, as mine has been unexpectedly recently, one tends to linger on the longings. And so, I did. "I wish I had a girl to cook with. I wish I knew a gal that was interested in listening to Franky, or reading poetry. A gal that was interested in drinking wine with me at three in the morning and dancing in the rain."
I had no intention of lingering on the subject any longer than the 3 minutes and 26 seconds of "La Vie en Rose". More so endangers the soul on an evening already filled with so much promise. But it was too late. She caught me. As I thought of my enjoyment of the olde jazz, and finding a woman that would get lost in it with me, I heard the ancient war-cry in my head:
"Chivalry is dead."
The voices of at least 4 wonderful women that I know echoed Her in my head: their scoffs and footstamps supporting their exasperations. How could I resist a reply? And so, the Muse and I made love over chivalry. Necrophilia at its finest.
Whenever I first hear the phrase, no matter its source, amongst the first thoughts that enters my head is almost self defeating: I'm chivalrous. The irony of making the claim does not escape me, of course. And certainly, based on the wisdom of that irony, I never attempt to reply with it seriously. But let's be serious. I'm chivalrous.
I buy the women that I love flowers unexpectedly, when the mood strikes me. And it does - on many more occasions than just holidays. I open doors for people. I do not rush to be front of the line, though I desire my Starbucks just as much as the next guy. I make sure that the women at my table always have the opportunity to order first. I will shiver while a woman wears my jacket. And I will lie and say that I'm not cold.
And though those are the traditional chivalrous acts, none of those is what makes me chivalrous.
I can certainly understand the counter-argument. I'm often late with birthday gifts, if they come at all. I probably stare at your ass as you precede me through the door. If I'm pressed for time, I may pretend not to see you as I head to the line-up. I don't always insist on paying and I believe in "going dutch". And when I feel that my sense of kindness is being abused or unappreciated, I decline a request by saying "you're not fucking me, so do it yourself". When male critics overhear, my reply from under my warm jacket is a hearty "I believe in equal opportunity."
And I do. Heh.
I can hear my incorporeal accusers - those who know me best, perhaps - let their spears loose in a concentrated volley: How can someone so insensitive, arrogant and dirty minded possibly be chivalrous?
They have a point. I do ask women if they squirt.
My only reply can be: the same way that the clumsy and lumpy can be graceful. A friend of mine redefined grace as a quality not inherent in sitting with stature, but in being able to have someone else walk away a failure, thinking themselves a complete success. (And by that definition, I thank the gods for the number of graceful women I have in my life!)
Equal opportunity redefined chivalry. It changed the battlefield of romance and civility. When princesses might be knights in disguise, the rules of engagement change.
When women were objects, the conduct was straightforward. Women were to be placed on a pedestal, not used as a footstool. The mindset and actions that accompanied that maxim were chivalrous. But now objectifying, itself, has become the murder weapon. We lay blind, unable to tell if a woman desires a kiss on the cheek or a professional hand-shake. We are expected to read body language but taught never to look at the body. We are to make the same amount of money, but are expected to buy the ring. We are to be "just friends" but never pigs. Assassins lay hiding in every corner.
It is no wonder at all how chivalry has come to die. When it invited the times of this dangerous tomorrow into its house, it dressed ceremoniously naked. How could it survive?
And as I hear, unceremoniously, the obituary of chivalry I cannot help but think that its resurrection is stifled by the oppression of the speakers. "Chivalry is dead" - and I die a little. For I can do nothing to give it life in those moments, any more than I could have had a woman appear magically to cook dinner with me tonight. I must ask them to join me first. And so, too, for chivalry to live in this new world, women must first invite it to do so. In that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt.
That is no small feat. It certainly takes courage and skill to live as a worthy princess in this world. It's going to look different. It's going to feel strange. But every woman I have ever heard utter the war-cry is capable of it.
I cannot prove to you that chivalry is alive in me; that we can walk together as equals, whilst I hold you on a pedestal. But I can do it, and with the greatest of ease. It comes naturally to me, this new age dance, and its pleasures are immeasurable. But I cannot do it alone. It cannot be done alone. That's not how this world works.
Let's do it together.
- Z
Addendum:
This discussion is not to suggest, in the slightest, that men are exempt from their due part of the resurrection, which takes just as much devotion as it does for a woman. Men who hide earnestly behind the murder weapon, and live as if the death was something to honestly celebrate are hardly men at all.
Men are often attacked - in that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt - with the phrase "chivalry is dead."
I had intended on cooking dinner with the Muse, and then settling into a little blogging foreplay with regard to the recent Convocation up at my local University. Some incredibly talented people recently graduated, and provided me with the circumstance (and pomp, of course!) to write. But that intention, as Louis Armstrong sang to me and my taco meat sizzled, was halted, completely, when the divine Slut demanded my attention be turned immediately to a different direction.
In that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt.
In Her defence, she was probably just jealous. I was thinking of other women. When the heart aches, as mine has been unexpectedly recently, one tends to linger on the longings. And so, I did. "I wish I had a girl to cook with. I wish I knew a gal that was interested in listening to Franky, or reading poetry. A gal that was interested in drinking wine with me at three in the morning and dancing in the rain."
I had no intention of lingering on the subject any longer than the 3 minutes and 26 seconds of "La Vie en Rose". More so endangers the soul on an evening already filled with so much promise. But it was too late. She caught me. As I thought of my enjoyment of the olde jazz, and finding a woman that would get lost in it with me, I heard the ancient war-cry in my head:
"Chivalry is dead."
The voices of at least 4 wonderful women that I know echoed Her in my head: their scoffs and footstamps supporting their exasperations. How could I resist a reply? And so, the Muse and I made love over chivalry. Necrophilia at its finest.
Whenever I first hear the phrase, no matter its source, amongst the first thoughts that enters my head is almost self defeating: I'm chivalrous. The irony of making the claim does not escape me, of course. And certainly, based on the wisdom of that irony, I never attempt to reply with it seriously. But let's be serious. I'm chivalrous.
I buy the women that I love flowers unexpectedly, when the mood strikes me. And it does - on many more occasions than just holidays. I open doors for people. I do not rush to be front of the line, though I desire my Starbucks just as much as the next guy. I make sure that the women at my table always have the opportunity to order first. I will shiver while a woman wears my jacket. And I will lie and say that I'm not cold.
And though those are the traditional chivalrous acts, none of those is what makes me chivalrous.
I can certainly understand the counter-argument. I'm often late with birthday gifts, if they come at all. I probably stare at your ass as you precede me through the door. If I'm pressed for time, I may pretend not to see you as I head to the line-up. I don't always insist on paying and I believe in "going dutch". And when I feel that my sense of kindness is being abused or unappreciated, I decline a request by saying "you're not fucking me, so do it yourself". When male critics overhear, my reply from under my warm jacket is a hearty "I believe in equal opportunity."
And I do. Heh.
I can hear my incorporeal accusers - those who know me best, perhaps - let their spears loose in a concentrated volley: How can someone so insensitive, arrogant and dirty minded possibly be chivalrous?
They have a point. I do ask women if they squirt.
My only reply can be: the same way that the clumsy and lumpy can be graceful. A friend of mine redefined grace as a quality not inherent in sitting with stature, but in being able to have someone else walk away a failure, thinking themselves a complete success. (And by that definition, I thank the gods for the number of graceful women I have in my life!)
Equal opportunity redefined chivalry. It changed the battlefield of romance and civility. When princesses might be knights in disguise, the rules of engagement change.
When women were objects, the conduct was straightforward. Women were to be placed on a pedestal, not used as a footstool. The mindset and actions that accompanied that maxim were chivalrous. But now objectifying, itself, has become the murder weapon. We lay blind, unable to tell if a woman desires a kiss on the cheek or a professional hand-shake. We are expected to read body language but taught never to look at the body. We are to make the same amount of money, but are expected to buy the ring. We are to be "just friends" but never pigs. Assassins lay hiding in every corner.
It is no wonder at all how chivalry has come to die. When it invited the times of this dangerous tomorrow into its house, it dressed ceremoniously naked. How could it survive?
And as I hear, unceremoniously, the obituary of chivalry I cannot help but think that its resurrection is stifled by the oppression of the speakers. "Chivalry is dead" - and I die a little. For I can do nothing to give it life in those moments, any more than I could have had a woman appear magically to cook dinner with me tonight. I must ask them to join me first. And so, too, for chivalry to live in this new world, women must first invite it to do so. In that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt.
That is no small feat. It certainly takes courage and skill to live as a worthy princess in this world. It's going to look different. It's going to feel strange. But every woman I have ever heard utter the war-cry is capable of it.
I cannot prove to you that chivalry is alive in me; that we can walk together as equals, whilst I hold you on a pedestal. But I can do it, and with the greatest of ease. It comes naturally to me, this new age dance, and its pleasures are immeasurable. But I cannot do it alone. It cannot be done alone. That's not how this world works.
Let's do it together.
- Z
Addendum:
This discussion is not to suggest, in the slightest, that men are exempt from their due part of the resurrection, which takes just as much devotion as it does for a woman. Men who hide earnestly behind the murder weapon, and live as if the death was something to honestly celebrate are hardly men at all.
The Very Will of Ecstasy
Original Post Date: May 4th, 2009
She laughs when we fuck.
Fuck. There's something about the word, uttered by red-blooded lips. The raw promise of orgasmic bliss. Passion demanded. The mind, commanded. Lethargy, like loose clothing, is ripped asunder at the mere mention of the word.
And then, we go. HA!
Meanderings mold to fantasy. Languid longings turn to liquid lust. The beautiful torment of temptation teases at every fleshy curve. Every wayward glace distracts. Every seductive smile calls for concentration's surrender. Unconditional.
We laugh together. We laugh at eachother when the depths of normalcy have crept in again, unexpectedly. But then we quickly banish it to the ether, to the dreams of some other unfortunate, for we have Pleasure to attend to. And then we laugh in euphoria. We laugh in the sweet surrealness of sin.
