Teeth bared, growling, I feel as though I have something to prove. Amidst a community of movers and shakers, I am merely trembling.
It seems these days that everyone is trying to change the world. I have never thought myself capable of that. Why I am not trying: despair, laziness. (Are they perhaps the same thing?)
How can I say to the world: My existence is worth your notice. I have ideas and thoughts too, even if they are on a smaller scale than yours. My experience is real. I am real. I may not be trying to save the world, but I am watching it like you are. You are watching the big things. I am watching the small things.
27 June 2008
01 June 2008
Why I Want to Post but Never Do
It is a problem of translation. I have lost the ability (if I ever had it in the first place) to translate my thoughts into words. To translate my thoughts into thoughts. To transform a vague, instinctual sense of importance into quantifiable, measurable thought-units. To break down the whirling into elements that my rational mind can understand. To untangle the matted mental hairball into recognizable strings of thought.
I don't have time and I can't be bothered. In the next few days, before I can write or think or tackle the tangle in my mind, I must:
packboxesfactchecksaygoodbyesweepcleanhavemeetingswrapthingsup
But I would rather sit alone and think. Too many thoughts are waiting to form. I want to let them.
I don't have time and I can't be bothered. In the next few days, before I can write or think or tackle the tangle in my mind, I must:
packboxesfactchecksaygoodbyesweepcleanhavemeetingswrapthingsup
But I would rather sit alone and think. Too many thoughts are waiting to form. I want to let them.
06 May 2008
16 April 2008
Mixed Metaphors
My house is full of stinging things. Wasps and hornets, poison ivy, ants wherever I turn. Through dinner I rub myself with nettles till my skin turns raw and red. I eat spiders for lunch and they bite me on the way down. I scratch and itch and shudder and twitch, but still with zeal I expose myself to irritants.
I have been trying to remove stressors from my life. I have been lopping them off like so many gangrenous limbs. But is it too late? The poison has got to my blood and it swirls around in my body. How did a stubbed toe turn into this?
One metaphor ran out of steam so I switched to another. The beautiful thing about blogging is that I can write poorly if I damn well want to.
I have been trying to remove stressors from my life. I have been lopping them off like so many gangrenous limbs. But is it too late? The poison has got to my blood and it swirls around in my body. How did a stubbed toe turn into this?
One metaphor ran out of steam so I switched to another. The beautiful thing about blogging is that I can write poorly if I damn well want to.
04 April 2008
April Is the Cruellest Month
Daytimes are all right once you're up and moving. There is the delight in daily things, in things you learn and foods you eat and people you see. Every few minutes brings a tiny surge of excitement that propels you forward, so that you jerk onwards through the day in spurts and sprints that flag only when you run out of novelties. Then you have nothing left to react to, nothing external that'll squat in the rooms of your mind. Instead your insidious thoughts ooze up through the floorboards and under the door.
This is evening. The energy has not yet run out but the happiness has. The fresh flow of delight is curdled by a growing awareness of your own faults. There is the agitation, the racing thoughts, the struggle to get through the evening intact. The daily fight of your body versus your mind. Sometimes your mind wins. Your body's best tactic is to go to sleep.
You wake to the hollow inertia of despair. You wake early because you slept early, having decided that sleep was less harmful than anything else you might do. You lie in bed in the morning for maybe one hour, maybe three. Sometimes you don't get up at all.
You never do anything much because you are never calm enough for thinking. Even your daytime excitement is a crazed sort of agitation that you can barely control. You wonder, in those despairing morning hours, whether there's anything you can do to fix this. You think not. How can you eliminate turmoil when everything in the world is a trigger?
This is evening. The energy has not yet run out but the happiness has. The fresh flow of delight is curdled by a growing awareness of your own faults. There is the agitation, the racing thoughts, the struggle to get through the evening intact. The daily fight of your body versus your mind. Sometimes your mind wins. Your body's best tactic is to go to sleep.
You wake to the hollow inertia of despair. You wake early because you slept early, having decided that sleep was less harmful than anything else you might do. You lie in bed in the morning for maybe one hour, maybe three. Sometimes you don't get up at all.
You never do anything much because you are never calm enough for thinking. Even your daytime excitement is a crazed sort of agitation that you can barely control. You wonder, in those despairing morning hours, whether there's anything you can do to fix this. You think not. How can you eliminate turmoil when everything in the world is a trigger?
