Business 101

“Life is business”

I’ve been in school now for just under 2 months. I am learning so many incredible things, things that my BA never opened my eyes to. Maybe I wasn’t interested in keeping my ears open back then. Maybe I wasn’t wise enough to really pick up on academic learning the way I am now. But none the less, this academic experience is somehow different than the one before.

Registered in the Bachelor of Business Administration program, and in a smorgasbord of 1st to 3rd year classes, I’ve been immediately exposed to many different kinds of business students. And, already in 2 months, I’ve heard a diverse range of studious college attendees utter that magical phrase: Life is business.

The guy going into PR.
That gal who doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life.
The guy in the extra-curricular business organization – a business lifer.
That pair of drinkers in the beer garden.
My sister.

I cannot express how stunning it is to hear this phrase. “Life is business.”

I don’t go fishing for this sage advice. It pops up everywhere. Like a mantra. Like the opening slogan of a class that I must have slept through. Wining and dining and talking as students will about where the hell they’re going and what the hell they’re doing, eventually someone pipes up “but really, you can’t go wrong with the BBA. Life is business” and everyone else smiles and nods. Like a professor has just made a point that we’ve all agreed on and understood for a very long time.

My sister laughs and makes a point to announce that her brother does not believe this. Then people look at me. You? You don’t believe this? Aren’t you in business?

Yes. I am in the business program.

It was in the paper I read today. The opinions section. Someone had mailed in that we should just deal with advertisements because that’s business. And life is business, they claimed.

No. It’s not.

Imagine that you are a painter. Now imagine you have a model. This model is complex, complicated, contorted and twisted. And she is captivatingly beautiful.

You feel you must know her; you are compelled to understand her every curve and contour. For better or worse, you pick up your brush. She will be yours. Ceaselessly, you work to create the perfect illustration, the perfect expression, of this model. You are in love with the model and the painting, discovering over the course of your creation things about her you had never seen before. Hidden, private parts of her that make you smile and seethe, and you paint it all. The nitty-gritty details. You expose her for what she is, putting all the nakedness you discover into the most incredible, honest light.

And when you are done, your creation is beautiful. Sure, there are a few details to add: a spot here to polish, a colour there to blur. But all in all, those are just details. You, however have created something worthy of representing what you see in front of you.

You are our collective sight. Your model is Life. Your painting is business.

Life isn’t an academic subject of study. It’s not a system of economic principles, entrepreneurial innovations, any more than it’s a causal connection between sperm and egg. Certainly, it is THE object of all studies, pursuits, and beliefs. But we would be incredibly remiss to mistake the painting for the model.

Many find my distinction trivial. Especially when I explain that business and an understanding of its principles is an incredibly effective tool to understand how we live. But since the moment I attended my first class, and even prior to that, in the moment I attended my first thoughts to the subject of business, that distinction has been paramount. That distinction is the very matter of free-will and slavery.

We are students. In our orientation we are told that we are the future. Our college makes a point to say how many of its alumni have gone on to be business leaders. We are a successful campus that churns out real movers and shakers.

How then, can we assent to such a ridiculous limitation that life is equivalent to this ready-made package of economic principles and management 5-step plans? How can we, as conscientious students, here to learn, understand, contribute and change the world, walk in nodding our heads at the idea that we are trapped in such a narrow perspective? Trapped to accept this painting as truth.

Seems that if we did, we’d be going to school for something we already claimed we knew. I’ve only experienced a small part of business school, and I certainly have much yet to experience in life. Seems brash – to be polite – to claim that this is all there is.

About as brash as claiming a single painting (no matter how many years of work were put into it) is the perfect representation of life.

Our dear, sweet, seductive model has far more to show us than this one meagre painting – thorough as it may be. She has all sorts of delicious adventures hidden within her form that a perspective of business simply cannot catch.

No, business is a tool, and with it we can change the fucking world as well as our own lives. But the efficacy and efficiency of that tool should never lull us into thinking that it is all there is. When we start thinking that, the tool wields us. I’ll not asset to that slavery.

My sister delights in the suggestion that friendship is a mutually beneficial business arrangement. She is not alone in this suggestion, nor is her logic particularly flawed. And, in another context, I’ll support the logic myself.

But, sharing a cigar with my friend of over 10 years, enjoying the evening and small talk about pretty girls, hopes and dreams, and an assortment of benign pleasures... has a quality to it that has very little to do with business.

And that is life.

- Z

Triforce of Awesome

They all said we were crazy.

Well, no one said that, actually. Not a single person. But when you announce that you are going to be cramming a third person into a tiny two bedroom apartment, people tend to think you’re either really down on your luck, telling a joke, or just plain bat-fuck loco.

None of us are fairing too poorly financially, so in the telling, I had to clarify a couple of times: No, it’s not a joke. My friend is moving in with us. Yes, we will be sharing a room. This is really what we’re doing.

And then they accepted it, and nodded their head. Some even commented that they thought it would be a good idea. But all of them had that glance or that stare. That twinkle in their eye that said “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a million years doing that. What suffering!”

Despite our supportive friends and family, I privately wished for a dissenter who would suggest that it was lunacy. I wished only so that I would have the opportunity to proclaim from the top of my lungs how sane the damned option was!

We are the land of the free. We are a world where existentialism reigns supreme, where we are encouraged to build our lives up and out and into something beautiful. People do this with careers, others with white picket fences. Friends and family move to new places, others travel the world, others still have babies.

And we three kings are doing it too.

“But it will be cramped...”

Oh you bet it is. Very cramped. But I also have friends who have moved several times because in their pursuit of happiness, their place being too small and crowded for their growing children. And every time, they’ll tell you it was worth it. Career-persons have schedules so tight that they need expensive schedules or assistants to help them wade through the crap.

And us, we just have a few extra things. In exchange for a second family, I lose a little bit of desk space. I wasn’t even using it in the first place. A pretty fair exchange.

(And, don’t tell, but our place is actually neater than it was before. Classier. More put together.)

“But what if you want to bring a woman home?”

Then we bring ‘em home! If they think the whole thing is weird, then they’re probably not the type of gal I want to be bringing around to meet my friends. We’re building a future here, and it’s awesome. It’s going to bloom into something beautiful. And if that makes getting girls more difficult, then I don’t want them in my life.

And trust me, they’ll be missing out.

“No, no, I mean, what if you want to bring a woman home. You know, since you’re sharing a room.”

Ah. Then my roommate can get the fuck out! Sock on the door. Man code.

No more complicated than that. These aren’t casual roommates picked up off the street. These are my long time friends. I’d take a bullet for them (and charge them for it later), so I’d sure as hell spend the night on the couch for one of them. And in the morning, I’ll make him and her a cup of coffee.

(And if she seems like a really good sport, then I’ll ask about his performance. We have a standard to keep at this place, you know.)

You see, we three complement each other. Tried, tested and true friends, we’re a trio of stooges that know all our lines. This isn’t a random arrangement, or an arrangement of convenience. No, this is an arrangement of desire. Because, having done the random thing for a number of years, we finally know what we like. We know what we’re after. And we know our own vices.

We’re a chord that always strikes you the right way. Trust me, we’ve been through plenty of practice, and had some pretty out of tune times. But, now together, we’re checking ourselves. Life is for inventing, and we’re setting to it.

A bohemian, a gentleman, and an enthusiast walk into a bar,
A writer, a cartoonist and a musician inspire one another,
An entrepreneur, a creative liason and a computer geek contemplate their future,
A sandwich maker, a service representative and a security guard go to work,
An optimist, a pessimist, and a realist wash the dishes,
A procrastinator, an alcoholic, and hoarder line up to use the washroom.

A Philosopher, an Artist, and a Wingman unlock the door to an apartment.

That joke is ours.

You’re going to love the punch-line.
- Z

Stepping out of Shadows

Shame haunts me.

We all have vices. Personally, my favourite one is greed. Or perhaps envy. I was never really clear on the details. All I know is that I covet my neighbour’s everything. And Pride certainly puts its two cents in simply by my sitting here pronouncing my favourite sin. And all of that I’m okay with. My ego is content, realizing (or deceiving itself into realizing) that I am capable of beauty and perfection in spite of these things. Often it celebrates the fact that I’m beautiful and perfect because of them.

But shame is the weapon the devil uses against me with stunning efficacy. I am ashamed of my dismal career. Of how much I was capable of and how much I haven’t accomplished. I’m ashamed that I have a well admired degree from a decent university and that I did nothing with it. I’m ashamed I that I cannot recall any of the knowledge I supposedly gained from the endeavour. I’m ashamed that I don’t know more about stuff. I always manage to screw up or let things pass by, as if it were the very nature of who I am. And I’m sure as shit ashamed that I work at such a shitty job. I’m basically ashamed the lacklustre version of myself I see when I look backwards.

When someone asks me what I do or what I’ve done, I avoid the subject. I avoid it reflexively. A hot flush wells up in my emotions, and my fight-or-flight response kicks in. That dread in the pit of my stomach kicks and screams to change the subject. My answer is always awkward or paused; my secret the levy of impending doom. That’s the devil’s weapon in full.

It might be suggested that, if I can comment on these things here, I can’t be that ashamed. It could be claimed that I have plenty of things that I can be proud of, and that tomorrow’s always a new day. But all of that misses the point. I’m not unaware of the shame, nor am I unaware of my life. I’m acutely aware. I have a friend who, sometimes, hates it when I comment on her beauty. I could never quite understand that – because she’s quite evidently beautiful, and my words were always motivated by honesty and truth. But I think this feeling I have is something like it. Because when someone tells me I’m a good person, sometimes it can’t help but cause me to reflect on all the areas that I’m a wash-up. No well-meaning words can fix that.

Somewhere, deep down behind all of that shame (and resultant fear), is the real me. Underneath it.

As anyone who’s been my friend over the past months (read: years (read: intimate friend)) knows that I’ve been working to uncover that man. Discover him. It is an unbelievably slow process.