I madden merely for the tip of her tongue. Crazed to feel her skin against mine. My mind demands the release of carefully bridled passion. TAKE HER. She laughs then, my favorite laugh: "My clothes are still on" it says. Her eyes challenge. They dare.
We fuck. On the wall. On the table. On the bed. Orgasms in succession. No fancy words, no moral of a story. Sex makes the world go round. No meaning deeper than a thrust, no temple greater than an arched back. I feel her fingers on me now, her nails demanding a tithe. But my tongue brings no worship to her Word of God, it speaks the devil's script instead. Temptation never knew strength like seduction scorned. She begs. Now I laugh.
We are the very will of Ecstasy.
She laughs when we fuck.
Fuck. There's something about the word, uttered by red-blooded lips. The raw promise of orgasmic bliss. Passion demanded. The mind, commanded. Lethargy, like loose clothing, is ripped asunder at the mere mention of the word.
And then, we go. HA!
Meanderings mold to fantasy. Languid longings turn to liquid lust. The beautiful torment of temptation teases at every fleshy curve. Every wayward glace distracts. Every seductive smile calls for concentration's surrender. Unconditional.
We laugh together. We laugh at eachother when the depths of normalcy have crept in again, unexpectedly. But then we quickly banish it to the ether, to the dreams of some other unfortunate, for we have Pleasure to attend to. And then we laugh in euphoria. We laugh in the sweet surrealness of sin.
I madden merely for the tip of her tongue. Crazed to feel her skin against mine. My mind demands the release of carefully bridled passion. TAKE HER. She laughs then, my favorite laugh: "My clothes are still on" it says. Her eyes challenge. They dare.
We fuck. On the wall. On the table. On the bed. Orgasms in succession. No fancy words, no moral of a story. Sex makes the world go round. No meaning deeper than a thrust, no temple greater than an arched back. I feel her fingers on me now, her nails demanding a tithe. But my tongue brings no worship to her Word of God, it speaks the devil's script instead. Temptation never knew strength like seduction scorned. She begs. Now I laugh.
We are the very will of Ecstasy.
After the Curtain Call
Original Post Date: Apr 29th, 2009
It's not that the world was lazy today. It's not that it slept in, or was hungover. The morning sun was there, its dim glow warming the sidewalk cement at its most mediocre. The wind was there, blowing half-heartedly in girls' hair like it had never known the giggle of a flirting skirt. The clouds were there, covering calmly, a sky that never looked in a mirror. The world simply couldn't muster the mettle, today, to say, that it cared.
A whore, whose passion was not a part of the price.
Half a dozen lines sprawled out on my page, now. Scattered. Parts of paragraphs I've yet to craft into the figure they deserve to have. So much message, so little inspiration. The day mimicked in my mind like a raincoat in a puddle. What sweet irony that a tale to tell that Life's Muse has fled, is uninspired to be told. This misery seeks no company. Solitude is its own private tutor.
My soul feels damp today.
I give up.
- Z
~~~
Below are the mentioned lines that were crafted but never connected. I commit them now, in the midnight hour, to the ether - a sacrifice to the Muse non-existent.
My favorite depiction of hell is a place that is absent of God. And so the ironists, rebels, and skewed fundamentalists chime together that here is hell. Hell on Earth, when we cast aside God. I chuckle. They say it with fear, anger and conversion in their hearts. They call that Love. I say it too, but with pride, lust and joy in my heart. And I too, call it Love.
My friend said that love is a lie. I said she lied. I lied. We like to lie together. We all fall down.
I like the lie. I enjoy looking into a person's eyes, searching earnestly and meticulously for that inner, innocent hope that they cherish and protect with all their heart. I enjoy showing them where mine is. I enjoy touching them with trust. I imagine that fingertips can convey dreams, and proximity can prove promises.
I like the lust. The lust of a new friendship, a new partnership, a new challenge or a new goal.
Days like today, after a curtain call, are always the toughest.
I traded a hand-delivered cheeseburger for a blow job once. It was fun. The dance is delightful.
Words paint pretty pictures and I know my lines. I enjoy acting out the orgasm. Dali's clock never felt so good!
But not today.
It's not that the world was lazy today. It's not that it slept in, or was hungover. The morning sun was there, its dim glow warming the sidewalk cement at its most mediocre. The wind was there, blowing half-heartedly in girls' hair like it had never known the giggle of a flirting skirt. The clouds were there, covering calmly, a sky that never looked in a mirror. The world simply couldn't muster the mettle, today, to say, that it cared.
A whore, whose passion was not a part of the price.
Half a dozen lines sprawled out on my page, now. Scattered. Parts of paragraphs I've yet to craft into the figure they deserve to have. So much message, so little inspiration. The day mimicked in my mind like a raincoat in a puddle. What sweet irony that a tale to tell that Life's Muse has fled, is uninspired to be told. This misery seeks no company. Solitude is its own private tutor.
My soul feels damp today.
I give up.
- Z
~~~
Below are the mentioned lines that were crafted but never connected. I commit them now, in the midnight hour, to the ether - a sacrifice to the Muse non-existent.
My favorite depiction of hell is a place that is absent of God. And so the ironists, rebels, and skewed fundamentalists chime together that here is hell. Hell on Earth, when we cast aside God. I chuckle. They say it with fear, anger and conversion in their hearts. They call that Love. I say it too, but with pride, lust and joy in my heart. And I too, call it Love.
My friend said that love is a lie. I said she lied. I lied. We like to lie together. We all fall down.
I like the lie. I enjoy looking into a person's eyes, searching earnestly and meticulously for that inner, innocent hope that they cherish and protect with all their heart. I enjoy showing them where mine is. I enjoy touching them with trust. I imagine that fingertips can convey dreams, and proximity can prove promises.
I like the lust. The lust of a new friendship, a new partnership, a new challenge or a new goal.
Days like today, after a curtain call, are always the toughest.
I traded a hand-delivered cheeseburger for a blow job once. It was fun. The dance is delightful.
Words paint pretty pictures and I know my lines. I enjoy acting out the orgasm. Dali's clock never felt so good!
But not today.
Turning Tricks
Original Post Date: Apr 10th, 2009
Deep inside us each is the deviL.
hE made us forget, forget, forget. A quaint thought. we drink and smoke and work, work, work. we fight and war and take, take, take. we play house and play store and play games, games, games. we sigh and cry and bitch, bitch, bitch. But the deviL tricked us! hE convinced us that hE does not exist.
And then we laugh.
we laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh, and laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh, and laaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh.
Because it's true, right?
Ha. Ha ha.
See deviL? I'm laughing. Funny trick. 'cause yoU lied. I know yoU did. I whisper it sweetly in your ear after the most wonderful of midnight fucks I know it wasn't youR trick.
Hee hee.
From subjectivity comes the most sublime objectivity. I have become accustomed to the lies of words.
Words. WorDs. wOrds. WORDS. words! wORDS
Take your pick, they all sound as sweet as the lies you left behind. Post-modernism. Meta-meta-physics. The Greeks’ myriad of turtles that must have been Atlas' pets. Nihilism, a word, a word has seized your soul a word, a word. Sisyphus has abandoned his rock. Take what he abandoned with zeal! Take it with your begrudging tone, your rebellious happiness and your blissful ignorance! Embrace your hypocrisy, and never look anything in the eye! Be content with your understanding of one in nothingness! Hold up the world! Hold!
Into the depths of the great chasm with you!
Hold! They can take our lives but not our freedoms! They can take our labels but not our caves! They can take this but not that!
Take!
we are charitable. we are giving. Give 'em hell! we are (the next) the chosen people, made in the image of perfection. Living one-way mirrors.
God.
mmm, I love this part!
We fucked. I wrote dirty letters on every part of her body. She drew blood from mine. Animals! Sweat dripped from sin's afterglow. But we would not abate. She fingered my spirit. I tongued her soul. She squirmed with a smile. I laughed. She giggled a deepthroated thing. I hungered.
oh god She trembled oh god Her hand grabbed my head oh God!
From the very hand of the great and honorable Lord is delivered the morning glory of Lucifer.
hello. I have many names too. Many names and many games. Many psalms and cd-roms. But never quite so few faces as You!
I can be Aristotle. My sum is far more than the whole of my parts. Where godlike images and sinner's souls meet, nothing is hidden from lover's hearts.
You look funny naked. Odd and frumpy. A washed up pimp. Your rolls are showing, ugly city streets lined with godless gospels. Your masochistic scars betray Your private habits, You hear the praises best after bringing out Your razor. Your backhair grows, You're too cheap and lazy to pretend anymore. Your frienD calls. eH wants to go for 40 night bender, like old times; paint the town red.
I am Mercutio! A plague on both YouR houses! And what a plague it is! Already in motion, the tale all written before it is read. In artistic lies and hidden truths lay reality bare.
He laughed too. He laughed to his grave. The world a joke wrapped in a tragedy, wrapped in a sorry excuse for a best possible world. Who would not laugh?
I know your trick! I know your trick!
they prance around the prickly pair
I know that sataN didn't trick us into thinking hE never existed. You tricked us into thinking that You DO exist. And we believe!
we belieeeeeeeeeve and belieeeeeeeeeeeve and belieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve.
Sometimes, I'm called [your name here].
It's okay Almighty, i'm naked too. i'm stumbling in an empty parking lot, aimless. There are no footprints behind me. No footprints, no footprints, no footprints. Who will carry me now, i wonder?
Who has the strength to carry You?
I'll speak softly and hold your hand sweetly as you give birth
Growing in us each is God.
Deep inside us each is the deviL.
hE made us forget, forget, forget. A quaint thought. we drink and smoke and work, work, work. we fight and war and take, take, take. we play house and play store and play games, games, games. we sigh and cry and bitch, bitch, bitch. But the deviL tricked us! hE convinced us that hE does not exist.
And then we laugh.
we laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh, and laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh, and laaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh.
Because it's true, right?
Ha. Ha ha.
See deviL? I'm laughing. Funny trick. 'cause yoU lied. I know yoU did. I whisper it sweetly in your ear after the most wonderful of midnight fucks I know it wasn't youR trick.
Hee hee.
