It takes about a decade for my life experiences to process through my gastrointestinal tract. At time of writing: my stomach leeches nutrients from my early college years; high school still squeezes through my intestines. (Thank goodness, I am shitting out my adolescence. It gave me bad gas.)
Just last June I bit off another chunk of my lifespan. I'm almost done chewing it now. It was not bad, but a bit tart, also maybe too much salt. I will wash it down this summer with red wine and white noise.
19 May 2009
12 April 2009
Ah, Romance!
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. They went on a date, kissed, and fell immediately and passionately in love. They got married and lived happily ever after.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. He was shy and never expressed his feelings, and neither did she. They never discovered their affection for each other, and they went through their lives feeling lonely and alienated.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She fucked him only because she was lonely and he was there. Afterwards she found him hard to get rid of. She tried not to think of how she had hurt him because she preferred to forget that she too could be cruel.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She found him attractive enough and his attention flattered her. But he soon got bored of her and began to ignore her. Suddenly cut off from her source of validation, she became obsessed with getting him to notice her again. He never did.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. Her love for him waxed and waned: sometimes her heart overflowed with affection for him, but sometimes she would look at him and feel only disgust. There was something vaguely sickening about his clinginess and his childlike faith in her. But she didn't want to hurt him and so she faked her love. She felt guilty for living a lie.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. He was loving and kind to her but he rejected her sexually. Was he gay, she wondered, or was there just something wrong with her? She was frustrated and unhappy, and her self-esteem withered.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She took him for granted until he was forced to break up with her. Only when she could no longer have him did she find that she wanted him after all.
There once was a boy and he wasn't sweet on a girl. She threw herself at him so he slept with her a few times, but then he rejected her. Afterwards it was exceedingly awkward between them, and even worse, she had to see him every day. It hurt her to watch him act friendly towards everyone else but distant (though scrupulously polite) to her.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. He hit on her even though he was already engaged. She liked him but felt morally uncomfortable with their involvement. After she moved away he called her and left a message but she never called him back.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. They had a beautiful romance but it turned sour. When they broke up she cried for days. She indulged frequently in nostalgic thoughts about the way things had been between them. Though she was too stuck in the past to find someone else, he had soon fucked several new girls, all more attractive than she was. She stalked them on facebook, and although she had never met them, she was certain they were bimbos.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. Maybe this time, she thought to herself, it would work out. Then it didn't. Well, shit.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. He was shy and never expressed his feelings, and neither did she. They never discovered their affection for each other, and they went through their lives feeling lonely and alienated.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She fucked him only because she was lonely and he was there. Afterwards she found him hard to get rid of. She tried not to think of how she had hurt him because she preferred to forget that she too could be cruel.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She found him attractive enough and his attention flattered her. But he soon got bored of her and began to ignore her. Suddenly cut off from her source of validation, she became obsessed with getting him to notice her again. He never did.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. Her love for him waxed and waned: sometimes her heart overflowed with affection for him, but sometimes she would look at him and feel only disgust. There was something vaguely sickening about his clinginess and his childlike faith in her. But she didn't want to hurt him and so she faked her love. She felt guilty for living a lie.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. He was loving and kind to her but he rejected her sexually. Was he gay, she wondered, or was there just something wrong with her? She was frustrated and unhappy, and her self-esteem withered.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She took him for granted until he was forced to break up with her. Only when she could no longer have him did she find that she wanted him after all.
There once was a boy and he wasn't sweet on a girl. She threw herself at him so he slept with her a few times, but then he rejected her. Afterwards it was exceedingly awkward between them, and even worse, she had to see him every day. It hurt her to watch him act friendly towards everyone else but distant (though scrupulously polite) to her.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. He hit on her even though he was already engaged. She liked him but felt morally uncomfortable with their involvement. After she moved away he called her and left a message but she never called him back.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. They had a beautiful romance but it turned sour. When they broke up she cried for days. She indulged frequently in nostalgic thoughts about the way things had been between them. Though she was too stuck in the past to find someone else, he had soon fucked several new girls, all more attractive than she was. She stalked them on facebook, and although she had never met them, she was certain they were bimbos.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. Maybe this time, she thought to herself, it would work out. Then it didn't. Well, shit.