But I know it will be an incredible find. I know that because my writing teaches me a bit about him. For one thing, he has amazing sex. And more importantly, though just barely, he is real. He is really him, and not someone who’s walking with his face to the past.

First I took time off. Then I broke down. Then I went to Thailand. Then I got a job. Then I went to school for business.

The accounting professor mixed up the class numbers on our first day. The management prof changed her lesson plan at the last minute. The human resources professor apologized for having a testing system that wasn’t the best for students and the marketing professor tried too hard during orientation to be our best friend. This at an institution well regarded for its successful business program.

“Defend everything you say in this class with statistics and facts,” my last professor said, “and remember that people will always act in their best interest. I’m sorry, but that’s it’s just the way it is.”

Sure teaches you a lot about flaws.

One of my professors questioned, politely, why someone in my position didn’t just enrol in a Master’s of Business. The hidden hypothesis he was asserting was that a BBA was a lateral step at best. A needless repetition or possibly even a regression. I could not find the words to adequately explain myself. I could feel the devil stabbing at my heart.

But as I think back to the previous week of classes – the utter realism of honest mistakes, and flaws mixed in with youth, success and ambition, a creeping answer came to me. A simpler reason: The simple fact of the matter was, though I might try and justify, pontificate, and rationalize, I simply wanted to. For 4 years now, I have dreamt about starting over. About fighting back.

Now I am. This is where.

- Z


Epilogue –

My writing is an outlet that I do not intend to lose in the depth of schoolwork. Writing is not necessarily “a part of me” so much as it reveals a part of me. Aside from my ego’s desire to be beloved by hordes of people and make women wet with my words, the thing I like most about my art is that I feel most pure when I create. That, despite the loads of work I will be undertaking with school, is something I want to continue to make a priority.

A friend of mine continually mentions that the most popular online media (blogs, web-comics etc) is that which is updated frequently. To this end, I intend to start updating my blog (which contains what I post on facebook too) more frequently starting in October.

Once every two weeks, I’ll be posting. That’s a commitment. It may be a blog, it may be a creative writing piece, or I may try and do something different altogether. No matter what it is, it’ll always be from the heart.

I hope you’ll bookmark it. I hope you’ll feel comfortable giving your feedback.

As well, on the alternate weeks, I’ll be working with a friend(s?) of mine on a creative writing project involving photography and writing. More on that to come once I can sit down with her and organize how exactly it will work. Hopefully a third artistic project will materialize with my roommate(s) in the new year. I don’t think they really realize how serious I am about it. But I am.

Oh, and I think I’ll be advertising more, so tell your friends. Shameless, I know.

That’s the idea.

Raindrops

I got a chance to walk in the rain the other day. August 31st, actually. I got to say goodbye to my summer by walking a euphoric 38 minutes in the constant drizzle-pour-drizzle. It was glorious.

I love the rain. I am not a creature of the sea, but part of me always feels at home when I hear the rain. A soft drizzle on my skin reminds me that I’m alive. The spots on my glasses remind me of the windshield of a car, and like that car I can get out any time I want. Because I am not my glasses. I’m not my body. And, with my hands outstretched and my soggy clothing clinging, the rain gets that.

I sleep with the radio politely on. But evenings when it is raining, I listen to that alone. It has sent me peacefully to slumber when mental or physical pains thought to keep me otherwise awake for hours. While it’s true that there may be more comfortable things to hug and snuggle into – blankets, sweaters and people, for example – the rain holds you like a lover. The rain doesn’t pretend that the world is magically bright or wonderful. Nor does it seek to suggest that it’s dour and ugly. It knows that for every flower there is an overcast day. The rain knows every cliché.

The rain cries for you when you don’t have the strength to do it yourself. Like the world itself is releasing some pent up emotion, you cannot help but get swept up with it even if you can help sharing the tears.

Optimism can be a tricky thing. Even optimists can see that, half-full or half-empty, the cup could always have a lot more liquid in it. One of my favourite metaphors is flying. Specifically, not forgetting to fly. “Don’t forget to fly,” I tell people who I know have the sight – the capacity to see the world as it really is. Hook is one of my favourite movies, and once Pan remembered how to fly, everything else was in the bag. We can fly. We can be bigger, and better, and more magnificent than anything else in existence. Our childish imaginations, our lover’s hearts, and our moral souls are all echoes of this fundamental truth; this what-we-can-be. Don’t forget it, I say. Don’t forget to fly.

But as liberating as it is, to imagine one’s self breaking away from the chains of every-day monotony, grief, worry, and stress. It’s not very realistic. Because realistically, family and friendship politics are complicated. And two people can be in love but also not be perfect for one another. Unfortunately, a corporation that wants to change runs the risk of changing into non-existence. Some things you just can’t fly around.

But the rain is beautiful within that world of chains and complications. It has always represented to me a comfortable neutrality in the way that it represents reality. It says in its various forms: “yes. There are sucky parts about the world. And they are here to stay.” But despite what people often think reality is the best soil for optimism to grow in. Real love, success, happiness, and joy is not raised in blindness, but grown through the care of earnest hearts and open eyes. Optimism is nothing more than the desire to see such things grow.

Grow they shall, in spades, in the rain. That’s what I like about it.

A wet-t-shirt contest (as wonderful as it is) will never compare to the beauty of your breathless lover running in the door after being caught en route in a freak rainstorm.

(Yes, your hair is wet and frizzy. A mess, even. You’ve never been more beautiful.)

So when I found myself successful and happy about how my morning had gone on the 31st, with no where to be and all day to get there, I decided I wouldn’t take the bus. It was raining, and I wanted to walk home.

The rain will never dare say “everything will be okay.” But it does help you feel it.

Play in the rain,
- Z

"Just Believe."

We are a culture defined by “you are good enough.”

A thousand times a day, we are exposed to words in quotation marks. “Be the change that you want to see in the world.” “You are worth it.” “...Because you are worth it.” “You’re perfect just the way you are.” “She really loves you if she swallows.”

For a long time these thoughts were floating around in the ether and on billboards. But now, we have integrated them into our society. We have social networking sites like twitter which serve two primary purposes – one is nonsense and the other is sharing these anecdotes. Empowering us to become not only perpetuators of the infestation, but also authors. Now, as I personally often do, we can share our own quotes.

Sometimes they act as veiled messages to others we hope are reading. Often it is the emo-like yearnings of a soul who feels via these websites connected enough to hope for a reaction, but disconnected enough to despair no matter what is said. On a rare occasion, they’re prayers or the silent written desires of our soul.

We have other websites dedicated to text messages or life happenstances that are quotable. That make us laugh, sigh, cry, and emotionally yearn for them or against them. Something in most of them makes us feel, regardless of whether the quotable is real. Online videos and comments have us calling out for the underdog, and cherishing ways of life that we admire. Just yesterday I watched a breathtaking motivational video from a guy with no arms and legs, who was nonetheless “making the best” of his life. He encouraged all his listeners to realize that they were good enough. That they were beautiful.

We are a society of clichés. And there is a hidden falsity here that is tragic.

A gorilla that I talk to once in a while opened my eyes to the 60’s. It’s a time period that I am honestly not particularly interested in, but has a few valuable lessons. The people revolted in a hippie revolution which went nowhere. A few cliques continued, even to this day. But everything else reverted within the fullness of time back into “business as usual.” Try as they might, nothing changed. The Man is still in charge.

That’s what I’m beginning to hear, over and over again, today with clichés and quotables. We continually convince ourselves that we are beautiful, worth it, and important, just to forget it by the evening. Just in time to need to be reminded of it again. Mom-n-pop shops hold the banners of being different high only to sell out to corporations to enjoy the profit of those banners. But they will say to themselves, over and over again, like Sunday Prayer – “we are different. We are good enough.” As if they can make it true by saying it. As if it will sustain them or make them all better.

It has moved from life advice to an opiate. An opiate with very dangerous withdrawal symptoms. I fear that we are nothing better with it, yet descend into anarchy now when denied it.

To be clear: We are not defined as a society that finally realizes that it is beautiful. We have become a society that tells itself over and over again “we are beautiful.” Sadly, there’s nothing pretty about that. Just a broken addict needing their fix to get through another otherwise unbearable day. But “I can quit anytime I want.”

When I told my father (a man with significant working experience) the whole story about my being fired a year ago, everything made sense to him. The corporate reasoning, the corporate decisions, the way it was handled. He didn’t approve of most of it, and certainly not the way he runs his ship, but it made complete sense to him. But the thing he had the most difficulty with was this – the thing I, his son with little-to-no real world job experience – had to explain to him was why my close friends hadn’t done anything to support me.

What a sad realization about society, that I would have to explain to my father why my friends had handled the situation differently than his friends would have not 10-20 years prior. Why my friends appeared to sound so much more supportive and then acted so much less supportive then his own co-workers had “back in the day.” And we call ourselves more civilized. A terrible price for an inaccurate label.

I knew a person once, who wore a quote on her online-sleeve: “call it like you see it.” I’ve never seen someone gossip and backroom chat more. I’ve also never seen someone avoid so much honest confrontation.

I’ve lost count how many people I’ve met that – in one form or another – demand that someone else “put their money where their mouth is” but don’t follow through themselves. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard people dream out loud that they wish their potential lover would not hesitate. They wait wistfully, hoping that s/he will act. The hypocrisy, I trust, is evident.

My gorilla friend proposed that the hippies of the 60’s failed in their revolution because they didn’t know where they were going. They knew that they didn’t like how things were, but didn’t know what to go about changing things to. I think our quotable society suffers the same problem. We earnestly want to “be all that we can be.” We want to believe it, but we haven’t got a clue how to go about it. We’ve forgotten. And we’ve also forgotten that the alternative – not being – is far more frightening:

“All it takes for evil to succeed is for good people to stand aside and do nothing.”