08 March 2008
Rejection?
You walk into the room sporting a burgundy five-buttoned vest over a crisp white shirt. You balance your serving tray in one hand and approach the nearest group of dazzling jet-setters. Offering it to them, you say, "Would you care for some pussy?"
"Oh, you must try the cunt, dear, it's delightful!" exclaims a fat and bejewelled one to her balding husband.
"Darling, I couldn't possibly. I had three pieces of it earlier and I'm positively stuffed."
The greasy man to his right says, "They look just scrumptious." You wait patiently while he hesitates over the fresh, quivering vulvae, his bulbous fingers poised in the air. You get your hopes up. Finally: "You know, I really shouldn't. These days I'm watching my weight."
Onto the next bunch you go, holding up the offering each time. It is not a very popular dish. Every once in a while, someone will say, "All right, I'll give it a try, if you insist," and half-heartedly select a juicy morsel. But most of the time they do not. It is a disheartening task, and the routine, the repetition, the predictability becomes tedious.
You begin to wonder if you are catering to the wrong crowd or if the dish itself is merely unappealing. Could you do something differently next time? Add a little salt or some lemon zest? Rosemary, perhaps?
"Oh, you must try the cunt, dear, it's delightful!" exclaims a fat and bejewelled one to her balding husband.
"Darling, I couldn't possibly. I had three pieces of it earlier and I'm positively stuffed."
The greasy man to his right says, "They look just scrumptious." You wait patiently while he hesitates over the fresh, quivering vulvae, his bulbous fingers poised in the air. You get your hopes up. Finally: "You know, I really shouldn't. These days I'm watching my weight."
Onto the next bunch you go, holding up the offering each time. It is not a very popular dish. Every once in a while, someone will say, "All right, I'll give it a try, if you insist," and half-heartedly select a juicy morsel. But most of the time they do not. It is a disheartening task, and the routine, the repetition, the predictability becomes tedious.
You begin to wonder if you are catering to the wrong crowd or if the dish itself is merely unappealing. Could you do something differently next time? Add a little salt or some lemon zest? Rosemary, perhaps?
13 December 2007
On Writing
I like writing and I need to do it more often. I like this blog. When I write here I am relaxed: I have no real purpose in writing, no sense of expository or persuasive urgency. I have almost no readers, so I don't have anyone to entertain. There's no need to get out the fancy silverware and tell charming anecdotes and pretend to know something of world politics and remember whose drinks should have ice. When no one is watching, I don't need to have a formal topic. I don't need to have a point of view.
This is how I write: my mind drools and dribbles all day long, and sometimes I fold paper origamily into the shape of a bucket so that it will catch my viscous strands of brain-spit. When the page is filled, I dump its contents here. The process is pleasurable. I find I enjoy writing when it isn't about anything.
This is how I write: my mind drools and dribbles all day long, and sometimes I fold paper origamily into the shape of a bucket so that it will catch my viscous strands of brain-spit. When the page is filled, I dump its contents here. The process is pleasurable. I find I enjoy writing when it isn't about anything.
13 November 2007
A Self-Indulgent Foray into Gimmicky Anthropomorphism
When you put paperclips in a container together, they shack up in long polyamorous chains, so that when you pull out one the rest hold onto it and won't let go, stubbornly entangled, as if by clinging to each other they can present a unified front against the indignity of being reduced to their mere functional raison d'être, that is, the indignity of being used to clip paper. It is usually effective. Either because I can't be bothered to separate them or because I don't have the heart to destroy their beautiful albeit untraditional strings of love, I riffle through the container in search of an unattached clip. It feels better, somehow, to pick off the ones that are already miserable and alone.
12 November 2007
With Respect to Office Life
Procedure:
1. There is a file with respect to every tenant. When I write a letter to a tenant, I should print out two copies, send one to the tenant, and put the second in the tenant's file.
2. When I receive an email with respect to a tenant, I should print that email out, and put that email in the tenant's file.
3. When I need to send an invoice to a tenant, I should print out that invoice, and gather all documents with respect to the invoice and paperclip them together. Then I should photocopy that invoice twice and the documents once. I should staple the original documents and original invoice together, hole-punch them, and place them in a binder. Then I should staple together one of the photocopied invoices and the photocopied documents. I should fold that in three, and place it in an envelope. I should also place the second copy of the invoice in said envelope.