12 February 2009
Allegory pie, allegory pie
Imagine my brain is a countryside and through it run many electric impulses, or messengers.
One day from outside my ear there comes a message. My ear receives a collection of sound waves—or perhaps a telegraph arrives by Morse code, top secret, to be delivered to the centre of my consciousness straightaway. The messenger, roused from soft slumber to do his duty, is ready as always: he grasps the sealed envelope in shaking hands, mounts his fine steed, and gallops away into the night.
The countryside is at war: corpses litter the roadsides and everywhere orphans bewail the loss of life. Doggedly the messenger rides past the wreckage, narrowly escaping gunfire and the eerie screech of stray arrows. His proud stallion spooks at the fires in the distance and balks at the booming of canons—until finally he must dismount and continue on foot.
He runs, he walks, he runs again. At last he reaches the palace and, being brought inside, bows before the grim, war-wearied face of his sovereign. "A message, my lord, from the land of Ear."
He collapses in exhaustion and dies on the spot, but—thank Providence!—not before he delivers to his betters this important message: That Letterman said something funny last night, and isn't that neat.
[All I can do is depetal millions of metaphorical daisies.]
One day from outside my ear there comes a message. My ear receives a collection of sound waves—or perhaps a telegraph arrives by Morse code, top secret, to be delivered to the centre of my consciousness straightaway. The messenger, roused from soft slumber to do his duty, is ready as always: he grasps the sealed envelope in shaking hands, mounts his fine steed, and gallops away into the night.
The countryside is at war: corpses litter the roadsides and everywhere orphans bewail the loss of life. Doggedly the messenger rides past the wreckage, narrowly escaping gunfire and the eerie screech of stray arrows. His proud stallion spooks at the fires in the distance and balks at the booming of canons—until finally he must dismount and continue on foot.
He runs, he walks, he runs again. At last he reaches the palace and, being brought inside, bows before the grim, war-wearied face of his sovereign. "A message, my lord, from the land of Ear."
He collapses in exhaustion and dies on the spot, but—thank Providence!—not before he delivers to his betters this important message: That Letterman said something funny last night, and isn't that neat.
[All I can do is depetal millions of metaphorical daisies.]
09 July 2008
A Mildly Flattering Ride Home
On the subway this evening I got hit on by a rich guy. His name was Serge and he worked in a bank.
Maybe it wasn't a bank, but it was something financial. He worked at King and Yonge—my milieu of yore—and did something involving charts and graphs and tables of numbers. I know because he showed me them. And then he said, "I'm not bullshitting you—this is really what I do."
He told me several times that he worked in finance. He told me about how he had two bachelor's degrees, one MBA, and was working on getting his CFA. After he got that, he said, he would go back to school and get a second master's in finance. "I want to be more competitive," he told me, "so that I can get a nice seven-figure salary." He said this several times—the part about the seven-figure salary, that is. I wondered if perhaps he'd meant to say six, but I didn't bother asking.
Then he gave me his business card and told me to email him sometime. "I might do that," I said, politely. To which he replied, "If you do, I just might respond."
I briefly toyed with the idea of contacting him. In a world of careful image construction, you've got to respect someone who wears his toolishness on his sleeve. I'm quite sure he would make a show of taking me somewhere lavish, and, you know, I don't mind putting out for a free meal.
But, not surprisingly, I decided against it. I would have a lot more casual sex if I didn't dislike people so much. I am far too misanthropic for a life of sin.
Maybe it wasn't a bank, but it was something financial. He worked at King and Yonge—my milieu of yore—and did something involving charts and graphs and tables of numbers. I know because he showed me them. And then he said, "I'm not bullshitting you—this is really what I do."
He told me several times that he worked in finance. He told me about how he had two bachelor's degrees, one MBA, and was working on getting his CFA. After he got that, he said, he would go back to school and get a second master's in finance. "I want to be more competitive," he told me, "so that I can get a nice seven-figure salary." He said this several times—the part about the seven-figure salary, that is. I wondered if perhaps he'd meant to say six, but I didn't bother asking.
Then he gave me his business card and told me to email him sometime. "I might do that," I said, politely. To which he replied, "If you do, I just might respond."