My co-worker, when I told him about what the gorilla had said, asked me what I was doing to fix it. A great question. I told him I was living my life in a way that would hopefully open eyes to the reality. Being a believer in treating other people like individuals and not like drones or automatons (see Immanuel Kant and his Categorical Imperative), means that for me, changing people involves a lot more hope and openness than it does control and demands. Now I know how God felt, having to give man free will instead of perfection, hoping that he would find the latter on his own.

Here goes: We do not make things true by saying them over and over and over again. It’s not true in church, it’s not true at the coffee shop, and it’s certainly not true in love or the workplace. We make things true by making them true.

Yes, this may involve “drama.” Yes, this may involve offending people. It will almost certainly involve great risk to your personal, emotional, financial and/or physical health. But we’ve watched enough stars and tabloid shows to know that getting clean naturally involves these things. Rehabilitation has never, ever been an easy process. When we are addicted, there is no way past withdrawal symptoms but through them.

“Act now, and save big!”

C. S. Lewis and I rarely disagree on things (except, you know, about God), but I have to take issue with his implication that we can never create Heaven on Earth. I happen to believe we can. Our “progress” as of the past few decades (read: our generation) has been a bit backwards, it’s true. But it’s never too late.

I’m not perfect. Indeed, a lot of people could read this post and say: “you hypocrite! You do all those things too!” That too is truth. I’m no prophet, much as my ego would love me to be. I’m in the trenches too, making mistakes with all of you. And being down and dirty has helped me to understand.

Helped me to understand why people “fake it.”
To understand why people say one thing and do another.
To understand why people yearn for love but don’t dare endanger friendships.
To understand why we separate our well-being from our words.
To understand why it’s easier to tell an open digital world that you’re aching than it is to look into someone else’s eyes and say it.
To understand why joy is contagious but brief, but what lasts a lifetime is grief.

To understand why it’s so important to “dance like no-one’s watching.” Because it is. And everyone is watching. But fuck it, you are beautiful, right?

Dance!

- Z

A Midnight Missive

If I’m wrong, and there is a God, I’m going to tell Him about you.

If I finally black out for the last time and open my eyes again to the pearly gates, with Judgement at my feet and the big guy ahead of me, I’m going to wave my right to the questions. I’m not going to ask Him what He was thinking about suffering, or ask Him how I was supposed to know that He existed. I’m not going to ask Him how it all started, or how it’s supposed to end.

Love, I’m going to pull up a chair and tell Him about you.

Because none of that other stuff matters. The stuff about Catholics and Protestants. The Dead Sea Scrolls. The Golden Rule vs the 10 Commandments. Capitalism, Communism, and what he would do when both football teams both sides asked Him for help. It’s all nonsense, armchair word games, in comparison.

But I will tell Him about your beauty. About how struck I was by your eyes, your form, and your words. About how you were an artist that I envied and a protagonist that kept me page-turning life. I’ll talk a lot about how I smiled thinking of you, and all the little quirks and asides that we had. I’ll mention that your form physically had a poise and grace that was all at once normal, natural, sublime and intoxicating. I’ll note with distinction that your demeanour always reflected the same.

We’ll talk until the sun goes down, or up, or whatever the sun does in heaven, while I tell Him about how you were the only one I would have crossed oceans for. How my life was altered when I met you. How my being was vindicated by your welcome.

He’ll understand with His perfect smile how I was simultaneously willing to change who I was into the “perfect image” of what a man should be like for you (and you alone!), and yet I understood that that was a blasphemy to you. We’ll sit in big fluffy cloud-armchairs beside a fire recognizing that nothing inspired me to be me more than you. Just by being you. He’ll know what I mean when I say that. And He’ll know that you never said anything like that, but I knew it. When I’m done, He’ll understand that you were my Understanding.

I’ll talk about how you sometimes didn’t believe me, or believed that I believed it but it wasn’t true in fact. But He and I would laugh, because we would both know the Truth. Over angel-cake, we’ll talk about how your life could breathe into mine with the slightest of flickers. How you made “loving” worth doing.

While I can’t put it into words, we’ll be in heaven so I’ll use the language of feeling, and tell him about how we were always independent and yet always connected. How I struggled throughout my life never to come on to strong and too removed from reality, but also never to do a disservice to the importance of your being. Then, using our heaven-language, I’ll convey the secret that I held all my life – that I knew you knew that I never had to worry about coming on too strong or too weak, too surreal or too pragmatic. That I never had to worry at all. We were exactly as we should be. As we would be.

And as my weary head lays to rest, I’ll tell Him the Truth: that you were perfect.

And it won’t matter than He already knows everything, being God and all, because that’s not the point. The point is that if I’m not telling the story of your beauty, then I can’t possibly be in Paradise. Because there is nothing that affects me so profoundly as you. If my soul truly is immortal then it has to be resonating with the sound of you, because you make me feel alive. Like no other.

You’re divine.

- Z

Parties and Hospital Beds

A year ago, I was being discharged from the hospital.

A year ago, the red scars down the front of my chest were fresh, covered in bandages that I shouldn’t get wet. I could not sleep for more than 2 hours straight, and often sat up painfully in plastic chairs tired and hot, hungry but too nauseous to eat.

A year ago, I couldn’t walk for more than five minutes at a time, and I stumbled with my hands crossed over my chest, a baby pillow wrapped in my arms. Sitting in cars produced cricks in necks, and self-sponge bathing was awkward. Slugs moved faster, and with more dignity.

A year ago, a friend who had promised she would come to the coast and visit me during the whole thing, didn’t. And a girl I liked, and devoted much of my earnest attention to her trials in the past, didn’t even send me a text. Many people would show up to a party, but too few take the time to visit hospital beds. Only one of the two really matters. Only one of the two will I really remember.

A year ago, I was miserable. A dear friend of mine privately commented that, when I lost my job before surgery, they were concerned I might actually commit suicide over the whole thing. My father continually suggested that after surgery life would turn around for me, I’d feel so much better with that emotional baggage of “needing surgery” over and done with. They were both wrong. My lowest point was a year ago, just after the surgery, and just after the hospital. My heart, and its dysfunction, had never played a role in my mind until after the surgery. Never. Not once did I ever feel limited, or cautious, because of some supposed difficulty with the ticker. And now, since a year ago, I’ve worried about it more with its “fixed” valve than I ever have before. I wish they had never needed to fix it.

“Do you ever just throw a pity party for yourself?”

I smiled when I was given the question. Yes. Yes I do.

A year later, I’m still going. My family – today and last year - never stopped being there for me, and has always been the very definition of what love should be. I am headed to school in the fall, and am back to work. I’m even re-finding my old ambitions and passions – to fight for what’s right, to not give a shit about what’s not important, and to laugh honestly when we confuse the two.

But yes, friend. Sometimes I still walk with an emotional pillow crossed between my arms, hugged against my heart.

The new scars begin to dull, but they still feel foreign. Not at all like my old scars, which had been a part of me. Which I had privately liked.

- Z

Release

A woman, 27 years of age, died today after being hit by a truck running a red light. She is being heralded a hero, having pushed two young kids out of the truck’s path and sacrificing her life in the process. After being struck, her broken body lay dying on the street. Witnesses say that as soon as she began to recognize what had happened, her mind was entirely bent towards the children that she had just saved. Frantically, she looked all around her, though unable to move, and asked if they were alright.

The children were unharmed.

Police and an ambulance arrived shortly after, but nothing could be done. The woman died at the scene. After the paramedics had assessed her and reassured her that there were no other casualties, she was overcome with a sense of calm. Then, as she drew her final breaths, witnesses at the scene reported that she whispered “thank you.”

Witnesses say that the truck was going well over the speed limit, speeding up to make it through the light. If the driver had been more responsible, he would have had lots of time to stop. Charges are expected to be laid. The name of the victim has not yet been released.

To Boldly Go

Six Degrees of Separation says that I know Sir Patrick Stewart.

Growing population counts on Earth may statistically suggest that it’s actually seven or nine degrees. The ongoing growth of social networking websites and tools may, in fact, reduce that number back down to six. No matter the exact number, someone you know, knows someone who knows someone who knows someone etc, etc, etc, who knows anyone. It’s an impressive theory, helping us to truly understand how connected we all are to one another, and how important our interactions are. But, what should really be emphasized and underlined about this theory is (as all wonderful things are) straightforward:

I fucking know Sir Patrick Stewart.

He’s my pal, (6 or 7 times removed). I happen to know the greatest Enterprise captain that ever lived (as well as a most fantastic Broadway actor). And once that really, really sinks in, everything else becomes a joy to delve into. How is it that I know this guy? What serendipity made this real? A friend of a friend. Or maybe my university acquaintance’s aunt’s friend’s kid’s friend’s dad knows him. Perhaps I’ll never understand just how we managed the feat of connectivity, or perhaps it’s quite easy – right in front of my face. Some important connections are like that.

Some are much more fun when they’re not.

My earliest thoughts of careers were filled with the idea of being a mail-man. I wanted to deliver the mail in a grey suit and in a white truck. That’s what the colours were of the little toy mail-man that I had. I loved that little white peg with a grey hat and a smiley face painted on it.

When I think to my first real conception of what “I wanted to do with my life,” if you will, I recall being in grade 11 and planning on being a chemistry and math teacher. As a result, I took a heavy course-load of biology, chemistry and math in my grade 12 year, forsaking courses such as law, psychology, and history.

As I finished High School, I then became disillusioned with the idea of pursuing a career in the sciences. It was an incredibly beautiful area of knowledge, but not one I felt passion for. Instead, I became preoccupied with business and the arts, though knowing nothing of them. Economics seems a reasonable path between the two. Through chance and a fancy course description, I happened to take a Philosophy course early in my university studies, and it captured my timid little heart like no other pursuit had (excepting the pursuit of women, of course).