From subjectivity comes the most sublime objectivity. I have become accustomed to the lies of words.
Words. WorDs. wOrds. WORDS. words! wORDS
Take your pick, they all sound as sweet as the lies you left behind. Post-modernism. Meta-meta-physics. The Greeks’ myriad of turtles that must have been Atlas' pets. Nihilism, a word, a word has seized your soul a word, a word. Sisyphus has abandoned his rock. Take what he abandoned with zeal! Take it with your begrudging tone, your rebellious happiness and your blissful ignorance! Embrace your hypocrisy, and never look anything in the eye! Be content with your understanding of one in nothingness! Hold up the world! Hold!
Into the depths of the great chasm with you!
Hold! They can take our lives but not our freedoms! They can take our labels but not our caves! They can take this but not that!
Take!
we are charitable. we are giving. Give 'em hell! we are (the next) the chosen people, made in the image of perfection. Living one-way mirrors.
God.
mmm, I love this part!
We fucked. I wrote dirty letters on every part of her body. She drew blood from mine. Animals! Sweat dripped from sin's afterglow. But we would not abate. She fingered my spirit. I tongued her soul. She squirmed with a smile. I laughed. She giggled a deepthroated thing. I hungered.
oh god She trembled oh god Her hand grabbed my head oh God!
From the very hand of the great and honorable Lord is delivered the morning glory of Lucifer.
hello. I have many names too. Many names and many games. Many psalms and cd-roms. But never quite so few faces as You!
I can be Aristotle. My sum is far more than the whole of my parts. Where godlike images and sinner's souls meet, nothing is hidden from lover's hearts.
You look funny naked. Odd and frumpy. A washed up pimp. Your rolls are showing, ugly city streets lined with godless gospels. Your masochistic scars betray Your private habits, You hear the praises best after bringing out Your razor. Your backhair grows, You're too cheap and lazy to pretend anymore. Your frienD calls. eH wants to go for 40 night bender, like old times; paint the town red.
I am Mercutio! A plague on both YouR houses! And what a plague it is! Already in motion, the tale all written before it is read. In artistic lies and hidden truths lay reality bare.
He laughed too. He laughed to his grave. The world a joke wrapped in a tragedy, wrapped in a sorry excuse for a best possible world. Who would not laugh?
I know your trick! I know your trick!
they prance around the prickly pair
I know that sataN didn't trick us into thinking hE never existed. You tricked us into thinking that You DO exist. And we believe!
we belieeeeeeeeeve and belieeeeeeeeeeeve and belieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve.
Sometimes, I'm called [your name here].
It's okay Almighty, i'm naked too. i'm stumbling in an empty parking lot, aimless. There are no footprints behind me. No footprints, no footprints, no footprints. Who will carry me now, i wonder?
Who has the strength to carry You?
I'll speak softly and hold your hand sweetly as you give birth
Growing in us each is God.
Puzzle Pieces and Poetry
Original Post Date: Apr 9th, 2009
I never drink alone.
There was a time when I never drank at all. A time when the idea of altering one's mood and perceptions against the body's will by ingesting fermented stuffs seemed repulsive to me. It was a moral stance, and a well thought out one. I argued with my friends, and even wrote about it. I even argued with my beloved father about it. I can remember the ever so slight sound of mockery as he rebutted my purity. I remember hating him for it.
Then I thought about it, and then I thought some more. And then, after poetry and talks, arguments and heavenly glances, something struck me. Sometimes things just strike you. Nature didn't invent lightning just for a cool show. She did it to teach us how suddenly things can change. I didn't let go of my morality, nor did I compromise. I simply found a missing puzzle piece.
The first drink I ever had, I had with my dad. And the second. And the third. I remember taking a sip of his beer. I remember swerving to the washroom 3 times. I remember how much more difficult it was to aim and how much less I cared each time I made it to the urinal. I remember him laughing and patting me on the back, telling me stories of when he was drinking at my age. I remember us stumbling home together, arm in arm.
For the right reasons, some things are worth changing.
I still don't drink alone. It's not a moral stance this time. Simply something that never appealed to me. I enjoy drink as liquid courage or inspiration, social lubrication or panty remover (mine, not theirs). But its effects when I'm on my own rarely seem to interest me. I was mulling about the suggestion tonight, however, while listening to my stomach growl and my music softly howl. There was something about the day's events, combined with the longing of my thoughts, that seemed to call for the wistful melancholy that beer brings.
But then, through a curious reminder of a friend, I went to look at my unimpressive stock of liquor. There in the fridge I saw her two bottles of vodka water, saved from a night of boozing long since passed.
For the right reasons, some things are worth keeping.
Over the course of my most recent move I have found things that I have kept. Treasures of my very own. Private pleasures. Emotional porn. Trinkets that were worth - to a man who absolutely hates moving anything he doesn't have to - dragging from one place to another.
Amid stacks of university alumni magazines and old class notes, all junk, a handful of school newspapers remains. Inside are the articles of a woman I would (and may very well) chase forever. I kept the ones with my articles in them too, but I don't know where they are.
The old pocket watch of a man who wore it religiously. Why he offered that particular watch to me I'll never know. But it is as cherished as my own family heirlooms. I don't even know if it works. I haven't the slightest idea how to wind it. But it doesn't need to be. It keeps perfect time with my mind.
Old love letters from a woman that I don't think ever really loved me. I keep them, along with our pictures together, in a shoebox far from sight of my daily life - there is no better cliché. So little is left in my heart from those 3 years. What does remain is deep.
The paper mache bunny with the broken ear in my nightstand drawer. The only experience at a summer camp that I remember.
An old poster from my dad: Be Like A Duck. It sits atop my dresser, swimming constantly.
A gigantic childhood map of a fantasy world.
A friend's vodka water.
No alcohol can compare to this quaint nostalgia. In the movies, when the hero looks back on some item and it means the world to them, it seems cheesy and weak. It seems unlikely that someone could become so attached to something so insignificant, just because of its symbolism.
And it is true. Symbols can be lost, and anything can be remade to fit a mould. We persevere. I could lose everything I have tomorrow, and my lamenting would be minimal. That is the sign of a successful freedom from materialism.
But not so much symbols, those puzzle pieces are instead birth-mothers. Each time my eyes chance by those living memories they sing old poetry anew into my soul. Those songs remind me of who I am and who I was, whom I affected and who affects me, what I changed and what I did not. And, most importantly and most effectively, they remind me why.
They are worth keeping around.
- Z
I never drink alone.
There was a time when I never drank at all. A time when the idea of altering one's mood and perceptions against the body's will by ingesting fermented stuffs seemed repulsive to me. It was a moral stance, and a well thought out one. I argued with my friends, and even wrote about it. I even argued with my beloved father about it. I can remember the ever so slight sound of mockery as he rebutted my purity. I remember hating him for it.
Then I thought about it, and then I thought some more. And then, after poetry and talks, arguments and heavenly glances, something struck me. Sometimes things just strike you. Nature didn't invent lightning just for a cool show. She did it to teach us how suddenly things can change. I didn't let go of my morality, nor did I compromise. I simply found a missing puzzle piece.
The first drink I ever had, I had with my dad. And the second. And the third. I remember taking a sip of his beer. I remember swerving to the washroom 3 times. I remember how much more difficult it was to aim and how much less I cared each time I made it to the urinal. I remember him laughing and patting me on the back, telling me stories of when he was drinking at my age. I remember us stumbling home together, arm in arm.
For the right reasons, some things are worth changing.
I still don't drink alone. It's not a moral stance this time. Simply something that never appealed to me. I enjoy drink as liquid courage or inspiration, social lubrication or panty remover (mine, not theirs). But its effects when I'm on my own rarely seem to interest me. I was mulling about the suggestion tonight, however, while listening to my stomach growl and my music softly howl. There was something about the day's events, combined with the longing of my thoughts, that seemed to call for the wistful melancholy that beer brings.
But then, through a curious reminder of a friend, I went to look at my unimpressive stock of liquor. There in the fridge I saw her two bottles of vodka water, saved from a night of boozing long since passed.
For the right reasons, some things are worth keeping.
Over the course of my most recent move I have found things that I have kept. Treasures of my very own. Private pleasures. Emotional porn. Trinkets that were worth - to a man who absolutely hates moving anything he doesn't have to - dragging from one place to another.
Amid stacks of university alumni magazines and old class notes, all junk, a handful of school newspapers remains. Inside are the articles of a woman I would (and may very well) chase forever. I kept the ones with my articles in them too, but I don't know where they are.
The old pocket watch of a man who wore it religiously. Why he offered that particular watch to me I'll never know. But it is as cherished as my own family heirlooms. I don't even know if it works. I haven't the slightest idea how to wind it. But it doesn't need to be. It keeps perfect time with my mind.
Old love letters from a woman that I don't think ever really loved me. I keep them, along with our pictures together, in a shoebox far from sight of my daily life - there is no better cliché. So little is left in my heart from those 3 years. What does remain is deep.
The paper mache bunny with the broken ear in my nightstand drawer. The only experience at a summer camp that I remember.
An old poster from my dad: Be Like A Duck. It sits atop my dresser, swimming constantly.
A gigantic childhood map of a fantasy world.
A friend's vodka water.
No alcohol can compare to this quaint nostalgia. In the movies, when the hero looks back on some item and it means the world to them, it seems cheesy and weak. It seems unlikely that someone could become so attached to something so insignificant, just because of its symbolism.
And it is true. Symbols can be lost, and anything can be remade to fit a mould. We persevere. I could lose everything I have tomorrow, and my lamenting would be minimal. That is the sign of a successful freedom from materialism.
But not so much symbols, those puzzle pieces are instead birth-mothers. Each time my eyes chance by those living memories they sing old poetry anew into my soul. Those songs remind me of who I am and who I was, whom I affected and who affects me, what I changed and what I did not. And, most importantly and most effectively, they remind me why.
They are worth keeping around.
- Z
A Life's Worth
Original Post Date: Mar 28th, 2009
My first word was "more".