4. When I receive a request with respect to a new access card, I should print it out (if it came in by email). I should create an access card acknowledgement form and print out three copies. I should staple one of those copies to the original request. I should give the original request, stapled to the acknowledgement form, to security. I should bring the other two acknowledgement forms, along with the new access card, to the tenant. The tenant should sign one acknowledgement form and return it to me. Meanwhile, security will process the request, sign off on it, and return it to me. I should then remove the staple on the original request, throw out the blank acknowledgement form, and staple the signed one to the original request. Then I should file it.
My day is exactly as boring as this post. The only difference is that my job wastes more trees.
1. There is a file with respect to every tenant. When I write a letter to a tenant, I should print out two copies, send one to the tenant, and put the second in the tenant's file.
2. When I receive an email with respect to a tenant, I should print that email out, and put that email in the tenant's file.
3. When I need to send an invoice to a tenant, I should print out that invoice, and gather all documents with respect to the invoice and paperclip them together. Then I should photocopy that invoice twice and the documents once. I should staple the original documents and original invoice together, hole-punch them, and place them in a binder. Then I should staple together one of the photocopied invoices and the photocopied documents. I should fold that in three, and place it in an envelope. I should also place the second copy of the invoice in said envelope.
4. When I receive a request with respect to a new access card, I should print it out (if it came in by email). I should create an access card acknowledgement form and print out three copies. I should staple one of those copies to the original request. I should give the original request, stapled to the acknowledgement form, to security. I should bring the other two acknowledgement forms, along with the new access card, to the tenant. The tenant should sign one acknowledgement form and return it to me. Meanwhile, security will process the request, sign off on it, and return it to me. I should then remove the staple on the original request, throw out the blank acknowledgement form, and staple the signed one to the original request. Then I should file it.
My day is exactly as boring as this post. The only difference is that my job wastes more trees.
24 October 2007
An Incident Throughout the Duration of Which I Was Rendered Speechless
It is Saturday, 5:30. I am at Union Station, with cello, stand, bag of music. My brother is there too. In fifteen minutes we need to be at Harbourfront for a gig.
It is hard to negotiate the subway with a cello, and I stop to adjust my grip. Out of nowhere appears a woman. She is overweight, haggard, hard to put an age on her because somehow you know she looks prematurely old. A First Nations woman. She is disoriented, confused.
"Which train to Sick Kids' Hospital?" she asks me.
"Uhh..." I haven't been there since I was young enough to be driven. "Erik, where is it again? Yonge line or University?"
"University. The station just south of Museum. What's it called again? Or you can get off at St. Patrick and go north."
I gesture towards the University line, then stop, frozen. The raw desperation on her face. The need to tell someone.
"My baby broke his neck," she says. "Just one year old. Just a year. Had his birthday last month."
Beams of light appear and lengthen in the subway tunnel.
"He's so young. Why does something like this happen to someone so young?" Her voice, her eyes are pleading.
I manage to stutter out a hollow "I'm so sorry." The subway is here, and she blinks and stumbles towards it. She needs something, someone. I want to go with her to the hospital, but I can't bail on my gig. She gets on, the doors close.
Erik and I walk away. For a long time we say nothing. What is there to say?
It is hard to negotiate the subway with a cello, and I stop to adjust my grip. Out of nowhere appears a woman. She is overweight, haggard, hard to put an age on her because somehow you know she looks prematurely old. A First Nations woman. She is disoriented, confused.
"Which train to Sick Kids' Hospital?" she asks me.
"Uhh..." I haven't been there since I was young enough to be driven. "Erik, where is it again? Yonge line or University?"
"University. The station just south of Museum. What's it called again? Or you can get off at St. Patrick and go north."
I gesture towards the University line, then stop, frozen. The raw desperation on her face. The need to tell someone.
"My baby broke his neck," she says. "Just one year old. Just a year. Had his birthday last month."
Beams of light appear and lengthen in the subway tunnel.
"He's so young. Why does something like this happen to someone so young?" Her voice, her eyes are pleading.