Philosophy, teaching it and experiencing it alongside other passionate minds, was my life’s Sir Patrick Stewart. And with the same penchant that a white knight should have, it stood ever ready to protect me and guide me throughout the dark ages of career banditry and the unjust taxation of passion. Life has a lot of that. But, whenever at a loss for dreams, I could always imagine myself in the future as a philosophy professor or writing an essay about my philosophical perspective. (My friend and I decided over drinks I would one day be known for my “Websterian Ethics” – the contents of those ethics are still pending).

In September, I’m enrolled to attend business college. This is not philosophy. Indeed it’s nothing close to it, pragmatically speaking. And, as I come to this decision, my sister wonders something aloud to me during some one on one time: maybe I should just take further studies in philosophy instead. It is a poignant thought, and one that I have had absolutely countless times before. Why don’t I? Why am I doing this business thing instead?

I’ll be honest – with her, with you, and with myself: I don’t know. Perhaps partly because I’m scared. Perhaps partly because I don’t know how. But I think that, primarily, it’s because it just doesn’t feel right yet.

There are many degrees between me and the good Sir Patrick and there are many degrees between me and my career in philosophy. And I know that they’re all necessary. Without them, I simply won’t be connected with what I love. See, because they’re not really degrees of separation: they’re degrees of connection.

Aristotle is credited with the quote that “it is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.” This is my answer for my sister. For me to be connected to who I really am, I must entertain all of the thoughts along the way. Like I did with the interdisciplinary major instead of a philosophy major. Like I did when I wrote the LSAT (twice). Like I did with Subway and the time with my dad in Thailand. Really entertain them, in a way that gave them everything that I am. As Kant would say, as ends unto themselves, and not simply as means to other ends. Business school and business administration is one of those things that I simply have to entertain.

I know the Captain, and I will have a career in Philosophy. That’s not being given up by going to business college any more than it was being given up when I considered a career in Law, or when I spent 2 years with Disney. Philosophy, and my final incredible dreams, were not being abandoned in those times. They were on their way to being realized.

And this September, in Okanagan College’s BBA program, that journey continues.

Make it so,
- Z

Don't Kiss Me

(To be read aloud)

Don’t
Kiss me.

Because if you kiss me,
You will be.

I have met and lost the love of my life not once but
Twice.
And though my mind is blind
And can’t see past all the other mundane catastrophes that make up my life,
Both were the worst thing to ever happen to me.
See, I give everything when I love.
I, like the saints to their gods, lay down my very soul for ever and ever.
Amen.

What I want you to believe is the divine cliché.
What they all say:
It’s not you, it’s me,
And I don’t think I can do it a third time.

If you move from who you are to someone
Who will be, to me,
If you become thrice, and with your whim and will entice
The very fibre of my vice,
I don’t think I could bare it.

There was another, once.
Even now, my spirit entwined, she displays her grace simply by never letting me
Down.
But she could.
And were her beauty anything less than perfect she would not
So piously protect
My heart.
A labour of love, I know.
Were she to fade away tomorrow, though I have invested nothing but everything I would be
Lost.
Even though she never found me. Had me.
Because that’s how love can be sometimes.

So don’t
Kiss me.

Because you’re not one of them.
You have a world so completely beyond me and mine.
Don’t say you don’t.
You do.
Because I know you.
I’ve looked into your eyes on those dark days and random nights,
When, to my surprise, your perfect form had compromised.
Into tears.
Fears.
That some part of your inside world was not alright.
Some melody of your personal private symphony was dreadfully
Off key.

I knew you then.
I held you softly until the music of your mind gently regained its composure.
Until the beat grew steady and strong again, so that you could carry on.
And then you did.
And then you left.

I love unconditionally.
Each and every one without fail or relent, once my heart gives consent.
And I know that’s not the way it should be.
I should be free,
To set the conditions of my intuitions,
To let the natural and normal ebb and flow of life
Give and take away again.
But I’m not.
My lips sing old jazz standards,
And kisses build dreams.

So if your lips meet mine, though the time would be sublime,
Something that inspires the movement of a moment that mere minutes cannot explain.
I could never leave.

That I fear far more than tears.

Don’t
Kiss me.

"Doin' Well Thanks, And You?"

“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”

I have made (as I have perhaps mentioned before) the words “I hope you are well” a sacred prayer. Whenever I say it, orally or in print, I lower my voice and center my mind on the person I am directing the phrase to. I say it with the same earnestness that I would speak to God with, and I am on my metaphorical knees as I text it. My own ego and sense of self lay prostrate in the acknowledgement of another like me. Of another, beneath the separate experiences and the individual suffering and euphoric joys, that is experiencing life alongside me. In that, we are the same, and it is divine.

And so, it is a holy hope to desire that their unique personhood, that magical something that makes us us, is well. As I’ve written previously, it’s love.

The inverse of this sublime colloquialism is a greeting worthy of the same elevation. “How are you?”

Society (and English/Sociology majors can correct me if they know better) has degraded that question into a polite version of “hello.” As I am also reminded of in the summer job of summer jobs, capitalism certainly has degraded it into a marketing tool.

“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”

Check how many times a day that you say it. Check how many times you’re asked, and you give the quick response – “Fine.” “Good, thanks.” “I’ll get a...” Check how little the question means to you. How much you doubt whether the person who asks it actually cares. Check how often you actually, truly want to know how another person is doing.

I’m guilty of bastardizing the question and response myself. In one of our civilization’s Great Miracles, we’ve succeeded in making the disregard of meaning a social reflex. And we convince ourselves (another one of our many divine talents) that it’s acceptable. The world is, after all, too big to be honest all the time. Too crowded. Too little time. Too dangerous. Too impractical.

And, besides, the guy in line behind me is already tapping his foot.

Now, I’m not suggesting that everyone join the happy-go-lucky camp that thinks we have a moral imperative to give a shit. We don’t have to. There’s no 4-hugs-a-day quota in grown-up land. But I know that every time I say the words “I hope you are well” and mean it, something strange happens: It matters. It matters in a way that a cross only matters when it’s a symbol Christianity. Of earnest sacrifice and honest connection.

Implicit inside the holiest of phrases – I hope you are well – is the question – How are you? Just as inherent in the sacrifice made by Jesus was the love of Christ, believe in Him or not. And so, every time a lover or a friend utters the words of an earnest desire, they cannot do so without the attempt at an honest connection. It is in the recognizing this that the joy of the spirits comes upon us, and that we empower ourselves to re-elevate the question to its rightful place beyond marketing, transcending the artificial ideologies of capitalism and democracy and culture. As only love can.

I’ll tell you a secret. There is a secret society of us that know this. Believe this. There is a secret and hidden group of people that recognize that the question “how are you?” is a symbol of a much more meaningful connection then a discussion on how good your breakfast was.

They’re hidden everywhere – in line behind you, around the counter while they make your coffee, walking down the street when you make brief eye contact, even sometimes (I begrudgingly admit) in that needlessly huge truck parked across two spots.

“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”

Often the answer isn’t given in words. It’s in the smile or the eye contact that follows. Sometimes it is in the conversation; there are a few brave souls that are that blunt. And when two people in that society meet, everything else fades away. The perfect 6 step process of making a sandwich is unimportant. Making sure the iced latte is made perfectly to standard is little more than a facade. All of those are simply rules – transitory little fads and lusts made by transitory little whims - given meaning and power only by the individual. And when we two meet, eternal and divine, we recognize that it’s all just a game.

Then we really bond. What is it that’s really bothering you? What keeps you up at night, and why is it the same as what keeps me up at night? Who are we, that we are surrounded by so much absurdity? How is it that we are surrounded by others who are so blind to this evident, glowing Truth?

We don’t pretend to be more than we are, or less than we are. We are cogs in a machine that we did not build, but we are cogs that get to choose how and when they will turn. Switches that get to choose whether they are on or off.

Advances in science informs us that light is both a particle and a wave until observed. Advances tell us that our observation of a thing changes that thing. That Schrödinger’s cat lives or dies by our observation of it. Often this is looked upon as a personal limitation of our species – some even suggest that we should cease exploring the universe lest we set it a certain way, simply by looking at it. Or worse, we destroy it. Our observation of something causes it to be less than what it was.

We, in our secret society, know the truth. We know that these advances in science teach us what our hearts have echoed for an eternity. When a human being is observed, then they are. We do not limit the universe, nor destroy it, when we look at it. When we exercise our divine omni-benevolence by observing, we let it really and truly be.

Every day, from time to time, often squished between the guy who doesn’t look up from his paper and the girl who thinks I owe her something just for coming in, I get 2.5 minutes to connect with members from this secret society. 3.5 if they get a complicated sub. 4 if they also get it toasted. Subway thinks it’s a marketing tool to give the impression of good customer service. We’re told to say those exact words to everyone so as to increase customer comfort and loyalty, which will, in turn, increase sales.

We know better.

“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”

True Love

Love has been a topic as of late. Not Truth = Love love, or the kind of love that poets talk about when they look at beautiful trees, or a cliff-side view. I mean the love that 16 year olds think of when you tell them the word. Love Actually kind of love.

I’ve seen it in my new co-workers, whose chief topics are other boys or girls. I see it on Facebook when the continually increasing number of moms talk about their increasing number of children. That takes a certain kind of lovin’. My once un-catchable, allergic-to-commitment friend has recently confessed to me her desire to find the perfect mate. My digital friend is crushed when she learns the hard truth that boys are just as flighty as girls. A pair of longtime lovers test their relationship by adding 2 careers and hundreds of kilometres of distance between them. Other friends talk of difficulties and squabbles in what is otherwise (they assure me) a great relationship. And others, silently, carry right along, as their relationships (some flawed, some beautiful, all dedicated) head into their 2nd, 3rd, and 4th years. Marriage photos flutter about everywhere this time of year.

My own heart leaps and falls these days – quite uncontrollably, as anyone who has emotionally lusted knows – over start-and-stop conversations, glances at people who don’t glance back, and over thoughts of old times (that are almost certainly better than the times were themselves). I suppose I truly opened my eyes to the pervasiveness of the topic when I remarked to my friend the other day that “it was about time that I found a gal.” Words that are just about sacrilege coming from my mouth, to be honest.