It took me just over 5 hours to pack. Everything I owned fit into a few garbage bags, my dresser drawers, a handful of plastic grocery bags, and a couple of boxes. The contents, minus my bed and nightstand, filled just under half a room. Nothing was piled on top of things. It would have all fit nicely into the corner if I had organized it. My life in 5 hours sat before me, diligently waiting to be picked up.
I packed much like I wrote my essays back in university: dedicatedly, methodically, chaotically, and at the last minute. It is a wonderful experience, to toss on some music and know that for an entire evening, you and your own wits are completely devoted to a problem. You form a strange partnership with the world. Other stresses become meaningless - shelved. Other people fade into the background. You have a pot of tea at your disposal. A lot of sugar and milk, so you won't run out. You spread your source material out on your bed (or your boxes out in your living room) and you look at your project. "Okay," you say. "Let's do this."
It reminds me of a time at 3 in the morning in the middle of winter a few years ago. I had a paper due in under 6 hours and I decided it was time for a break. I stood on the balcony with 5 pages remaining. Tea in my hand, I was completely alone. The air was chill, and I was shivering. But me, my smile and my frozen floating breath did not feel lonely. Not for a moment. Those are the moments, actually, that I live for.
More.
Last year I decided to give myself a birthday gift. Of all the things that might be important on a birthday list - whether you have a huge party or whether you get drunk, whether anyone shows up or whether that special someone remembers the day - I have found it personally most important that you do not forget to give yourself something. All holidays are man-made events, to be sure. And the meaning behind just about any of them is usually a meaning that is better suited to an all year 'round celebration. But that, as with every holiday, should not negate the comfortable man-made opportunity to celebrate it in those moments.
And at worst, it's a great excuse to buy that blender that you said you couldn't afford, while sipping your 5 dollar cup of Starbucks.
Last year I silently promised myself I would give myself the gift of dedicated time to write and to discover what my soul was really made of. I don't expect my career path to be that of an author, but I certainly have been feeling more of a comfortable connection with my soul through the written word. And so, I decided I would find time to break from the rat race of my every day life, and find my artistic self. A couple months and a few encouraging conversations later, I booked my ticket to France.
In my new place, it took me over 5 days to unpack. Boxes sat unemptied in my living room. Clothes crumpled into half full bags littered my would-be bedroom. Files in dresser drawers lay un-filed.
It's not that I'm anti-materialist. I'm not. I like a comfy couch as much as the next person. And, much as it's a social faux pas to admit it, sex sells to a guy like me. But I AM anti-stuff-owning-you. The world of things seems interesting, I know. Walking down an aisle in Wal-Mart and realizing that you can buy a kettle and a teapot that match sells the appeal. But once you keep yourself free of it, it's as wonderful as keeping yourself free from any addiction. It's then you fly. 10 pairs of shoes just isn't as interesting as the world of passions. Unpacking my Xbox 360 isn't nearly as inspiring as talking with a cute girl until 2 in the morning.
I'm not sure what this new place holds for me, nor do I know what my 26th year holds for me. But I do know that my life was not packed into a corner of my old place after a few hours of work, and it was not unloaded into my new place. I have found that I tend to, instead, pack it into pots of tea, and unpack it into dinners with friends. I walk through it on the sunny days and watch it fall from the heavens on the rainy ones. I intend to write it into love letters and hear it in the sound of children's laughter.
This value cannot be weighed, of course, but it also doesn't need to be lugged into a truck. The tragedy of this value is that it cannot be kept, and vanishes as readily as it appeared. The blessing of it is that it is wholly unique, boundless, and endless. No new video game can boast eternality. But (despite the very best efforts of relativity, immorality, and Hollywood), the moments that live in places like Love, Happiness, and Beauty, can. For my birthday this year, I want more of them.
As if to write the stereotype of every brotherly conflict, my brother's first word just over a year later was "mine".
- Z
My first word was "more".
It took me just over 5 hours to pack. Everything I owned fit into a few garbage bags, my dresser drawers, a handful of plastic grocery bags, and a couple of boxes. The contents, minus my bed and nightstand, filled just under half a room. Nothing was piled on top of things. It would have all fit nicely into the corner if I had organized it. My life in 5 hours sat before me, diligently waiting to be picked up.
I packed much like I wrote my essays back in university: dedicatedly, methodically, chaotically, and at the last minute. It is a wonderful experience, to toss on some music and know that for an entire evening, you and your own wits are completely devoted to a problem. You form a strange partnership with the world. Other stresses become meaningless - shelved. Other people fade into the background. You have a pot of tea at your disposal. A lot of sugar and milk, so you won't run out. You spread your source material out on your bed (or your boxes out in your living room) and you look at your project. "Okay," you say. "Let's do this."
It reminds me of a time at 3 in the morning in the middle of winter a few years ago. I had a paper due in under 6 hours and I decided it was time for a break. I stood on the balcony with 5 pages remaining. Tea in my hand, I was completely alone. The air was chill, and I was shivering. But me, my smile and my frozen floating breath did not feel lonely. Not for a moment. Those are the moments, actually, that I live for.
More.
Last year I decided to give myself a birthday gift. Of all the things that might be important on a birthday list - whether you have a huge party or whether you get drunk, whether anyone shows up or whether that special someone remembers the day - I have found it personally most important that you do not forget to give yourself something. All holidays are man-made events, to be sure. And the meaning behind just about any of them is usually a meaning that is better suited to an all year 'round celebration. But that, as with every holiday, should not negate the comfortable man-made opportunity to celebrate it in those moments.
And at worst, it's a great excuse to buy that blender that you said you couldn't afford, while sipping your 5 dollar cup of Starbucks.
Last year I silently promised myself I would give myself the gift of dedicated time to write and to discover what my soul was really made of. I don't expect my career path to be that of an author, but I certainly have been feeling more of a comfortable connection with my soul through the written word. And so, I decided I would find time to break from the rat race of my every day life, and find my artistic self. A couple months and a few encouraging conversations later, I booked my ticket to France.
In my new place, it took me over 5 days to unpack. Boxes sat unemptied in my living room. Clothes crumpled into half full bags littered my would-be bedroom. Files in dresser drawers lay un-filed.
It's not that I'm anti-materialist. I'm not. I like a comfy couch as much as the next person. And, much as it's a social faux pas to admit it, sex sells to a guy like me. But I AM anti-stuff-owning-you. The world of things seems interesting, I know. Walking down an aisle in Wal-Mart and realizing that you can buy a kettle and a teapot that match sells the appeal. But once you keep yourself free of it, it's as wonderful as keeping yourself free from any addiction. It's then you fly. 10 pairs of shoes just isn't as interesting as the world of passions. Unpacking my Xbox 360 isn't nearly as inspiring as talking with a cute girl until 2 in the morning.
I'm not sure what this new place holds for me, nor do I know what my 26th year holds for me. But I do know that my life was not packed into a corner of my old place after a few hours of work, and it was not unloaded into my new place. I have found that I tend to, instead, pack it into pots of tea, and unpack it into dinners with friends. I walk through it on the sunny days and watch it fall from the heavens on the rainy ones. I intend to write it into love letters and hear it in the sound of children's laughter.
This value cannot be weighed, of course, but it also doesn't need to be lugged into a truck. The tragedy of this value is that it cannot be kept, and vanishes as readily as it appeared. The blessing of it is that it is wholly unique, boundless, and endless. No new video game can boast eternality. But (despite the very best efforts of relativity, immorality, and Hollywood), the moments that live in places like Love, Happiness, and Beauty, can. For my birthday this year, I want more of them.
As if to write the stereotype of every brotherly conflict, my brother's first word just over a year later was "mine".
- Z
Dinner for 1
Original Post Date: March 3rd, 2009
Nietzsche said, "God is dead." Chicken Little said, "The sky is falling." Frost said, "Nothing gold can stay." Ozymandias said things that none of us remember.
We are in a storm. It's pouring outside. Go look. Do you see it? The raindrops of change beat on our windows. New ambitions flash with sudden brilliance, followed by a revealing groan of the way things were. The wind sings with the voice of time itself, and these nights it is no love ballad. Time waits for no one, and the devastation of fallen nature imposes its importance on the man-made structures of security and supremacy.
Responsible homeowners are worried about their houses of cards. Children are in awe, standing next to the window.
Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me ... for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these."
I love the rain. Especially when it pours. The only place better than next to the window with a cup of hot chocolate, is outside in a playground or a parking lot. Somewhere where there is nowhere. Where the only shelter is the shelter of nature - tree-branches of memories and caves of laws. A shout in the rain is a muffled pebble and every droplet it touches, ripples. A smile is a lighthouse, guiding lost ships safely into their port of happiness.
We can't choose when it will rain. Usually we complain about its inconvenience, when it ruins a parade to celebrate Achievement, or when a rousing game of Friendship is called on account of it. We are furious at the clouds of Gods when it happens on a wedding.
We also can't choose when it stops. I had my raincoat on today. I woke up with it, actually. I wasn't looking forward to getting all cold and shivery. But I was looking forward to that familiar pound of the world's elevator music.
The jailwarden said, "You get one last meal."
Steak. Bacon wrapped asparagus. Garlic mashed potatoes. Gingerale. It was perfect. I am actually an amazing cook, hidden deep within the bowels of a picky eater. I learned from the best.
Frank Sinatra helped me make it. Good ol' Frankie - he always helps me make it. He's getting old, and repeats a few lines once in a while, but he still knows how to make me smile.
Phantom of the Opera was my conjugal visit. We've met each other a few times before. She knows all of my favorite positions.
There is an eye to every storm, and today was it. There is something to be said for not being wet, for being in the purest moments of consistency. There is a brilliant comfort in those lulls, where one is able to meander as they will, knowing that for those moments, everywhere is a warm, trusting place. They do not come often, and when they do, we are well advised to treasure them.
But you can't jump in puddles when it's dry.
"I wish it was raining," I said.
- Z
Nietzsche said, "God is dead." Chicken Little said, "The sky is falling." Frost said, "Nothing gold can stay." Ozymandias said things that none of us remember.
