Summer Gloves and Satin Candles

I think it might be kinda fun to flash freeze an urban block in some single, gloriously mundane instant, dim the lights, and spark up a constellation of mass-produced, artificially-flavored, over-vanillaed candles purchased on credit, in bulk and on sale, as a sort of tribute to the status quo. AKA to the collectively/anonymously fabricated quilt of ridonkulousness that I'm finding far too hot for this particular season.

The timeless snapshot would then proceed, according to a highly complex algorithm brought into being by the pathological scrawls of Matt Damon over 8 blackboards, as follows:

To be read in a dramatic story teller's voice, you know the one

I'd whip a bottomless palette of pastels from out of my Mary Poppins handbag, toss on a beret at an endearing angle, and paint the iron jungle over in soft hues of baby-everything. Except for the candles, because they already came like that. Oh, I can feel the artistic smears of violet drying on my cheek, lightening in shade, crackling as I crinkle my nose against some particularly stubborn "NO PARKING" sign determined not to loosen its reigns over a prime stretch of tar. After some time, I was left no choice but to white out the P, and then the ING against its (good) will (hunting). And when pandemonium broke loose in the city's animal kingdom (read: squirrels, pigeons, rats, and domesticated cats and dogs who wouldn't last a day in the wild) and panic had reached critical proportions at the suggestion there might be "No Ark" by which they could be saved during the next tsunami, the bedbugs called an emergency meeting with the sign in question. After a highly televised debate and massive animal riots, the apocalyptic scrap of metal nailed to a pole surrendered its honor and donned a light yellow bodysuit for $68.99 from American Apparel. A martyr really, sacrificing itself for the ultimate value of societal order and perpetuated fairy tales. The tooth fairy felt validated, I'm sure, which is nice since I hear she has low self esteem and a poor self image despite her great monetary wealth. At least that's what Curious George told me in between the scientific experiments he's been subjected to since humans realized he could talk. Just goes to show ya kids, money can't buy happiness. But you should probably still secretly strive for it obsessively, just to be on the safe side. Anyways, I was noble about the victory over the once-lord of those streets. I parked my unicycle right in front of the cross-dressing sign, placed giant pink sunglasses (from my bag) across its face, and addressed it as Mr. Golden Sun henceforth. And God saw that it was good. He even winked at me from his throne on top of a cloud, and sent some aesthetically pleasing female angels down with Philadelphia's cream cheese. Light, of course. But I found a silver hair in it, most probably from his beard. Ew. Amen.

**** intermission****

I realize the above followed no logical sequence, ended with potential heresy rather than any sort of apparent conclusion, and ultimately said very little. But it was really fun. And could have easily gone on all night had Matt Damon not erased the algorithm, thus banishing it from human knowledge and therefore all of existence.

It was inspired by the poem Warning, below, written by Jenny Joseph. WHICH I LOVE:

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

To Do: Care Less About Dumb Shit

I enjoy listing things, particularly when each item is identically indented from the margins of a page.
I find bullet points to be comforting as well as aesthetically pleasing.
I prefer them to numbers, which demand (of me) more thought be put into sequencing, and I just think they look a lot better than those arrow things. A clean shot right through the page-- BOOM-- a crystallized point, distinct, independent, a commanding trajectory splattered at just the right indentation.
And the purest of all point forms? The ultimate itemizing? Its most majestic manifestation? The To-Do List, in which every poorly structured sentence meets its telos, actualizing the self-sacrifice for which it was cosmically destined in the world of the doer, propelled by one passive act into a martyr's utopia and bestowed 72 virgin bullets to fire into 72 blank pieces of paper: Being Crossed Out.

If it wasn't made clear, I really love to-do lists.

Unfortunately, I recently became concerned that dividing my thoughts, behaviors and desires into independently itemized directories is another one of those things that "goes against everything I'm trying really hard to believe in." Forcing things into word-boxes is reductive enough, but to then subject them further to a firing range of categorical bullet points thereby denying their underlying unity-- well that's just irreconcilable.

I know right, really freaking obnoxious. After a brief interlude of cyclical and unproductive thoughts, 'I' announced to my'self': "screw you pseudo existential crisis. It is impossible to live my life in accordance with your fabricated abstract ideals. At first you were kind of endearing and fun, but now I'm just appalled by your vortex of self-absorbed musings. What the hell is the point of thinking thoughts all day long when there are social issues that are actually existentially pressing going on all around you (or around the head in which you are festering, or... crap I have no idea how to phrase that)." And then I realized that is probably why I've felt so conflicted about my own blog lately. Having all this time to "think" is a luxury that I don't really feel I've done anything to deserve, which makes me feel guilty. I'm also not sure that I even consider it to be of any value, which makes me feel confused and kind of embarrassed.

In a book I'm reading, a character describes life as "on the surface, an intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth." I think I just got all tangled up in some disorienting, misinterpreted, unnecessarily complex fusion of the two.

Hmm. That felt really good to say/write. Wow. Huge load off. Whaddaya know!

Feeling strangely better already, but for good measure I'd like to rub it in my pseudeo-existential crisis's face by making a series of non-exhaustive point form lists. IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE RATHER THAN SOME UNSPOKEN HOLISTIC MODE OF COMMUNICATION. I call it, "Whatever. But not in a negative way."