Of course, “finding a girl” is not exactly how it’s done, in my opinion. And there certainly are a number of opinions on the matter, I’ve found. My father, as we discussed business in Thailand joked that he wouldn’t have to worry about his son getting sidetracked with love, since I’ve nothing to offer anyone. He meant materially, of course. It’s true, aside from some emergency money, I’m pretty near broke. And he’s referencing a very classic view of partnershiping. Find the guy/gal with all the best attributes, and grab them.

Along this line of thought is the modern day view of partnership. It’s not so much about finding love, fostering it as a seed and helping it grow into something marvellous. Instead and pretending to be the same thing, it is about finding someone with all the attributes one is attracted to physically, materially and mentally, and then expecting a connection to be there. It’s a way of looking at a relationship, expecting them to look at you as a partner, but looking for them as if they were a commodity.

Often what’s laughable is how many people expect this method to work, and how hurt people are when it doesn’t. Connections don’t grow out of looking at people as “things that have stuff.” Connections grow out of looking at people as people, and helping be a part of their stuff.

There is a very easy analogy that helps express my point here. I bought a lottery ticket today. If I win the millions, I will be far more attractive to certain others than I would normally be. No doubt, all the beautiful gold diggers of Kelowna that prance around in next to nothing would no doubt suddenly find me a bit more handsome. Of course, we all roll our eyes at that, and find it detestable. And whether or not you are against the idea of buying sex, I think we can all agree that the connection I would have with any of these women would be slightly more dubious than the connection I currently have with my D&D buddies.

When we look for qualities rather than experience people, we tend towards the same fallacy as the bikini-clad gold diggers. Not saying it’s wrong, honest. Just saying don’t be surprised if that special “connection” isn’t there.

But when we seek to experience people as they are, we often get exposure to exactly all the qualities that we so adore.

The infamous quotation “if you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best” floats around as the icon of another perspective for partnership: the audition/try-outs method. Another one I don’t agree with. It’s a nice thought to get people through breakups, or to help sustain them when their friends give them a rough time, but it’s not a good way to “go looking” for that special someone. I should never have to prove to you that I’m good enough. I already know that I will spend all of our time together trying earnestly to be good enough – that’s who I am, and what I’m genuinely interested in. But if you have a requirement that I prove it, if you’re asking me to prove it, you can go fuck yourself. Kthxbye.

As I’ve already hinted at, my perspective on love, on meaningful connections (and excellent sex) is not compatible with “going to find a gal”. Since it hinges on the acknowledgement of a person for who they are, we can’t go looking for certain perfect connections. Part of them is luck – enjoying the people who you encounter in your life, and seeing if a spark develops. Connections that way are more like magic, and less like a clinical version of hide-and-seek.

So, in that vein, I have to disagree with my father – now is when he should most worry about my “finding a woman.” Not because I’ve got one in my sights, but because I’m ripe with a spark that could become fire. I’m not yet hot stuff, but I’m full of very ignitable qualities.

Partnership, then, is not the art of finding a great fire to warm yourself with, but the art of asking someone else: Need a match?

I’ve just finished 8 years of higher education – 4 in acadamia, and 4 outside it. And it has prepared me for life, but hasn’t yet provided it. I know what I have, don’t have, and what it will take to close the gap between the two. I have a laundry list of great and terrible experiences to draw on, and yet I still have way too much to learn. I know what risks are, and I know exactly what it means to give my heart. I know that if there is one area of my life that I can and do follow through on – one in the myriad of start-and-never-finish goals I seem to set for myself – it is love. I know it because I’ve been there.

I have nothing, but I know exactly what it means to work towards something. And I know the beauty in sharing that with someone. It’s only up from here.

A last analogy: In D&D, and in any of the plethora of video games that are out there, we confine ourselves to “levelling up”. That’s the whole goal of the game, really. Grind through all the crap to get yourself to a higher level. And once you’re there, you feel fantastic. But the real connection you feel with your character – the real connection you feel with all the successes that you’ve had, comes from the act of levelling up with that character. If someone just hands you something that they’ve built, some random level 20 (or for you WoWers, level 80), it’s not the same. It’s not good enough to get someone else’s character. You want to experience it along side your character. You want to grow with them.

Nothing ever quite compares to embarking on a quest with your very own level 1. For those who’ve had the unfortunate luck of gaming out with me, they know that – to me – nothing is more exciting than those first few levels. And now, in real life, I’ve never felt more like a guy who’s exactly that.

My father always tries to clinch his position on relationships with the age old reality, and cultural wisdom: “you can’t eat love.”

I say, true. But you’ve got to love what you eat.

- Z

On Perfection

You are perfect.

Read that line again. Read it as if I was typing it right now. Each letter appearing individually, and rapidly in succession. But not too rapidly. I’m not a fast typist. The first word ends, there is a space, and then there is a pause. The second word does not begin, and for a hesitation of a second, you are forced to inwardly reflect. There isn’t time for further introspection before the next letters start again. Just enough to make you uncompromisingly aware of yourself.

Three more letters type out, more poignantly this time, but also more hesitantly – like every one was searched for on the keyboard. Not because they were, of course, but because this word is actually the most important of the sentence and deserves appropriate reverence. Whatever follows is made holy by it. Whatever follows is judgement because of it. This is the deadly sin of the sentence.

Now you know what is to follow. The barriers are built up already. This post isn’t about you – it couldn’t be, this post is a post, a blog by your friend, or your friend of a friend. It’s a writer’s device. A plea for attention or a feeble attempt at unique writing. A trick used so that I – the writer – can draw you in. Nothing more.

But it is. It is about you. As the final seven letters are quickly typed out, you have perhaps already made yourself impervious to the words. It doesn’t matter, perhaps beyond the inspiration for a scoff, that the word outlined is a synonym for God. It doesn’t matter. This is merely an entertainment. A fantasy. One man’s fancy put to print. And, anyways, I don’t really know anything about the real you.

If you have to reject something about that first sentence – anything to make it more bearable, comprehendible, acceptable – reject what I reject. Don’t reject its intent, or its attempt at genuine connection. Do not guard yourself from the brilliant and beautiful possibility that you could be here, and that I could be earnestly and honestly desiring to put you here. But, if I am right in my prophesy, and you do reject something, make it real. Reject what I reject.

Do not reject the intimacy between the reader and the word “You”. In reading, you could be anyone. Who am I to know who shall read it and who shall not? And we are infinitely different – no one is the composed the same way. But we are also all the same. Unique and beautiful snowflakes are unique and beautiful, but they are also all simply water, frozen into ice. Your heart and mind may make up something that I have never, ever seen before, but they are still composed of a substance that makes up my form too. Even if you’ve never whispered private secrets to me at 3 in the morning. Even if we’ve never met.

Don’t reject the idea that you can be defined, even if your definition is infinite. Definition is appreciation, appreciation is divine. It is by appreciation that we judge, that we have fears, hopes, dreams. It is the appreciation of rational thought that grants us contentment, and it is the irrational appreciation of the world that brings us bliss. It is through definition that we recognize the undefinable. “You are” is why you can be. Why you are unique to me. It is the means through which you are infinite yet substantial. It is no threat to you – it is vindication of your divinity. Without it, you are simply unremarkable.

Reject what you really reject. Reject what I reject. You are not perfect.

It’s not what you were afraid of at first. You may not even be afraid of it at all. But I am, and it’s something that we can all nod our head to. Maybe you think your thighs are too big. Maybe it’s because you’ve got zits, or no car. Maybe you absolutely suck at love, or at your career. Maybe you’re not afraid of not being perfect but instead you’re afraid and that’s why you’re not perfect. Maybe it’s because your religion told you you weren’t. Maybe it’s because your mom told you you weren’t.

For me, it’s just about all of the above. Except my mom was fine and I think my thighs are too small. But I also have a crooked back, and I’ll never have the strength to lift a lover off the ground and pin her to a wall. Doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with perfection, does it? But it matters to me. The list can go on, and to be honest, if I’m not looking you in the eye when I say it, it doesn’t really sate me much in the telling. So I won’t go on. Because that’s not important.

But how you’re imperfect is important. It is to me. See, this whole piece was inspired by a rather garish sexual line in my head: “your imperfections get me off.” Though the sentiment was raw and lustfully inspired, their is truth when it is applied to a broader matter. The most attractive traits I’ve ever found, in friends and in lovers, has been exactly what they look in the mirror and fear. One of the sexiest qualities of a woman I was physically attracted to was her the crinkle in her tongue. And now, on the rare occasion that I think of her beauty, that is what I remember. Nothing else of her proportionate form matters much to me.

Partly that is because that was far more “her” than any other shape or mould that fit a norm. That, by definition, was what stuck out. I remember lisps and crushed apples in irrational rage and pregnancies. I remember moles and weird double joints and rather distasteful morality. And it would be a mistake to think that I hold all of this as aesthetically beautiful. Farts stink. No getting around that. And I’m not pretending that on some intellectual, bohemian level, they don’t.

But I remember farters as farters, and I remember that life is just life. And even the ugly things are laughable. The most ugly are the most laughable. We are the imperfect, divine makers of our own, imperfect dominion. Meeting that – eye to eye – with appreciation and glory, and then with merriment and celebration, is the way to happiness. To avoid those imperfections is to pretend that we are less than we are.

Your every single choice, your every single happenstance, and your every single imperfection has made you into who, what and where you are. This moment – this very moment – of you reading these letters that I’ve typed would not have been were it not for every facet of you leading up to it. It couldn’t have been, by definition. That’s reality, and it’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s not even good. But don’t reject it. It is definite. It is definable.

It is perfectly you.

- Z

I Choose Laughter in the Wind.