We are in a storm. It's pouring outside. Go look. Do you see it? The raindrops of change beat on our windows. New ambitions flash with sudden brilliance, followed by a revealing groan of the way things were. The wind sings with the voice of time itself, and these nights it is no love ballad. Time waits for no one, and the devastation of fallen nature imposes its importance on the man-made structures of security and supremacy.
Responsible homeowners are worried about their houses of cards. Children are in awe, standing next to the window.
Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me ... for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these."
I love the rain. Especially when it pours. The only place better than next to the window with a cup of hot chocolate, is outside in a playground or a parking lot. Somewhere where there is nowhere. Where the only shelter is the shelter of nature - tree-branches of memories and caves of laws. A shout in the rain is a muffled pebble and every droplet it touches, ripples. A smile is a lighthouse, guiding lost ships safely into their port of happiness.
We can't choose when it will rain. Usually we complain about its inconvenience, when it ruins a parade to celebrate Achievement, or when a rousing game of Friendship is called on account of it. We are furious at the clouds of Gods when it happens on a wedding.
We also can't choose when it stops. I had my raincoat on today. I woke up with it, actually. I wasn't looking forward to getting all cold and shivery. But I was looking forward to that familiar pound of the world's elevator music.
The jailwarden said, "You get one last meal."
Steak. Bacon wrapped asparagus. Garlic mashed potatoes. Gingerale. It was perfect. I am actually an amazing cook, hidden deep within the bowels of a picky eater. I learned from the best.
Frank Sinatra helped me make it. Good ol' Frankie - he always helps me make it. He's getting old, and repeats a few lines once in a while, but he still knows how to make me smile.
Phantom of the Opera was my conjugal visit. We've met each other a few times before. She knows all of my favorite positions.
There is an eye to every storm, and today was it. There is something to be said for not being wet, for being in the purest moments of consistency. There is a brilliant comfort in those lulls, where one is able to meander as they will, knowing that for those moments, everywhere is a warm, trusting place. They do not come often, and when they do, we are well advised to treasure them.
But you can't jump in puddles when it's dry.
"I wish it was raining," I said.
- Z
It's Not You, It's Me
Original Post Date: Feb 24th, 2009
Most people don't know, but I've been in an on-and-off long term relationship since about 2002. Now, in a ceremony that's bound to be cliché, a time comes to end it.
I finished Plato's Republic yesterday. Back to front. Cover to cover. One of the most infamous books of all undergrad philosophy. I, actually, had never finished it before. Owned a copy since High School, took several classes that required its reading, and graduated with the word "philosophy" in my degree, and yet had never made it through. Until yesterday. I wanted to celebrate. This was an accomplishment. I had forgotten what an accomplishment felt like.I remember where we first met. I was watching Becker on the TV. Becker was in the diner, talking to the waitress. She was also the owner, in a lot of debt. He made a joke about her lack of success. She made a joke about a psychology degree being useless. I remembered people telling me a philosophy degree was useless. I asked her out.
I liked it. As sinful as it was, reading behind my partner's back, I secretly enjoyed it. I knew that I'd have to hide it, that I'd never be able to learn anything and get away with it. But simply being able to lose myself in footnotes was blissful enough. There is nothing like an affair with an old love. The familiarity. The comfort. The delusion of being there. It was like I was there again, in my course union, sitting on the floor discussing the age-old questions. I wish I could have shared that moment with someone.
At first, we were a perfect match. I attended first year university, had access to a car, lived out of home cheap. I was allowed to window shop, of course, as long as I didn't leave fingerprints on the glass. She was very trusting of me around other lives. Anyone else would have been terrified that I would have run away with Success, or Career, or Academia, or Love, or any one of the other beauties that were in my life. We had lots of mutual friends, friends interested in our lethargy and allowing us our feigned acceptance. We were madly in lust about talking the talk. We felt the same about drinking, about morality, we both loved escapism and being liked and understanding the game. The sex was great.
When people ask "Why should I be moral?" my answer has always been "so that you can trust yourself". I've said it different ways - it's equivalent to say "it's in your best interest" - but the former statement is the one I like the best. We wonder why we should bother being moral with an individual we don't know, or don't care about, or who might not find out. What does anyone lose if we steal from Wal-Mart? What does a one night stand matter if my girlfriend never finds out? And in a world where the wisdom of Ecclesiastes reigns high and yet there is no God at the end of the day, one has to wonder why not try to take what you can. Plato suggested that it was because it will imbalance your mind, causing your soul to never obtain real happiness but instead starting it down a road of internal anarchy and suffering. My partner says that pursuing passions were just as important as keeping trust... and trust you can get back anytime. Multiple orgasms, however, are tough to come by.
After our first year of university, things got a little rocky. I met a girl. We held hands a lot, and talked about God. I fell in love with Theology, in a way that I never had with my partner. We had an affair for a while, but I brought it to an end one stormy night on one of our bible studies. This new feeling was too scary for me. Too real. I didn't want to leave my safe and secure partner for it. What if it didn't work out? But of course, once I had a taste of it, I could never go back. When has contentment ever satisfied one who has tasted happiness? I started drinking, and talked about love with my father. My partner was jealous. A year or two later, I found a way to turn escapism into this love. It had been hiding there all along! And it was so safe too! But my partner turned our mutual friends against me, and stole it from me. We had a huge fight about that. I met Philosophy as well, who spent long hours in the cafeteria with me, and a girl who licked my arm and made me feel I did when I first met my partner. Some of them were affairs, some of them were moments and reminders. Some of them were lessons and warnings.
I don't really trust myself anymore. Plato, to defend morality, imagined the person who was perfectly immoral and yet had all the social respect and benefits of being moral. He imagined the perfect criminal and then warned that they were worse off. I appear moral. I know how to earn respect, or admiration. I don't exactly rob banks or have sex with married women, but in my search for that Real Love, I have developed the very democratic mind that Plato warned against. The mind of immorality. Of anarchy. I have a solid work ethic, and would rather take a cab than be late for work, but I'm immoral to myself: every statement I make sounds like a New Year's Resolution, never to last more than a week. How can one earnestly love if they cannot trust? Plato wasn't warning about your girlfriend finding out. He was warning about never being able to love your girlfriend. Or the next one. Or any one. Or yourself.
I felt guilty, and torn, and scared of the outside world. And so, I made a mistake after university. I re-committed to my partner after graduation. We compromised. I was allowed to write, but never to produce anything meaningful. I was allowed to play Dungeons and Dragons, but never to get anywhere with creating something out of it. I was allowed to discuss meaningful theological and philosophical issues, as long as I didn't try to do anything meaningful with them. I agreed to separate myself from any semblance of Success, Career, or successful friends until they wouldn't feel attached to me anymore. In exchange, I was able to avoid being alone, and avoid feeling unwanted. When happiness seems out of reach, even the most thirsty of us will settle for contentment.
This life, this life of commitment to a partner that has never done anything for me but the appearance of Plato's morality - the appearance of internal cohesion and harmony - is not what I was supposed to achieve. I was not meant to be a democracy of half started lives and whole hearted dreams. And it's not what I want. I am tired of writing words, making declarations, and setting goals that are as meaningless (and as bountiful) as the last week's. Words are the easiest things to make meaningless.
And now that they are, I hear the sweet nothings of my long time lover: marry me.
My partner and I have reached a cross roads. I either need to marry her, or dump her, wholly and completely. I don't actually know if a person can regain their own trust. Part of me - the part of me that has been harmed by others - hopes that it is impossible. But I have to regain it or go absolutely crazy in a mundane relationship with a life fit for sheep and sci-fi drones.
As with any break up, I'm terrified. Terrified that I'm not doing the right thing, terrified of being alone, of not finding anyone else ever, terrified of going back to her, terrified of losing our mutual friends and hobbies. As with any solid break up practice, I'll need to find a new place, a few hobbies to distract myself with, and will need to completely cut her out of my life for a time. Of course, I will need to lean on my friends and family. If I'm not careful there may be a rebound fuck and/or hurt feelings, and there are bound to be tears and jeers. But none of that should not deter me. Real love is worth trusting for.
- Z
Most people don't know, but I've been in an on-and-off long term relationship since about 2002. Now, in a ceremony that's bound to be cliché, a time comes to end it.
I finished Plato's Republic yesterday. Back to front. Cover to cover. One of the most infamous books of all undergrad philosophy. I, actually, had never finished it before. Owned a copy since High School, took several classes that required its reading, and graduated with the word "philosophy" in my degree, and yet had never made it through. Until yesterday. I wanted to celebrate. This was an accomplishment. I had forgotten what an accomplishment felt like.I remember where we first met. I was watching Becker on the TV. Becker was in the diner, talking to the waitress. She was also the owner, in a lot of debt. He made a joke about her lack of success. She made a joke about a psychology degree being useless. I remembered people telling me a philosophy degree was useless. I asked her out.
I liked it. As sinful as it was, reading behind my partner's back, I secretly enjoyed it. I knew that I'd have to hide it, that I'd never be able to learn anything and get away with it. But simply being able to lose myself in footnotes was blissful enough. There is nothing like an affair with an old love. The familiarity. The comfort. The delusion of being there. It was like I was there again, in my course union, sitting on the floor discussing the age-old questions. I wish I could have shared that moment with someone.
At first, we were a perfect match. I attended first year university, had access to a car, lived out of home cheap. I was allowed to window shop, of course, as long as I didn't leave fingerprints on the glass. She was very trusting of me around other lives. Anyone else would have been terrified that I would have run away with Success, or Career, or Academia, or Love, or any one of the other beauties that were in my life. We had lots of mutual friends, friends interested in our lethargy and allowing us our feigned acceptance. We were madly in lust about talking the talk. We felt the same about drinking, about morality, we both loved escapism and being liked and understanding the game. The sex was great.