I manage to stutter out a hollow "I'm so sorry." The subway is here, and she blinks and stumbles towards it. She needs something, someone. I want to go with her to the hospital, but I can't bail on my gig. She gets on, the doors close.
Erik and I walk away. For a long time we say nothing. What is there to say?
16 August 2007
I have evah I
I am back after a long hiatus. I am squeezing words out of my brain like orange juice from a lemon—with no hope of achieving the desired result. But nonetheless I force myself to type one letter after another. This week I was alarmed to discover, having for some months now not bothered to put my thoughts into words, that I don't know how to do it anymore. My writing muscle has atrophied. This won't do at all.
My one or two loyal fans can expect from this point onwards to be dazzled with scintillating prose on a weekly basis. I commit myself to one post minimum per week. If I do not deliver, may I be pilloried in the court of private opinion.
My one or two loyal fans can expect from this point onwards to be dazzled with scintillating prose on a weekly basis. I commit myself to one post minimum per week. If I do not deliver, may I be pilloried in the court of private opinion.
20 May 2007
The Great White Whale
I have acquaintances and friends enough. There are plenty of people who like me, who think I am interesting, worth knowing. Why is it, then, that I am so obsessed with the few who don't?
Consider Lisa (not her real name). I don't know her very well, and I don't like her that much. Some part of me respects her forthrightness, but most of me thinks she is despicable. She dismisses people without even giving them a proper chance—and there are few things I find more reprehensible than that.
Her lifestyle is one I could never maintain. I couldn't live with the demands of being her friend—the excitement, the drama, the parties. I am not a party girl, and I never will be. I don't find that kind of life fun. I prefer a crossword puzzle to a wild party any day.
I have had no evidence that she is anything but trite and self-absorbed. She isn't stupid—she has the audacity not to be stupid!—but she certainly is shallow. I wouldn't want to be her in a million years. I don't consider myself better than she is; I just prefer the life I lead to hers.
But some part of me craves her approval. I would give anything to have her like me—and if she did, I'd convince myself that I'd been wrong about her before. I'd find some reason to like her. I'd rationalize; I'd make excuses. I'd find a redeeming quality somewhere.
Why do I care? Because she looks down on me. Because she considers me weird, beneath notice, pathetic. A loser. Because if I can change her mind about me, maybe I can finally change my own.
I am not thirteen anymore. I've grown up and I know better. So why do I still feel like this? Why do old habits die hard?
Consider Lisa (not her real name). I don't know her very well, and I don't like her that much. Some part of me respects her forthrightness, but most of me thinks she is despicable. She dismisses people without even giving them a proper chance—and there are few things I find more reprehensible than that.
Her lifestyle is one I could never maintain. I couldn't live with the demands of being her friend—the excitement, the drama, the parties. I am not a party girl, and I never will be. I don't find that kind of life fun. I prefer a crossword puzzle to a wild party any day.
I have had no evidence that she is anything but trite and self-absorbed. She isn't stupid—she has the audacity not to be stupid!—but she certainly is shallow. I wouldn't want to be her in a million years. I don't consider myself better than she is; I just prefer the life I lead to hers.
But some part of me craves her approval. I would give anything to have her like me—and if she did, I'd convince myself that I'd been wrong about her before. I'd find some reason to like her. I'd rationalize; I'd make excuses. I'd find a redeeming quality somewhere.
Why do I care? Because she looks down on me. Because she considers me weird, beneath notice, pathetic. A loser. Because if I can change her mind about me, maybe I can finally change my own.
I am not thirteen anymore. I've grown up and I know better. So why do I still feel like this? Why do old habits die hard?
16 April 2007
Stagnation
Every day I tell myself that I ought to write something—whether here or on a scrap of paper somewhere. Why can't I?
Perhaps I am gradually losing my ability to think and feel. I have become somehow stunted, emotionally and cognitively.
I need a clever method of personal renewal. I need an idea. I need something to do.
Perhaps I am gradually losing my ability to think and feel. I have become somehow stunted, emotionally and cognitively.
I need a clever method of personal renewal. I need an idea. I need something to do.