One of the best strategies of a defence lawyer, the Hollywood television shows teach us, is to put forward all of your bad feet. Tell the court all of your case’s worst parts – that way you can defend it best. If instead you hide them, that gives the prosecutor a chance to bring them up. And if they do, they’ll paint it as much, much worse.

I suppose that’s where the expression “the best offence is a good defence” comes from.

~

I have always believed in the power of transparency.

Be careful with the word “belief” there. It’s a rational belief, like the belief that gravity will continue to act as we have observed in the past. Like the belief that, once the door is properly unlocked and the handle is turned, the door will open. Like the belief that the sun will rise tomorrow, regardless of whether we can see it. All of these things may not be absolutely provable, but we believe them because consistency tells us they’re a really, really safe bet. So safe that our mind tells us it’s not a bet at all. Instead, it calls these beliefs “facts.”

That’s how I believe in transparency: as a fact. Because, for me, it’s always worked that way.

The part of transparency that I believe in is not that living it is always easy. It’s pretty rare to find someone who likes to hear the truth all the time, myself included. But truth tellers and livers alike share one comfort that equivocators and liars do not: they don’t need to remember their fiction. The part of transparency that’s worth believing is that, once it’s done and the truth is out there, the rest of your world can relax. Don’t live with your world on your sleeve because it’s easy, do it because after it’s done, the world is so much better.

(Perhaps I’m babbling. Though I do find that the more I look at our broken little world, the harder points are to find. Do homonyms classify as irony?)

Today I had the rare opportunity to share a cup of tea with an out of town friend of mine. Usually we converse over text messages from several cities away, not in person from across a coffee table. Though we live in an age of instant communication and social networking, there are still some moments whose value seems to exist best at snail-mail speeds. Our friendship had become one of those things.

And so, though our communication was regular, our in person meetings were as rare as lovers’ hand written letters, and our time together just as cherished.

But, from the moment I saw her today, something began eating away at me. For all of my comfort and joy at having this rare and temporary opportunity, I was terrified that she would ask me about myself. It was no difficult thing to manoeuvre around – there was much to discuss. I was consistently quick to offer new subject matter before she could. But with every lull in the conversation, I grew worried that she might squeeze in such a casual, well-meaning question as to my everyday happenstance.

She was not the exception to the rule, actually. This conversation-dodging had become a day-to-day occurrence with most everyone I knew, honestly. First it was because I did not have a job. But now, probably worse, it’s because I’m working at Subway.

It may sound like a strange reason to be afraid of your own shadow, but let me explain. It’s my own worst nightmare. I did not grow up worrying that I’d always be alone, or that I might be stuck to a hospital bed. Those things worry me from time to time, to be sure. But that I am stuck working in a fast food joint, at 26, being well adjusted and well educated but with no proper job skills to speak of... I hate the way that makes me sound. I’ve always feared being that guy.

Well, that and random nosebleeds. Hate those fucking things.

And, as absolutely shallow as it sounds, I’m terrified of what others must think of me for it. It’s certainly not a go-getter position. Everything about it suggests that I don’t have the world on a string. I don’t want much, but when my life’s record plays, I do want others to hear that old jazz standard. That they might, instead, only hear the song of a man who has no career ambition for anything and is a university wash-up who works for practically minimum wage serving food to people with real jobs... well, I don’t know how to handle that.

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.” Sorry Dr. Seuss. You’re right, but that doesn’t seem to help. The people whose opinions really matter to me CAN wreck me if they do mind. I graduated alongside them. I was romantically attracted to them. I heard their parents tell me how many good things I was supposed to grow up and become. I shared beer and scoffed at the rest of the world with them. I’m invested in a certain kind of image with all of them, and whether it is intended or not, there’s pressure to keep it.

I met a man once, a couple of years ago. He was my age, working at the same customer service job as I was. But he was more handsome, had more money, attracted the girls I wanted, had entrance letters to prestigious law schools on his desk, and worked on the side for a few companies doing research that I did not understand. And he was witty.

All the usuals. I was (hopefully privately) envious. I wanted to build something like the mask he had on. Not a carbon copy, but a feeling that I could give off when I looked in a mirror, or when I thought others were looking at me. But that seems pretty impossible when your opener 2 years later is “I’m working at Subway.”

But something this friend and I spoke about over a cup of tea reminded me of my confidence. We were talking about single mothers, and how they didn’t deserve the stigma of pity that they are often given. We are all in charge of our own choices, and many single moms may at first glance receive pity when in fact they are beyond joyous for their child: their family. Their choices. They wouldn’t have it any other way.

I don’t want to get into a subject of parenting – but the logic expands universally, and is empowering. We have a choice – a choice to fuck, a choice to use birth control, a choice to keep the child, a choice to give it up for adoption. We have a choice – a choice to go to school or to work, to charge our credit card, a choice to party, a choice to go into debt. These are our choices, and we are not trapped by them.

At first, this sounds like an assignment of guilt – and it can be. But that’s not what caused it to bubble around in my head this afternoon. It’s how the subject of choice celebrates my (our) empowerment. We choose to be where we are.

I did not get “stuck” with Subway. I don’t have a great resume or $40/hr job skills, but I did choose to put other things before that – things that I felt were more important. I did choose to get a degree, and I did choose to study the things I wanted to rather than the things that would get me a job. And, as great practical planning, I also chose not to get into debt. As personal preference, I chose not to work towards a family, or pursuing a relationship for the sake of a relationship. I did not choose to be recommended for surgery, but I did choose to take extra time off afterwards, on my own dollar. I did choose to write the law school admissions tests, and then I chose not to study a career that I was qualified for but didn’t love. And now, I choose to motivate myself out of that post-firing, post-surgery lethargy by working a job that will pay my bills, have me on my feet, and that I already know and easily understand before moving on to other challenges: I choose Subway.

As an added bonus, some of the best people I’ve ever met have worked alongside me in that goofy green shirt.

I still couldn’t work up the courage to tell my friend to her face, but life is full of one-step-at-a-time choices. And every step that we realize is our own, is one that echoes with a sound of security and assurance. Let the people whose opinion I value hear that.

I’m working at Subway. Come on by – let me make you a sub. I won’t be there forever.

- Z

April Showers

In the December of 2008, I started a Facebook group dedicated to the pursuit of new goals, cherishing of old interests and the realization of the importance of every moment. Based on a few graveyard-shift conversations I had with a friend, I called the group the November Runners.

The last line of the introduction was: “How are you going to run today?”

~ ~ ~

It snowed briefly today. In April. The insanity of the moment was laughable. I opened my blinds, expecting grey skies, and was met instead with an intense burst of flakes whipping here and there, dancing madly. It inspired, in a rosebud month, a sudden coziness; an unexpected sense of quieted awe and wonder.

How is it that such moments can be so full of life? I am not sure. But they are precious.

I felt the day float by with meaningful and special ease. My chai latte tasted sweeter. As I walked down the street, the wildest of winds pushed against me and then with me, tossing me to and fro. My smile was more real. How could it not be, when one can feel their place in the world whistling through their fingertips. Mother Nature’s own hair.

It was a good day.

In truth, the feeling saps the rational right out of me. Now the evening, the placid calm of the storm’s aftermath transforms my mind into a picturesque mosaic. A beautiful portrait formed of a million pieces of a million emotions and experiences that aren’t quite clear but are certainly perfect. In this moment, the whole world stands still, exquisite in its form, naked and inexplicable.

I take to soft music and an evening of home brewed tea. The evening could have ended any number of ways, but this is enough. As I whittle it away with sweet nothings, I find myself disinterested in real work, and equally disinterested in real distraction. So I put myself to menial and meaningless tasks. I rearrange my desk clutter. Reorganize the fridge. Pick up a bit in the living room. That sort of thing.

I open my Facebook page, chat with a friend or two, and then move on to cleaning up my profile. Leaving groups that haven’t been updated in months, or that I just don’t find myself connected with anymore. Among them is a group I had started in December of ’08, named November Runners. A silly little thing, filled with very important, real dialogue about seizing the day and being true to who we are and want to be. It had a picture that I took myself while in France and had been untouched for well over a year. I take a moment to admire it:

Some say that Plato attempted to count how many meaningful moments we have in our life. He used geometry and math. One time-tested way to measure them is heartbeats. Some venerable clichés use breaths. But no matter how you count, and how eternally the moments last, one thing is certain: there is a number.

How we choose to spend these moments is one of the greatest pleasures of Free Will. Sometimes we choose to waste it; scared or lazy, or a patron of some other deadly sin. Other times we simply don't know how to make these moments, or worse, how to recognize them when they are given to us.

I am flooded with a sensation I do not know how to interpret. As I look down the group list of members – members who, like me, have not bothered to go through their groups and edit them – I grow both sad and happy. There, are names that I have not spoken with in some time. Others who I have had a mysterious falling out with. And others still who I have shared drinks with just the other weekend.

All are splashes of colour that add to my mosaic. My mosaic of today.

I find myself dwelling on the past. There was a lot of beauty there, all people who I felt connected with in some way. Intimately. Now, some of them will not even speak with me. And they are not the only ones. For this, the group is just a symbol. A stand in. I know other people, quite close to me, who have also had similar experiences with once-upon-a-time friends. My mind wanders – how many times have I uttered my favourite line, “nothing gold can stay”?

I am convinced that our lives naturally have ups and downs, and that, over the past months and into the coming months old chapters are closing and new chapters are going to begin. But unlike a world of black and white, there is no starting line. There never will be. In November, I began to recognize this with an illuminated perspective and vowed not to be caught at a standstill on the next Green Light.

And yet while I lament, I also do not sink to Eden’s grief. I may not have exactly ran, but I did go somewhere. Somewhere incredible.

In my limited experience, no matter what your race - landing that perfect career, learning a new trade, finding a bit more self confidence, rediscovering love, playing more music, overcoming little fears, eating more veggies, playing less video games, playing more video games, quitting drinking, being a more moral person, doing something you've always wanted to, or breathing underwater - early morning running is made easier with a healthy dose of teamwork. It's up to us to get out the door, it's true. But everyone uses an alarm clock once in a while.