When people ask "Why should I be moral?" my answer has always been "so that you can trust yourself". I've said it different ways - it's equivalent to say "it's in your best interest" - but the former statement is the one I like the best. We wonder why we should bother being moral with an individual we don't know, or don't care about, or who might not find out. What does anyone lose if we steal from Wal-Mart? What does a one night stand matter if my girlfriend never finds out? And in a world where the wisdom of Ecclesiastes reigns high and yet there is no God at the end of the day, one has to wonder why not try to take what you can. Plato suggested that it was because it will imbalance your mind, causing your soul to never obtain real happiness but instead starting it down a road of internal anarchy and suffering. My partner says that pursuing passions were just as important as keeping trust... and trust you can get back anytime. Multiple orgasms, however, are tough to come by.
After our first year of university, things got a little rocky. I met a girl. We held hands a lot, and talked about God. I fell in love with Theology, in a way that I never had with my partner. We had an affair for a while, but I brought it to an end one stormy night on one of our bible studies. This new feeling was too scary for me. Too real. I didn't want to leave my safe and secure partner for it. What if it didn't work out? But of course, once I had a taste of it, I could never go back. When has contentment ever satisfied one who has tasted happiness? I started drinking, and talked about love with my father. My partner was jealous. A year or two later, I found a way to turn escapism into this love. It had been hiding there all along! And it was so safe too! But my partner turned our mutual friends against me, and stole it from me. We had a huge fight about that. I met Philosophy as well, who spent long hours in the cafeteria with me, and a girl who licked my arm and made me feel I did when I first met my partner. Some of them were affairs, some of them were moments and reminders. Some of them were lessons and warnings.
I don't really trust myself anymore. Plato, to defend morality, imagined the person who was perfectly immoral and yet had all the social respect and benefits of being moral. He imagined the perfect criminal and then warned that they were worse off. I appear moral. I know how to earn respect, or admiration. I don't exactly rob banks or have sex with married women, but in my search for that Real Love, I have developed the very democratic mind that Plato warned against. The mind of immorality. Of anarchy. I have a solid work ethic, and would rather take a cab than be late for work, but I'm immoral to myself: every statement I make sounds like a New Year's Resolution, never to last more than a week. How can one earnestly love if they cannot trust? Plato wasn't warning about your girlfriend finding out. He was warning about never being able to love your girlfriend. Or the next one. Or any one. Or yourself.
I felt guilty, and torn, and scared of the outside world. And so, I made a mistake after university. I re-committed to my partner after graduation. We compromised. I was allowed to write, but never to produce anything meaningful. I was allowed to play Dungeons and Dragons, but never to get anywhere with creating something out of it. I was allowed to discuss meaningful theological and philosophical issues, as long as I didn't try to do anything meaningful with them. I agreed to separate myself from any semblance of Success, Career, or successful friends until they wouldn't feel attached to me anymore. In exchange, I was able to avoid being alone, and avoid feeling unwanted. When happiness seems out of reach, even the most thirsty of us will settle for contentment.
This life, this life of commitment to a partner that has never done anything for me but the appearance of Plato's morality - the appearance of internal cohesion and harmony - is not what I was supposed to achieve. I was not meant to be a democracy of half started lives and whole hearted dreams. And it's not what I want. I am tired of writing words, making declarations, and setting goals that are as meaningless (and as bountiful) as the last week's. Words are the easiest things to make meaningless.
And now that they are, I hear the sweet nothings of my long time lover: marry me.
My partner and I have reached a cross roads. I either need to marry her, or dump her, wholly and completely. I don't actually know if a person can regain their own trust. Part of me - the part of me that has been harmed by others - hopes that it is impossible. But I have to regain it or go absolutely crazy in a mundane relationship with a life fit for sheep and sci-fi drones.
As with any break up, I'm terrified. Terrified that I'm not doing the right thing, terrified of being alone, of not finding anyone else ever, terrified of going back to her, terrified of losing our mutual friends and hobbies. As with any solid break up practice, I'll need to find a new place, a few hobbies to distract myself with, and will need to completely cut her out of my life for a time. Of course, I will need to lean on my friends and family. If I'm not careful there may be a rebound fuck and/or hurt feelings, and there are bound to be tears and jeers. But none of that should not deter me. Real love is worth trusting for.
- Z
Years are built with Swords and Stones
Originally Post Date: Jan 2nd, 2009
Camelot.
The place of Arthurian legend. It's also the place of heart's distinction. Wisdom is often found in fairy tales. Camelot has been the source of a great deal of my wisdom.
It was not always so real as the knights of the round, of course. It started in the fantasy of all wisdom: conversation. But from patient conversation and painful experience, I came to appreciate the reality of our plight. Anthropologists call it the human condition. Hobbes called it justification for the Leviathan. My friend calls it "the way she goes." I call it the walled city of wonder: Camelot.
To be specific, it's actually the world outside Camelot. The surrounding geography, politics, religion and the meaningless barbarism that it all lived in. It's the reason Camelot was founded. When times were so hard that the people of the land were threatened with their very existence, they began to join forces.
The version that I take to heart is the one where Arthur surrounds himself with people of quality and of purpose. He would admit into Camelot only families who had something to offer the community. If they needed weavers, and a family knocked on Camelot's doors wanting in, they would need to be weavers, or be politely dismissed. The community was completely self sufficient, specializing each of their talents in a way that Adam Smith would later only dream of. Under the management of Arthur and a close circle of allies who all bore their own special talents as well, this community provided for itself and defended itself against all comers. They forged, together, a province of sustainable meaning and successful growth in a world that was lawless, brutal, and uncertain.
Each of us is monarch of our own province. Each of us starts with the land that Chance hands out; no son or daughter of Adam chooses the family they are borne into. Some of us are born kings and queens of grand empires, corrupt but ripe with potential. Some of us are born into simple hamlets, content and well managed. And a startling number of us are born into the sewer streets of aforementioned corruption. Having been crowned with my own private orchard, I looked out upon the world around me and found naught but meaninglessness in the lands of olde royalty. It had long ago crumbled to chaos, and the countless millions who sought to sustain it still were walking against the wind - only cold and miserable when they were successful. Unequivocally, all ended like Ozymandias.
I, for as long as I have been conscious, have worked to build a Camelot. To the community of my life I brought in only that which was good and pure, and had something to offer my community: people with passion and heart, people with intelligence and wisdom, people with a car. All that brought good intention would be welcome, and all that brought malice and threatened evil were rejected and expelled. All work towards the greater good: forging real happiness and appreciation out of a world that merely pretends at such things.
My closest friends have been knighted, bringing with them the long swords of trust and the shields of transparency that I have bestowed upon them. Together, we sit as equals in chairs forged by love, and manage a kingdom that cares for the genuine Truth and Beauty and Health of the land around us - our land. My land. My life.
Not every knight is there, of course. Some are in far off lands on envoy missions of peace or of war. Others have needed to return to their own homeland to cease and solve troubles there. But they are always welcome back. Their chair is never dismantled, their spot never revoked. The table suffers when it lacks their presence, but preserves their spot without cost to any other.
And not every friend is knighted. As Camelot grows, it accepts everyone of character that it can sustainably provide for. The hills are surrounded by acquaintances that seek to forge for themselves their own little hamlet in exchange for their work. And all work under the banner of unity. Under a banner of Something out of nothing. The country requires little of them, but can call upon them any time. And similarly, when they request it, the country provides for them.
The geography of my kingdom spans mountains and plains, including such infamous mountain tops as Christianity, Atheism, Paganism and Buddhism. We have subjects who live in the valleys of Agnosticism and Skepticism. We even provide for the hermits in the wilderness of Aimlessness when they can stand our presence. We have set up several mills alongside the rivers of Science and Business, and have even created our own lakes, filling them with Art.
The residents of my kingdom include lawyers, law enforcers, poets, writers, painters, photographers, businessmen, physicists, historians, anthropologists, psychologists, soldiers, tradeswomen, musicians, adventurers, salesmen, teachers, philosophers and mothers. And it's still growing.
As idealistic as it is, there are most certainly dark times. Lancelot sat at the table with his kinsmen, like Judas before him. And I have certainly been betrayed deeply by Guinevere. Unequivocally, all ends like Ozymandias.
A recurring dark age, I fear, comes from the wisdom of the barbarians outside the city gates. In their savage tongue they taunt the watchmen, "the only reason anyone lives in there, is because everyone wants to live! They don't actually care about each other, and they certainly don't care about their king!" The watchmen scoff, thinking to their own families and their own commanders, admiring the respect and appreciation they have for each other. Those barbarians couldn't possibly understand that. "Oh but we do!" their laughter cackles. "But you only have that illusion because you built it, and because it works for you. If your Knights should fail to protect you, or provide you with that emotion and attraction that you seek, you would surely flee. And should your King not protect and serve your Knights, they too would abandon him. Reciprocity is the only reason they give. You are no different than us!"
It is a dark time when anyone feels they only receive because of what they give. A king who builds his life around principles of mutual satisfaction and appreciation, and on promissory support labeled love, is in constant danger of such a time.
New Years is a time, much like Spring, to reflect upon the past and make new intentions for the future. And so, it's a time for the Knights of the Round to get together with their King and celebrate their success. They discuss which lands they have conquered and cultivated. Which kingdoms they have made peace with and which are decidedly despicable. It is a time for a King to decide upon new knightings and admire old ones. It is a time to reflect and confirm exiles, and to open the gates to new residents.
Each time I do so, I find that my Camelot is indeed, a thing worthy of Legend. Each of my knights seems more worthy than I, each resident a privilege to have within my city walls. It is no small monument that we build together. It is a thing of splendor. The overcast days are borne bravely, and the sunny ones are lit with laughter. And, as is mimicked (poorly) by business and politics, each reflection brings the reality that tomorrow's dawn will be more magnificent then yesterday's dusk.
Happy New Year.
- Z
Camelot.
The place of Arthurian legend. It's also the place of heart's distinction. Wisdom is often found in fairy tales. Camelot has been the source of a great deal of my wisdom.
It was not always so real as the knights of the round, of course. It started in the fantasy of all wisdom: conversation. But from patient conversation and painful experience, I came to appreciate the reality of our plight. Anthropologists call it the human condition. Hobbes called it justification for the Leviathan. My friend calls it "the way she goes." I call it the walled city of wonder: Camelot.