25 February 2007
Love and Poetry
To celebrate Erik's recent facebook engagement to a singer named Sara, we co-wrote a love poem for him to post on her facebook wall. Here it is in all its glory:
My little love, my darling Sara
Your voice it soothes like aloe vera
You'll make your mark upon our era
Much like Schumann, comma, Clara
My life was bleak and I was dour
Until I met my lovely flower
We will be wed — I await the hour
(I promise first to take a shower)
With this post I make a toast:
It is you I love the most
24 February 2007
Same Old, Same Old
I hate it. I hate that I am obsessed. I hate that I check the same facebook profile over and over again, even though I know it won't have changed. I hate that I compulsively google a name so common that I'm sure to find nothing interesting at all. I hate that I sit here late at night every night, trying to come up with some goddamn excuse to send an email but finding none--because what would anyone so far away have to talk about with me? How could I possibly send a casual and inconspicuous email to someone I no longer ever see?
I hate that I am pathetic and dependent. I hate that I am a cliche. I hate that everyone else feels like this all the time. I hate that I am whining on my goddamn blog about something so petty.
I hate that I am a coward. I hate that I am stuck here. I hate that there's nothing I can do. I hate that I spend my life indulging in a whole lot of wishful thinking.
I hate that this entry is not witty, clever, or interesting, but lame and really boring. I hate that, in the wee hours of the morning, I am lame and really boring.
I hate that I am pathetic and dependent. I hate that I am a cliche. I hate that everyone else feels like this all the time. I hate that I am whining on my goddamn blog about something so petty.
I hate that I am a coward. I hate that I am stuck here. I hate that there's nothing I can do. I hate that I spend my life indulging in a whole lot of wishful thinking.
I hate that this entry is not witty, clever, or interesting, but lame and really boring. I hate that, in the wee hours of the morning, I am lame and really boring.
11 February 2007
A Subway Love Story
Brought to you by the Toronto Transit Commission and long, boring commutes thereon.
Once upon a time, a lonely Yonge-Sheppard by the name of Lawrence was walking home when he caught a glimpse of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was riding along in a carriage, haughtily looking out on the world like a Queen, when suddenly she glanced down at him. They were from two Dufferin worlds, but nonetheless it was love at first sight. In that one glance, they penetrated each others' souls, and they knew they had to be together.
They began to see each other. Her name was Jane, he discovered, and she lived in a grand old manor out past the Old Mill. He was in love. He sent her one long red Rosedale-y.
Lawrence wanted to marry her, but her Warden disapproved of such a Union. He thought Lawrence was not nearly Osgoode a match as she could make--he'd never even been to College! The Warden forbade her ever to see him again.
So Lawrence sent Jane a letter via her conniving maid, Christie, who tucked the piece of Pape-r into Jane's basket of clean laundry and thus smuggled it into her room. The letter said, "I cannot live without you. Meet me at midnight in the Greenwood."
There Lawrence waited at midnight, barely able to contain his excitement. And finally she arrived. "Oh Lawrence," she gasped, "I love you so!"
When he heard those words and saw her Chester heave with emotion, he felt his Coxwell, and all he wanted to do was pull down his Duponts, pull up her skirt, and plunge into her Spadina. But he was a gentleman. Instead he bent down to kiss her lightly.
Just then, the Warden jumped out from behind a tree. "Dirty rogue," he shouted, "I will Keele you!" He was armed with a lance.
"Put your Lansdowne, sir, and talk with me man-to-man," said Lawrence fiercely. "For Jane and I are in love, and we wish to be married. We will not take no for an answer."
The Warden took the Broadview of things and suddenly saw that he was being foolish. He relented, and the two were wed the very next day. They celebrated with great fanfare and several flagons of Runnymede. They lived happily ever after.
The moral of this story is: Don't ever forget to bring a book when you have an hour-long subway ride.
Once upon a time, a lonely Yonge-Sheppard by the name of Lawrence was walking home when he caught a glimpse of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was riding along in a carriage, haughtily looking out on the world like a Queen, when suddenly she glanced down at him. They were from two Dufferin worlds, but nonetheless it was love at first sight. In that one glance, they penetrated each others' souls, and they knew they had to be together.
They began to see each other. Her name was Jane, he discovered, and she lived in a grand old manor out past the Old Mill. He was in love. He sent her one long red Rosedale-y.
Lawrence wanted to marry her, but her Warden disapproved of such a Union. He thought Lawrence was not nearly Osgoode a match as she could make--he'd never even been to College! The Warden forbade her ever to see him again.