I wasn’t prepared for the wake-up call I got. But no one ever is. Tragedy is properly that: unnecessary and blindsiding. The latter confuses, but it’s the former than haunts. I can’t begrudge it, the choices that people make, and I have no mind to. None at all, now. I am simply saddened. Saddened for all of the needlessness.

But through this strange sense of recollected sorrow, I cannot help but smile. Because what is out of our hands is out of our hands. And what is in my hands – and what ran through my fingers today – is breathtaking. It is wonderful. And it always will be. That is me, and who I am, and I know it.

Here we are.

This group is dedicated to bringing together people who want to get a running start.

I don’t know how we got here. But it’s going to be alright.

- Z

Made In His Image

Yes, I have a god complex.

Because I know things. Because I’m right.

I know that laughter is not a medicine, it’s a result. I know that the best things in life don’t fit into clichés. I know that the most potent things that make me, me, will never fit into an expression that is less than my entire life. I know that that we are most capable of doing what we believe in, and that there are only two things that we cannot fail at: Living and dying. I know that advice for existence is voluntary, and that all things in life are equal part meaningful and meaningless.

I know that the concept of an illusion is the only real illusion. I know that we can do the fantastic, and the impossible; that the concept of limit is only a safety line we drew in the sand.

I know, fundamentally, that if anyone has even an influence on what you can or cannot do, you should tell them to fuck off. I know that you should not hesitate to be who you want to be, and I know that there will be consequences for doing so. But there are consequences for not doing so too, and I know they are much, much worse. I know it’s the interest payments that hurt you more than the debt.

I know you are an incredible person, beyond measure.

Ask me again, and I will tell you again.

I also know that if you’re not reading this with some inspirational music in the background, you’re not reading it right.

Men may think about sex more than women, but I know that everyone thinks about pleasure. I know that pleasure itself is harmless and holy. Because the best love letter I ever wrote was to a woman that I’d never dated. The best intercourse I’ve ever had was with a woman I’ve never fucked. And the best fuck I’ve ever had was with a woman I haven’t seen yet.

I know that real love can’t hurt me, no matter its form. And I know that the best love doesn’t come with a wedding day.

The wise say you can’t eat love. The wiser know that love doesn’t need to eat. I know I’m not wise, but I do know that.

I know that you can use evil for good, and good for evil. And I know that you never have to. I know, deep within the fibre of my being that being moral doesn’t mean being square, or boring, or staying away from taboo topics. Being honest and being earnest does not qualify one for being condemned, no matter what the subject. It just qualifies them for possibly being wrong. Being moral means being alive while you are living. Any other provisions are merely riding ethical coattails.

I know we’re all wrong at some point. I’m certain when I am most wrong I think I am right. I never let that get in the way.

Sometimes, it just feels good to whoop a guy at their favourite game. I know that there doesn't need to be anything more to it than that.

I know that alcohol and hot-cocoa can serve the same purpose. Whoever first put them both together was the first interdisciplinary student in happiness and understanding. And while we compose our own cocktails, we ought to remember that everything ferments in the same way, even if not in the same place or with the same flavour. I know that every drink can be the best we’ve ever had.

I know that sometimes a pursuit of truth takes us outside of the classroom and the protester’s rally, and into the arms of another under a warm blanket. And I know that won’t happen on its own. We have to will it, as well as wanting it.

I know that somewhere, deep in my heart, I feel the need to be understood. And I know the whole world could.

And when I understand myself, I know that I need to dance. And sing.

And laugh.

Then I know I’m a god.

- Z

Windows, Mirrors, and Doors

There is an old saying, that we are judged by the company we keep. If true, I tell you, I must be a saint.

For my company is nothing short of divine.

* * *

My birthday has always been important to me. I don’t always say it – in fact, between you and me, until now I’ve never really said it – but it is. Has been and will be. Every year, when it comes around, I see it a month ahead of time. I’ll never “forget it” like I’ve seen some people forget theirs, and I’m embarrassed to say I do notice when others do forget mine. (Though, I’d like to think my vanity is rather in check on those occasions). I know that it’s “just a day” and I know that at the end of it, another one will appear. I know how important it is that we put emphasis on our lives rather than on a calendar. But you know what? Even knowing all that, I’ve never been able to shake the importance of March 28th.

I suppose, were I to sit and wonder why, I’d say that it’s important because it gives me a chance to be legitimately selfish. Not materially selfish (though, in that I’ve always been lucky), but reflectively selfish. Easter is about Hershey’s Eggies, Christmas is about giving and expressing love, and birthdays are a time for us to hold up metaphorical mirrors. Mirrors and windows.

“When God closes a door, he opens a window.”

I don’t believe in God, of course. And if he did exist, I certainly wouldn’t blame him for my recent struggles or my reasons to celebrate. But if we’re going to lean on the expression, as I’m want to do, I have to say that for all the doors I’ve had slammed on my face in the past year, I’ve been absolutely blown away by the number of people who keep an open window in my life’s house.

Part One – Windows

It is both a common courtesy and curiosity to ask what one does for their birthday. “Do you have any plans?” “ What did you get up to?” The expectation is that on this day of days, you should be indulging. If you’re a drinker, you should have a can of your favourite beer open before noon. If you’re a lounger, there had better be a massage on the list. Books or booze, birthday blow-jobs or solo hikes. As long as you get to celebrate.

With that pre-disposition I know it must sound odd that prior to my evening outings, I spent my birthday baby-sitting. That sounds like work, and to any true bachelor (as my friend recounts), detestable work. But it’s not.

See, until March 28th, I’d never baby-sat before. I’d helped out. I’d been around others who were. I’d been shown the ropes. But I’d never done it on my own. My two married friends of very long standing had purchased a house recently and were moving in. And, on my birthday, some of their moving plans got re-arranged and they would be much easier to resolve if they had had a baby-sitter. So they asked me.

I can’t think of a better birthday gift. My two friends entrusted me with the life of their 8 month old son. They trusted me to protect and provide for him, look after him and look over him. For about 7 daytime hours, I was given the privilege of interacting with this child – this new life, and this continuation of my two friends – on my own. Just him and me, in their new house. In his new house. Being a welcome and invited part of that has value beyond measure.

He couldn’t help but have my entire focus and attention. His wide-as-the-world grin has more beauty than the view from the top of Notre Dame and his curious eyes are more awe-inspiring than its stained glass insides. I know, because I’ve seen both.

I can read a book any day.

Part Two – Mirrors

The word I kept thinking of that evening was “blessed.” I hardly ever organize a party, let alone for myself. But I wanted celebrate with everyone this time around, and that meant celebrating everyone that made me, me. I wanted to celebrate all of the wonderful experiences I’ve been able to have and expose everyone to all of the other amazing people I know. So, I tossed out a few invites for the evening at my favourite pacho-pub. No one was to feel pressured: pressured to come, pressured to stay, pressured to spend money, pressured to drink, pressured to be anyone but themselves.

I was absolutely blown away by the response. As I took a moment to digest a shot of Butterscotch Ripple and Crown, I looked over at the tables filled with my friends, acquaintances, and family. I was giddy. School girl giddy.

There, in the reflection of my life, I recognized what I had always known: that I have received the company of some of the most brilliant, wonderful, talented, moral, honest, passionate, well-meaning, devout, and capable people that there ever was. This sounds like empty flattery – just big words. But spending time with these people, listening to their stories, being influenced by their struggles, seeing their trials and experiencing their passion... reminds me that those big words aren’t nearly big enough.

And they all wanted to come out to my birthday.

My dad once said that there is a difference between knowing it’s raining, and getting wet. Well, all my life I’ve watched the rain come down around me – but that night, I was soaked.

Part Three – Doors

One of my favourite characteristics of Hell has always been that its doors are locked from the inside. That God doesn’t put us in Hell, he wants us to be out of there: free and happy. But only we can open those doors, because we’re the ones that lock it.

You don’t need to be religious to appreciate that sentiment. You just have to believe in free will.

I don’t always understand why doors close, but I think we lock them for lots of different reasons. To protect ourselves. To bar entry from all the scary things out there in the world. To stop bad people from coming into our lives, or bad thoughts from entering our minds. There are a lot of bad people and countless bad thoughts and it can all be very, very scary. I certainly have no problem understanding why someone would want to keep a door closed. We might even be convinced that doors closing are blessings.

I don’t know. Maybe they are.

But I don’t think so. If I, myself, locked the doors that others had shut on me, where would I be? What would I have done? Only made myself a prisoner: never to experience what I see out the window, and always hating what I see in mirrors.

If there is a time and a place to close and lock a door, I’ll relent. But my 26th birthday taught me that I should always keep the keys handy.

And otherwise, it's an open house.

* * *

Epilogue

Thank you.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio..."

While sitting on a couch I hadn’t sat in before, a monologue on a TV show that I don’t normally watch, quoting a line from literature that I’d never read, told me: we are a single life weaving together with all others, a tapestry.

Do you believe in destiny?

I don’t believe that the keys to our existence are found in the scientific belief of inevitable cause and effect. I also don’t think that there is an eternal, all powerful being that is externally guiding us through hula-hoops of purpose. Both of these explain – and explain wonderfully – our existence. But neither endows me with the sense of trust that the word “destiny” ought to.

This sense of trust that I do, in fact, have.

In a book I did read the protagonist had a choice. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, so to speak. And the traveller, on about page 56, he made a decision. That decision led to his meeting someone, which led to another decision, which led to the end of the book. When I closed the book, and put it on the shelf, the protagonist had finished his life. As far as I knew, he had lived, and he had made choices, and then he had died. It was beautiful.

It is true that he lived, purely because the author had created him. If there had never been an all powerful being externally guiding him through the hula-hoops of chapter headings, he would have never had the opportunity to make a decision. Prior to the work of this diligent creator, he existed only as a dream.