I briefly toyed with the idea of contacting him. In a world of careful image construction, you've got to respect someone who wears his toolishness on his sleeve. I'm quite sure he would make a show of taking me somewhere lavish, and, you know, I don't mind putting out for a free meal.
But, not surprisingly, I decided against it. I would have a lot more casual sex if I didn't dislike people so much. I am far too misanthropic for a life of sin.
06 July 2008
AMZB vs. Disease/Self-Pity
[Copied over from facebook for consistency.]
My great achievement of the day is not blowing chunks. For the second time in two weeks, I am facing an epic battle against nausea, dizziness, and fever.
Feeling sick gives you lots of time not to do the work you're being paid to get done by Tuesday. Instead, you get to hang out by the toilet (in case you should need it in a hurry) or else lie down because you feel weak and dizzy.
Since both these things are a little boring, I eventually needed a little entertainment. So I allowed myself to get sucked into an online conversation with a friend of mine. The gist: he's fucking someone boring, irritating, and stupid. Having woken up to her faults, how can he now get rid of her?
I could sympathize with him. You misjudge someone initially, and then whoops, a few months later you're miserable. You need to end it, but every way out requires that you be an asshole. There's no way to reject someone nicely. So do you break it off now or later?
This is a really fun conversation to have when you can easily imagine someone saying the same shit about you. Got me thinking about my persistent sense of intellectual inferiority within my own social group. About the disconnect that seems to exist between me and other people. About the termtime sense of isolation/alienation that I can't seem to shake.
So I decided to throw a pity party. Location: the bathroom. Invitees: my sense of self-worth, the bile rising at the back of my throat. Fun-filled activities: pin the vomit on the toilet, hide and go freak.
In the end I didn't throw up, but I was left once again with the feeling that I need to prove my worth to the world. Also perhaps to myself. Unsure how to do that. I can't think of anything in my life that I am currently proud of.
In order to feel better about myself, I decided to play a few rounds of Prolific, currently my online boggle-like word game of choice. I wanted to feel like there was something—even something fairly useless—that I could do well. I played six rounds with people whose ratings were lower than mine. I lost every time.
I think the only possible thing I could do to feel more pathetic right now would be to broadcast my momentary sense of self-pity to tons of people on the internet. It would be shameless and incredibly tacky. Good thing I'm not doing that.
My great achievement of the day is not blowing chunks. For the second time in two weeks, I am facing an epic battle against nausea, dizziness, and fever.
Feeling sick gives you lots of time not to do the work you're being paid to get done by Tuesday. Instead, you get to hang out by the toilet (in case you should need it in a hurry) or else lie down because you feel weak and dizzy.
Since both these things are a little boring, I eventually needed a little entertainment. So I allowed myself to get sucked into an online conversation with a friend of mine. The gist: he's fucking someone boring, irritating, and stupid. Having woken up to her faults, how can he now get rid of her?
I could sympathize with him. You misjudge someone initially, and then whoops, a few months later you're miserable. You need to end it, but every way out requires that you be an asshole. There's no way to reject someone nicely. So do you break it off now or later?
This is a really fun conversation to have when you can easily imagine someone saying the same shit about you. Got me thinking about my persistent sense of intellectual inferiority within my own social group. About the disconnect that seems to exist between me and other people. About the termtime sense of isolation/alienation that I can't seem to shake.
So I decided to throw a pity party. Location: the bathroom. Invitees: my sense of self-worth, the bile rising at the back of my throat. Fun-filled activities: pin the vomit on the toilet, hide and go freak.
In the end I didn't throw up, but I was left once again with the feeling that I need to prove my worth to the world. Also perhaps to myself. Unsure how to do that. I can't think of anything in my life that I am currently proud of.
In order to feel better about myself, I decided to play a few rounds of Prolific, currently my online boggle-like word game of choice. I wanted to feel like there was something—even something fairly useless—that I could do well. I played six rounds with people whose ratings were lower than mine. I lost every time.
I think the only possible thing I could do to feel more pathetic right now would be to broadcast my momentary sense of self-pity to tons of people on the internet. It would be shameless and incredibly tacky. Good thing I'm not doing that.
27 June 2008
Defensiveness
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.
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.
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.
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