So Lawrence sent Jane a letter via her conniving maid, Christie, who tucked the piece of Pape-r into Jane's basket of clean laundry and thus smuggled it into her room. The letter said, "I cannot live without you. Meet me at midnight in the Greenwood."
There Lawrence waited at midnight, barely able to contain his excitement. And finally she arrived. "Oh Lawrence," she gasped, "I love you so!"
When he heard those words and saw her Chester heave with emotion, he felt his Coxwell, and all he wanted to do was pull down his Duponts, pull up her skirt, and plunge into her Spadina. But he was a gentleman. Instead he bent down to kiss her lightly.
Just then, the Warden jumped out from behind a tree. "Dirty rogue," he shouted, "I will Keele you!" He was armed with a lance.
"Put your Lansdowne, sir, and talk with me man-to-man," said Lawrence fiercely. "For Jane and I are in love, and we wish to be married. We will not take no for an answer."
The Warden took the Broadview of things and suddenly saw that he was being foolish. He relented, and the two were wed the very next day. They celebrated with great fanfare and several flagons of Runnymede. They lived happily ever after.
The moral of this story is: Don't ever forget to bring a book when you have an hour-long subway ride.
03 February 2007
Leave-taking
I spent most of the last several days saying goodbye. I'm going to be gone from Cambridge for a long time--a year, maybe. By the time I get back, everything will have changed. People will have left, will have forgotten me, will have moved on with their lives. The fragile friendships I have nurtured so carefully, the delicate green tendrils just peeking through my lonely dead-wood social life, will have been stomped out by time's cruel stiletto heels. Crush porn will cheer and vie for the movie rights.
All last week in my head I played out the tearfully perfect farewells, but they never turned out right. Each time I was nervous and thus obnoxious, nonchalant. I didn't tell people how much they mean to me. I probably never will. I'm not very good at that.
All last week in my head I played out the tearfully perfect farewells, but they never turned out right. Each time I was nervous and thus obnoxious, nonchalant. I didn't tell people how much they mean to me. I probably never will. I'm not very good at that.
28 January 2007
Evening Activities
I was going to reward myself with a beer tonight, a nice cold one at the bar next door, but instead I think I won't. I have done nothing worthy of reward, and I would rather sit here on my bed (looking out onto my mess of a room) and enumerate my faults. I will milk the poison out of my brain as if I were a snake; I will save it, treasure it, store it in a vial on my shelf. One day, when there is enough of it, I will spread it over my skin and watch it burn through and feel the tingly sting of eroding flesh. I will rot from the outside in and relish every second of it.
22 January 2007
Crash!
My semester is a train wreck. It derailed, went off a cliff, flipped over a few times and landed with a loud crunching noise. Smell the air: burnt metal, burnt flesh.
In a couple of days, when finals period is officially over, they'll fish my mangled body out of the carnage, and someone will say, "But where are: two final papers, four problem sets?" I will groan and whimper, and bleed out on their shoes.
In a couple of days, when finals period is officially over, they'll fish my mangled body out of the carnage, and someone will say, "But where are: two final papers, four problem sets?" I will groan and whimper, and bleed out on their shoes.
16 January 2007
Dear Mr. Stomach,
This is a notice advising you that we find your conduct on 16 January 2007 unacceptable. According to our records, at 1:43 AM on said date you received a morsel of food from Mr. Esophagus which, according to company policy, you were required to process and forward to the Department of Intestinal Affairs. Instead, according to a complaint filed at the Gag Reflex Centre, you stated your intention to stop accepting future food packages from Mr. Esophagus, and tried to pass him back the morsel you had just received.
Here at AMZB we foster an environment of cooperation and hard work amongst our diverse team of employees that allows us to efficiently and carefully execute our very important operations. Since each task we assign is vital to the overall success of the firm, even a momentary lapse from one of our employees can be catastrophic. We therefore expect from our employees an exemplary work ethic and a meticulous care for the duties we entrust to them.
This notice serves as an official warning. Should your inappropriate behaviour continue, we shall be forced to take further action in the form of a suspension of pay or even a dismissal from our company.
If you feel that your actions have been misrepresented in this letter, please contact Ms. Brain, our Personnel Manager, and we will be pleased to review your case.
Sincerely,
The Committee for Digestive Integrity
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