It is true that had I never finished the book, he would never have died. As the reader, I witnessed the inevitable cause and effect that his life had been victim to. As I turned every page, I saw that his life was written in stone, and could not have been any other way. For truly, when have you ever known a book to change its words?

But why did my young traveller, on about page 56, take the road less travelled? Was his choice free? Did he really make it? Was it ultimately meaningful? If no one ever read the book, would it have happened? Did it really happen at all, since I found the account in the Fiction section of the bookstore?

I don’t know. And though I want to get into all of my answers for the subsequent questions (yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes), none of them really matter. No answer, no matter how profound, pinpoints exactly why I enjoy an idea of destiny. It’s not about being trapped against my will, or glorifying my will. It’s about recognizing that I am a player in a story.

Maybe no one will read it. Maybe no one’s really writing it. Maybe I have a choice, or maybe I just think I do. Maybe I take the road less traveled, or maybe I take the road that everyone else took. But I am in a book. Its chapters are years long, and it has numerous plots and sub-plots. Sometimes I’m a main character, sometimes I’m that quirky guy on the side, and sometimes my role is barely noticed at all.

It’s the biggest book that there ever was, and we’re in it. That’s destiny.

- Z

Dawn and Twilight. Part 2.

Part 2 - Twilight.

(1)

After she laughs and we both take a swig of beer, her hand lands easily on my upper thigh. It's a practiced motion, done deftly and without hesitation. I immediately know it to be too perfect – the contact without inhibition, but also without reaction, is a dead giveaway. It's the first step into a world of evening business here in the Land of Smiles.

Of course, “giveaway” suggests that it's something that is kept hidden. That would be, in another word, incorrect. It's flouted, touted, and endlessly advertised. Not just by the girls howling after any white walker's-by, but by the many old retired men who enjoy a very cheap fuck. And here, the advice of my father's friend does ring true for these young female employees: They never fall in love with their business.

But you might not know it. Sex feeds a fish for a day, but appearing to fall in love feeds for a lifetime. That is the story of Thailand – a single white man visits, and returns married. Old men walk with women half their age and have children that could be their grand-kids, or even great-grand-kids. And they're all well fed.

The bar girls up the ante. The bars are more explicit, they need not dress up their sale of sin. After dark, there is no cultural cover to abide by. Although they sell sex figuratively and literally, they do not look like your hookers on the streets of Vancouver or New York. Their every action is sexual, but their pose, posture and prose do a fantastic job of diverting your attention away from the fact that they've “seen more pricks than a pincushion.” And in a world where our currency makes anyone with white skin rich, there are plenty of pricks.

The bar is lined with several white men well over 35. Horn-dogs, self-made “locals”, and the odd undesirable here on vacation. I can feel their “casual” gaze on me as I am attended to by the young woman. There are plenty of other targets for her, but I am obviously the most desirable. The youngest man there, I am a welcome change of pace for the girls. Probably more fun. Also my age makes me far more likely to have a cultural naiveté and closer to my sexual prime; I'm a safer financial bet for whoever wins me over.

But her hand on my thigh has the opposite effect intended. In this country, I can have sex very easily and very cheaply. There is no raw, passionate, hunt here - merely shooting fish in the barrel of your choice. Unfortunately for this business-woman, it’s the chase that I’m willing to pay for. Prey that rolls onto its back sells nothing that will sate me. The run is what builds the hunger.

She swings her leg over mine, she tries her best to convince me across our language barrier that she's genuinely interested – it's not just business. But there is no illusion and no charged give and take of sexual tension. I know my good qualities, and my bad ones, and she has touched on neither. Nothing lay hidden between the lines. The continued patronage of the older men across the way has guaranteed that she’ll never understand how important it is.

Indeed, the truth is, it isn’t really important to her. I’m a pretty small minority in her trade.

~

(2)

They call him Crazy Joe.

He seems like the stereotype of a guy that did way too many drugs and now, though clean, his brain is a little fried. An old white guy, he lives out of his bar, and has purple John Lennon glasses, greasy black hair, and shouts across the street any time he feels like it. His bar rarely has anyone in it. Joe doesn't have time or interest in employing bar-girls. The bar beside him has enough for the both of them, and he’s vocal about his distaste for them. That bar next door is his wife’s. Or ex-wife's. Their marital status is unclear.

What is clear is his attitude – he's independent, off the wall, and doesn't give a damn. Crazy Joe claims to have disproved the Big Bang theory during his PhD thesis in quantum algebra. He believes that people shouldn’t bother going to hospitals, because if you don’t go, then you can’t find out you’re sick. If you sit and have a drink, he’ll tell you all about how evolution is simply not possible while he hangs up his clock with a mirrored face. He’ll trade tidbits about getting rich in stocks while he finds you some good 40’s and 50’s music. He’ll certainly invite you to get your own beer in the back while he goes to do his own laundry. You’ll settle the tab, or you won’t. Whatever. Does it look like he cares?

He doesn’t. This is Thailand. This is the rest of his life. His advice? Make a big chunk of money while you’re young – and retire here when you’re 35.

That last one’s not so crazy.

~

(3)

The night bazaar teems with unphotographical moments. There are no statues here, no cultural icons to be noted on a map, or worth anything more than a paragraph in a Lonely Planet. But, in fact, here is everything.

Every night the whole world is put up and taken down. The chairs from rows and rows of tables are unfolded, and the stalls of food open up shortly before sundown. Every kind of food, western or otherwise, can be found and deep-fat-fried on the spot. There is Pepsi and Coke and no end to the beer. In the foreground entertainment begins and in the background an endless scaffolding of material goods for sale materializes.

The people mix intermittently. The ugly and the pretty, the old white men of means and the young women willing to follow them. The groups of locals in for an evening's beers. The proud and the quiet. And for all, the evening air is a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the day. Everyone smiles here. Everyone, at least for the night, is happy.

I am reminded of a short story I read once. It was about old photographs, and love. Every line was at pains to describe the thousand words that each photo held. Each word was inspired by some meaty meaning or bubbly memory. I remember reading it, yearning to see those photographs; to know life that meant so much.

As the sunset disappears behind the sight of the buildings, and the whole sky turns a subdued pink, those photographs come alive in my mind. Not everything can be captured in a picture, or in a word.

~

(4)

After the last customer is taken care of around midnight, the workers break out their own bottles. This side of the island is more tame than the north side. People go home around 11:30pm, when the tide starts coming in. As the musicians pack up their stuff and the three or four workers start bringing in the tables and chairs, glasses of rum and coke start getting passed among them. Having worked since 9am, now is finally their turn to party. By the time everything is brought in and taken care of, laughter abounds and a quarter of the tall bottle is done.

It will only take another hour to finish the other 3 quarters.

These are young people, and some things about young people are universal. The desire to cut loose and have fun is not a cultural construct. It’s a primal excitement. Another long day of 9am-midnight looming on the horizon is powerless to dissuade them. Chok Dee!

When the bottle is done, it’s time to party. Jump on the motorcycles and head to the north side. There, the clubs are still going. The music is loud, the shots are cheap, and anyone who is not sleeping is there. The dance floor is teaming with drunken white partiers, Thai island workers done for the day and lady-boys. The music is in English and everyone knows the words. Sweat drips from the bodies of laughing dancers. And when it is too much, they disrobe and head to the waves merely steps away.

Every night, the club on the beach closes at 4 with a full crowd. Every morning, the workers are awake, on time, and diligently at their posts. They catch a nap where they can, because tonight they may want to go again.

~

(5)

The best part of the island is the constant sound of the water. Nothing sounds quite like the marriage of ice in a glass and waves on the beach. I love it in the morning and in the constant heat of the afternoon sun. But I especially like it in the evening, when you can’t quite see them coming.

I don’t take any pictures of the beach like every other tourist. I need never worry about forgetting the feeling of cool water on my feet and the warm breeze against my skin. Walking along the edge of the water in the dark of night, hearing the sound of a wave crashing right before your naked feet are again refreshed; there is an indescribable peace about the experience. And it has nothing to do with a view. That’s why it can’t be captured in a photograph. That peace can’t be captured, or transported.

That is what I come to the beach for. That is what the whole journey is worth.

Everything else is a bonus.

~

(6)

It’s raining as my plane touches down in Vancouver.

Everyone stands up as soon as the plane stops. Overhead compartments must be opened. Bags must be arranged and gathered. Many are eager to get off the plane that has held them captive for over 10 hours. Others, more proactively, want to be the first in the line-up for passport checks and customs declarations; a full B747-300 makes for very long waits inside Vancouver’s terminal.

I am in a window seat. There is no need for me to rise with the rest of the crowd. Even if I had the same inclination, there is no room left in the isle for me. Outside, it is evening. It is surprising how similar every airport looks. A raindrop here splashes on the tarmac puddles and against the glass exactly the same way that it does in Taiwan. Exactly the same way it does in Thailand, and in England.

I know, because I’ve looked.

In a moment, I will lift the bag from underneath my seat, stand, and file out of the plane and into the airport. I will join a long line, smile to the custom’s officer while handing my passport over and answering polite questions about my trip. Then I will walk past the baggage claim, carrying my only backpack, and continue out into the airport proper. There I will meet my friend of over 10 years who has agreed to pick me up. In a moment, I will be home.

My father commented that when he went away on trips, he used to feel as if where he was going and where he was coming from were two totally different worlds. His whole concern and thought process was on the world he was in. Making sure everything was set and taken care of. Eventually, the time would come for him to step foot on a plane, or a boat, or into a car. As soon as he did, that world disappeared – it became a dream: real but intangible. Taking its place was the world of his destination. And when he returned, the same process would happen the other way around.

On this plane, in this moment, I am in a strange limbo. All reality and no substance. I am neither what I left behind or what lay ahead. But both of them have unmistakably brought me to where I am. I am that I am.

The rain is the same.