To be specific, it's actually the world outside Camelot. The surrounding geography, politics, religion and the meaningless barbarism that it all lived in. It's the reason Camelot was founded. When times were so hard that the people of the land were threatened with their very existence, they began to join forces.
The version that I take to heart is the one where Arthur surrounds himself with people of quality and of purpose. He would admit into Camelot only families who had something to offer the community. If they needed weavers, and a family knocked on Camelot's doors wanting in, they would need to be weavers, or be politely dismissed. The community was completely self sufficient, specializing each of their talents in a way that Adam Smith would later only dream of. Under the management of Arthur and a close circle of allies who all bore their own special talents as well, this community provided for itself and defended itself against all comers. They forged, together, a province of sustainable meaning and successful growth in a world that was lawless, brutal, and uncertain.
Each of us is monarch of our own province. Each of us starts with the land that Chance hands out; no son or daughter of Adam chooses the family they are borne into. Some of us are born kings and queens of grand empires, corrupt but ripe with potential. Some of us are born into simple hamlets, content and well managed. And a startling number of us are born into the sewer streets of aforementioned corruption. Having been crowned with my own private orchard, I looked out upon the world around me and found naught but meaninglessness in the lands of olde royalty. It had long ago crumbled to chaos, and the countless millions who sought to sustain it still were walking against the wind - only cold and miserable when they were successful. Unequivocally, all ended like Ozymandias.
I, for as long as I have been conscious, have worked to build a Camelot. To the community of my life I brought in only that which was good and pure, and had something to offer my community: people with passion and heart, people with intelligence and wisdom, people with a car. All that brought good intention would be welcome, and all that brought malice and threatened evil were rejected and expelled. All work towards the greater good: forging real happiness and appreciation out of a world that merely pretends at such things.
My closest friends have been knighted, bringing with them the long swords of trust and the shields of transparency that I have bestowed upon them. Together, we sit as equals in chairs forged by love, and manage a kingdom that cares for the genuine Truth and Beauty and Health of the land around us - our land. My land. My life.
Not every knight is there, of course. Some are in far off lands on envoy missions of peace or of war. Others have needed to return to their own homeland to cease and solve troubles there. But they are always welcome back. Their chair is never dismantled, their spot never revoked. The table suffers when it lacks their presence, but preserves their spot without cost to any other.
And not every friend is knighted. As Camelot grows, it accepts everyone of character that it can sustainably provide for. The hills are surrounded by acquaintances that seek to forge for themselves their own little hamlet in exchange for their work. And all work under the banner of unity. Under a banner of Something out of nothing. The country requires little of them, but can call upon them any time. And similarly, when they request it, the country provides for them.
The geography of my kingdom spans mountains and plains, including such infamous mountain tops as Christianity, Atheism, Paganism and Buddhism. We have subjects who live in the valleys of Agnosticism and Skepticism. We even provide for the hermits in the wilderness of Aimlessness when they can stand our presence. We have set up several mills alongside the rivers of Science and Business, and have even created our own lakes, filling them with Art.
The residents of my kingdom include lawyers, law enforcers, poets, writers, painters, photographers, businessmen, physicists, historians, anthropologists, psychologists, soldiers, tradeswomen, musicians, adventurers, salesmen, teachers, philosophers and mothers. And it's still growing.
As idealistic as it is, there are most certainly dark times. Lancelot sat at the table with his kinsmen, like Judas before him. And I have certainly been betrayed deeply by Guinevere. Unequivocally, all ends like Ozymandias.
A recurring dark age, I fear, comes from the wisdom of the barbarians outside the city gates. In their savage tongue they taunt the watchmen, "the only reason anyone lives in there, is because everyone wants to live! They don't actually care about each other, and they certainly don't care about their king!" The watchmen scoff, thinking to their own families and their own commanders, admiring the respect and appreciation they have for each other. Those barbarians couldn't possibly understand that. "Oh but we do!" their laughter cackles. "But you only have that illusion because you built it, and because it works for you. If your Knights should fail to protect you, or provide you with that emotion and attraction that you seek, you would surely flee. And should your King not protect and serve your Knights, they too would abandon him. Reciprocity is the only reason they give. You are no different than us!"
It is a dark time when anyone feels they only receive because of what they give. A king who builds his life around principles of mutual satisfaction and appreciation, and on promissory support labeled love, is in constant danger of such a time.
New Years is a time, much like Spring, to reflect upon the past and make new intentions for the future. And so, it's a time for the Knights of the Round to get together with their King and celebrate their success. They discuss which lands they have conquered and cultivated. Which kingdoms they have made peace with and which are decidedly despicable. It is a time for a King to decide upon new knightings and admire old ones. It is a time to reflect and confirm exiles, and to open the gates to new residents.
Each time I do so, I find that my Camelot is indeed, a thing worthy of Legend. Each of my knights seems more worthy than I, each resident a privilege to have within my city walls. It is no small monument that we build together. It is a thing of splendor. The overcast days are borne bravely, and the sunny ones are lit with laughter. And, as is mimicked (poorly) by business and politics, each reflection brings the reality that tomorrow's dawn will be more magnificent then yesterday's dusk.
Happy New Year.
- Z
Cards and Charted Courses
Original Post Date: Dec 26th, 2008
My grandmother used to measure her Christmas by how many Christmas cards she received. Any number under a hundred was a bad year. That number is difficult for me to fathom.
She would get over a hundred on any given year. They would line her house over the holidays. When I asked, bewildered, how she could recieve so many, I was issued the obvious reply: they were mostly sent through the mail. She corresponded, regularly, through what we now affectionately call "snail mail" with dozens of people - aquantences, families, old friends, relations of relations - and so, due to the nature of date, she would recieve a bounty of physical cards with Christmas sentiments. No doubt she dilligently sent a good number too.
This year I didn't send out a single card. I wrote a couple of emails, answered an obligatory phone call or two, sent off a handful of text messages and a facebook messages and called it a night. And that, I felt, was a lot of effort.
Over 100 Christmas cards. To a lady who was not a financial guru, or the wife of a renowned citizen, or someone's boss. She was an everyday woman who felt (for better or worse) it was important to keep in touch. And she was English.
New Year's is for looking back and looking forward. New Year's is for being selfish. In my secular apprecation for the holidays, I have always felt that Christmas is for the opposite: its for loving, and appreciating, and - as Coca Cola's white bearded old man reminds us - giving. Obviously these are things we should be doing every day, but that needn't erase a more directed practice for a couple of weeks.
This Christmas seemed a bit off. A bit removed. Christmas Future came and visited me displaying how exactly all my future Christmases would be if I continued on down the path I was on. And here's the funny part - nothing was particularly bad about it. It was just removed from love, and appreciation, and giving. From the icing that makes the cake worth eating.
It started unceremoniously, for one. The holidays came at an odd juncture, just after a weekend, as opposed to just before one. Half the people of value in my social circle had already come or gone or done their thing. It was a set of 4 days off. An extended weekend that happened to have Christmas in it. We'd see eachother soon and back at work again anyways. There was a hug... or two. And it was a hurried and ritualistic thing; an extention of punching the digital time clock. I hadn't even noticed that it lacked a wholesome and meaningful moment until it was well past finished.
And now, upon reflection, I begin to think of the other half of those people that mean something to me. With them there was no contact. How little I seem to give to them, that we are not even involved enough to need to bother checking in. That four days would be a drop in the bucket compared to how long we sometimes go without interacting. Not that I shall berate myself for it, of course. It has been an organic development. But what meaningless a growth that brings to fruit individualism from a soil of isolation. Standing on my own two feet is invaluable, but it is a skill that is more important to have than to actively utilize. Self sufficiency, surprisingly enough, can breed emotional laziness.
It continued as unceremoniously as it had started. And don't let me sound too critical. There was love and appreciation. Love for a mother and a father that I don't see nearly enough, and for the busy lives of my siblings. And I had pleanty of appreciation for the two (count them, 2!) turkey dinners that I was a part of. But the whole thing felt removed from the apprecation of the holiday. People were coming and going, in a silent determination to make sure everyone got everywhere in their due time. Everyone spending so much time going through the rhythm of the event that they forgot that it was supposed to be music. I arrived early, and had no plans but to hang out and enjoy my family's company. And yet, even my lethargy didn't seem to save me very well - while not succumbing to the hustle and bustle of the event, I didn't seem to be interested in finding something to appreciate. The whole world was simply spinning, and I was content to take little value in it. I was almost lost completely, until my dad turned on Star Trek.
The Space Channel was having a Star Trek Movie Marathon. My father and I meandered through 4 or 5 of them. My mom smiled when I whipped into the kitchen on a commercial to get a glass of orange juice and a handful of chocolate. See, Star Trek at my mom's place is a bit of a tradition. It evolved out of my loving the series, along with my brother and my father, and us all being too cheap to bother having TV at our places. And so, whenever we are stuck in a town with one traffic light visiting my mother and we have a couple hours before supper (or a couple hours just after breakfast... or a couple hours around lunch time), we toss on the Space Channel and watch Spock give his chant, or Picard philosophize about the Prime Directive.
And so, while the holiday ended as unceremoniously as it began (with a 5am wake-up call), I was not oblivious to my self-imposed directive. Sometimes loving is hard. It's easy to take advantage of and - to those who pursue it in its purest - it is incredibly risky. And the gift of love can so easily feel empty a lot of the time too. Appreciation... well, proper appreciation can be a lot of work. Much like exercise, sometimes you just don't want to bother. But getting out of emotional shape is so much worse than the effort it takes to give.
We have a multitude of mediums to facilitate well wishes like never before. We are well practiced at denouncing the value of such a commercial holiday. It seems, then, that we should feel empowered to put our mental money where our digital mouth is. It should be easy to leave the commercial behind, and send along the meaningful. 100 cards should pale in comparison. And, as we so diligently proclaim, there's no need to wait around for a specific day.
Happy Holidays. As always, I hope you are well.
That's 1.
- Z
My grandmother used to measure her Christmas by how many Christmas cards she received. Any number under a hundred was a bad year. That number is difficult for me to fathom.
She would get over a hundred on any given year. They would line her house over the holidays. When I asked, bewildered, how she could recieve so many, I was issued the obvious reply: they were mostly sent through the mail. She corresponded, regularly, through what we now affectionately call "snail mail" with dozens of people - aquantences, families, old friends, relations of relations - and so, due to the nature of date, she would recieve a bounty of physical cards with Christmas sentiments. No doubt she dilligently sent a good number too.
This year I didn't send out a single card. I wrote a couple of emails, answered an obligatory phone call or two, sent off a handful of text messages and a facebook messages and called it a night. And that, I felt, was a lot of effort.
Over 100 Christmas cards. To a lady who was not a financial guru, or the wife of a renowned citizen, or someone's boss. She was an everyday woman who felt (for better or worse) it was important to keep in touch. And she was English.
New Year's is for looking back and looking forward. New Year's is for being selfish. In my secular apprecation for the holidays, I have always felt that Christmas is for the opposite: its for loving, and appreciating, and - as Coca Cola's white bearded old man reminds us - giving. Obviously these are things we should be doing every day, but that needn't erase a more directed practice for a couple of weeks.
This Christmas seemed a bit off. A bit removed. Christmas Future came and visited me displaying how exactly all my future Christmases would be if I continued on down the path I was on. And here's the funny part - nothing was particularly bad about it. It was just removed from love, and appreciation, and giving. From the icing that makes the cake worth eating.
It started unceremoniously, for one. The holidays came at an odd juncture, just after a weekend, as opposed to just before one. Half the people of value in my social circle had already come or gone or done their thing. It was a set of 4 days off. An extended weekend that happened to have Christmas in it. We'd see eachother soon and back at work again anyways. There was a hug... or two. And it was a hurried and ritualistic thing; an extention of punching the digital time clock. I hadn't even noticed that it lacked a wholesome and meaningful moment until it was well past finished.
And now, upon reflection, I begin to think of the other half of those people that mean something to me. With them there was no contact. How little I seem to give to them, that we are not even involved enough to need to bother checking in. That four days would be a drop in the bucket compared to how long we sometimes go without interacting. Not that I shall berate myself for it, of course. It has been an organic development. But what meaningless a growth that brings to fruit individualism from a soil of isolation. Standing on my own two feet is invaluable, but it is a skill that is more important to have than to actively utilize. Self sufficiency, surprisingly enough, can breed emotional laziness.
It continued as unceremoniously as it had started. And don't let me sound too critical. There was love and appreciation. Love for a mother and a father that I don't see nearly enough, and for the busy lives of my siblings. And I had pleanty of appreciation for the two (count them, 2!) turkey dinners that I was a part of. But the whole thing felt removed from the apprecation of the holiday. People were coming and going, in a silent determination to make sure everyone got everywhere in their due time. Everyone spending so much time going through the rhythm of the event that they forgot that it was supposed to be music. I arrived early, and had no plans but to hang out and enjoy my family's company. And yet, even my lethargy didn't seem to save me very well - while not succumbing to the hustle and bustle of the event, I didn't seem to be interested in finding something to appreciate. The whole world was simply spinning, and I was content to take little value in it. I was almost lost completely, until my dad turned on Star Trek.
The Space Channel was having a Star Trek Movie Marathon. My father and I meandered through 4 or 5 of them. My mom smiled when I whipped into the kitchen on a commercial to get a glass of orange juice and a handful of chocolate. See, Star Trek at my mom's place is a bit of a tradition. It evolved out of my loving the series, along with my brother and my father, and us all being too cheap to bother having TV at our places. And so, whenever we are stuck in a town with one traffic light visiting my mother and we have a couple hours before supper (or a couple hours just after breakfast... or a couple hours around lunch time), we toss on the Space Channel and watch Spock give his chant, or Picard philosophize about the Prime Directive.
And so, while the holiday ended as unceremoniously as it began (with a 5am wake-up call), I was not oblivious to my self-imposed directive. Sometimes loving is hard. It's easy to take advantage of and - to those who pursue it in its purest - it is incredibly risky. And the gift of love can so easily feel empty a lot of the time too. Appreciation... well, proper appreciation can be a lot of work. Much like exercise, sometimes you just don't want to bother. But getting out of emotional shape is so much worse than the effort it takes to give.
We have a multitude of mediums to facilitate well wishes like never before. We are well practiced at denouncing the value of such a commercial holiday. It seems, then, that we should feel empowered to put our mental money where our digital mouth is. It should be easy to leave the commercial behind, and send along the meaningful. 100 cards should pale in comparison. And, as we so diligently proclaim, there's no need to wait around for a specific day.
Happy Holidays. As always, I hope you are well.
That's 1.
- Z
Momento Mori
Original Post Date: Oct 8th, 2008
We all die.
Lots of poetry about this fact. A lot of cliches. Fancy words to glorify that which may be nothing more than a giant stop sign. Lots of interpretations about it - whether it really is the end, or whether it's a new beginning. Whether it is relative to your beliefs or relative to your hopes. Whether it's about entering into a permanent dream or finally truly waking up. Whether worlds of philosophy, art, and pure, real Romeo and Julliets can be realized within it or whether it all simply boils down to a cold corpse. It is, unsurprisingly, a subject and source of near infinite imagination.
Both die-hards and die-nows are unified by the concept. To be risque, suicide thinkers in this sense are irrational: the will to die is the only will in the world that will be, without a doubt, inevetiably fulfilled without any required effort on the part of the willer. No need to consciously choose it. And the die hards, who want to live their life to the fullest, get their cake too. Not wanting to miss a single thing, they can fulfill the idea of crashing out of reality and into the Pearly Gates saying "Wow! What a RIDE!" because they know that no matter how great the journey, there IS a destination. We all get there. There's no other self-evident truth like it.
My father, in his wisdom, utters a most useful cliche when it comes to life: we get to choose whether we wait out the clock. We can sit around and twiddle our thumbs, or we can go out and have fun.
Problem is, I feel really comfortable in waiting rooms. Really comfy.
I mean, I can do the fun thing; in the past couple of years I've discovered that my soul can laugh so hard that my heart hurts, that I can fall into romance faster than I can fall in lust, and that I can love so incredibly, indescribably deeply it's divine (which, for an athiest, is quite something, let me tell you!). I've discovered that I really like drinking, dancing, talking, laughing, being around friends, and living like EVERYONE'S watching. I can do the fun thing.
But it's a thing. And I do it once in a while. It's not where I naturally rest my rump at the end of the day. I tend to be one of those guys who, when the day's had its fill, he sits down in his chair with his ticket number in hand waiting to be called. I got my crossword puzzle of dreams beside me. Sometimes I fill it in. Sometimes I start a new one. But I always have one.
You can buy them anywhere, in society today. Crossword puzzles of dreams. They sell them in Thailand. Word searches of new worlds. They sell those in France. They've even got Sodukos of some-days in most colleges and universities now. And I tend to feel more comfortable filling them in than anything else. I'm an addict, really.
I can't really end in saying that that's all going to change. I've done that so many times that I earnestly don't trust it any more. However, I can end in saying that I feel something a little different. There's something about realizing that, no matter what you do, you're guaranteed the same ending. It's not so much comforting as it is inspiring:You can't really screw up living. I feel something a little different. It's simmering. Bubbling. Coming to a boil. And, sooner or later, I'm going to find out what happens when a soul laughs even harder, and what love is like even deeper.
We all live.
- Z
We all die.
Lots of poetry about this fact. A lot of cliches. Fancy words to glorify that which may be nothing more than a giant stop sign. Lots of interpretations about it - whether it really is the end, or whether it's a new beginning. Whether it is relative to your beliefs or relative to your hopes. Whether it's about entering into a permanent dream or finally truly waking up. Whether worlds of philosophy, art, and pure, real Romeo and Julliets can be realized within it or whether it all simply boils down to a cold corpse. It is, unsurprisingly, a subject and source of near infinite imagination.
Both die-hards and die-nows are unified by the concept. To be risque, suicide thinkers in this sense are irrational: the will to die is the only will in the world that will be, without a doubt, inevetiably fulfilled without any required effort on the part of the willer. No need to consciously choose it. And the die hards, who want to live their life to the fullest, get their cake too. Not wanting to miss a single thing, they can fulfill the idea of crashing out of reality and into the Pearly Gates saying "Wow! What a RIDE!" because they know that no matter how great the journey, there IS a destination. We all get there. There's no other self-evident truth like it.
My father, in his wisdom, utters a most useful cliche when it comes to life: we get to choose whether we wait out the clock. We can sit around and twiddle our thumbs, or we can go out and have fun.
Problem is, I feel really comfortable in waiting rooms. Really comfy.
I mean, I can do the fun thing; in the past couple of years I've discovered that my soul can laugh so hard that my heart hurts, that I can fall into romance faster than I can fall in lust, and that I can love so incredibly, indescribably deeply it's divine (which, for an athiest, is quite something, let me tell you!). I've discovered that I really like drinking, dancing, talking, laughing, being around friends, and living like EVERYONE'S watching. I can do the fun thing.
But it's a thing. And I do it once in a while. It's not where I naturally rest my rump at the end of the day. I tend to be one of those guys who, when the day's had its fill, he sits down in his chair with his ticket number in hand waiting to be called. I got my crossword puzzle of dreams beside me. Sometimes I fill it in. Sometimes I start a new one. But I always have one.
You can buy them anywhere, in society today. Crossword puzzles of dreams. They sell them in Thailand. Word searches of new worlds. They sell those in France. They've even got Sodukos of some-days in most colleges and universities now. And I tend to feel more comfortable filling them in than anything else. I'm an addict, really.
I can't really end in saying that that's all going to change. I've done that so many times that I earnestly don't trust it any more. However, I can end in saying that I feel something a little different. There's something about realizing that, no matter what you do, you're guaranteed the same ending. It's not so much comforting as it is inspiring:You can't really screw up living. I feel something a little different. It's simmering. Bubbling. Coming to a boil. And, sooner or later, I'm going to find out what happens when a soul laughs even harder, and what love is like even deeper.
We all live.
- Z
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