To Do:

• care less about dumb shit
• snot-rocket and ride bike more
• disentangle
• be more gentle/accepting/patient with self

 To Figure Out:

• How to care less about dumb shit
• How to smooth things over with my pseudo existential crisis 
• How to not get freaked out by timezones
• Whether I believe I have a self

To Clarify:

• I was feeling awkward about having a blog because I started to feel like I was caring too much about dumb shit instead of real shit
• I really love writing this blog
• I do realize that this "pseudo-existential crisis" is not some alien invader, but another aspect of my self that occasionally oversteps its boundaries and becomes overly dominant. It is also probably a synonym for this blog 
• I am laughing out loud right now 
• I am fairly annoyed right now

To Continue:

• writing blogs
• making lists

Climate Change

It's that time of the year again! The seasons are changing, the days are getting longer, and in anxious anticipation of emancipation from Canada's tundra, I get overconfident and transition into my transition-jacket and impractical boots several weeks too early. And now I'm sneezing violently, and blowing my nose at so alarming a rate that its outskirts have become chapped and raw from overexposure to Kleenex. Friendly tip: if you should ever find yourself in this position, DO NOT lather your nostrils in Blistex. Someone I know (me) tried it, and rather than soothe it burned burned burned until I managed to wipe it all off, frantically I should add... thus further irritating my nasal region.

For more on that, see: http://document1-recovered.blogspot.com/2010/10/humbled-by-common-cold.html

You know, some people say that without the winter we wouldn't really be able to appreciate the summer. To those people I say, who the hell cares-- but if you'd like to lament the intrinsic value of slipping on black ice, 4:30 PM sunsets and not being able to go outside with wet hair, then I'd be happy to discuss the issue further on the beach dressed in bright colours, as we sip cool refreshing beverages and bask in the sun's gentle caress.
And yes I did just essentialize the seasons (omitting fall and spring entirely) and pit them against one another in an extremely linear and evaluative manner. But like I said, I'm a hypocrite. And so are you. So we might as well be able to chill on patios while we contradict ourselves. And wear scarves not out of brutal necessity, but to add a splash of colour and/or funk to our outfits.

It is reassuring though, that nature so palpably goes through cycles as well-- kind of makes my ups and downs feel more, like, organic, ya know? And when you (I) think about it, it's kind of hilarious that it's at those points where the transitions are most tangible that we all get sick. I'm not really sure about the exact scientific details, but something about the pollination of my immune system with a thrust of barometric pressure...

Whatever the reason, it seems clear that while things are actually constantly changing (great phrase), it is only at that point where the borders of two season-boxes begin to really chafe against one another that we all generally get headaches or colds or are in someway or another thrown off our game.
As though the friction of time rubbing up against our carefully constructed comfort zone (ie. hibernating into the coziness of winter) heats things to a boiling point and we can, on some level, no longer remain ignorant of the ever-present, ever-uninternalized fact that things change. Perpetually. If only because the Earth continues to orbit the Sun.
And in our unyielding humanity, almost-cute-in-a-pathetic-sort-of-way, we match those natural forces stride-for-stride with a seemingly equally as innate tendency to create illusions to the contrary.
And so, when all of a sudden it becomes freaking unavoidably clear that things are ACTUALLY CHANGING ALL THE TIME, and we have no choice but to toe the line of that routinized box of winter or summer or school or a job or a hobby or a relationship, it can be really jarring!
Without a conscious awareness throughout the winter months that the season is simply running its course, and that even when the snow is up to your knees it will still melt away, fall, melt, and fall again, the forced realization of the reality of change can be painfully abrupt. Especially when it's prefaced by TURNING OUR HUMANMADE CLOCKS FORWARD AT SOME PREORDAINED POINT ON OUR HUMANMADE CALENDER, THEREBY ALTERING "TIME" ITSELF--- I mean, couldn't we ease ourselves into things with a communal circle-dance or something, rather than engage in so ontologically/existentially/metaphysically confusing an endeavor? Honestly, it's no wonder we fall flat on our faces every time the seasons change, even if it is onto a lovely outdoor patio, and even if there is a pitcher of sangria waiting for us! The proof is in the collective chapped nostrils, people.

This is not to say that if you get sick just as the seasons are changing, it's probably because you're ignorant as to the underlying impermanent nature of reality-- if that were the case, we'd probably all spend our whole lives sneezing. I just think it's an interesting parallel to draw between nature and human nature, at least in this climate-- I'm not really sure how the concept holds as we drift closer to the ecuator.
What I mean is, I think (not original thought, obvz) we have a tendency to deny or avoid or ignore or overlook change, even though it's always goin' down. And the more we do that, the more we are allowing ourselves to nuzzle into a comfort zone and cuddle with an illusion of permanence, and the more difficult it is to deal with change when it slaps us in the face and robs us of that security blanket-- ie. when seasons are on cusp of one another and our environment is so tangibly in a state of flux.

I guess this all could have been summed up by saying: Isn't it interesting that just like we often experience powerful reactions when things in our lives change, we also get sick when the seasons change? Maybe if we somehow acknowledged that things are actually always changing, we wouldn't freak out as much when more obvious changes occur. Oh, and I have a cold and am feeling sorry for myself. But it's heavily mixed in with self-loathing because the people of Japan are dealing with devastating natural disasters and a potential nuclear meltdown, and I just. can't. wrap my head around it. or get out of my own head enough to think about way more pressing, critical, and real issues instead of my own relatively trivial bullshit.

Anyways, I'm really hoping to spend this summer in the Yukon! Read: 21 hours of sunlight a day! Please feel free to drop by if you are in the area, for some great chills in a climate that even further facilitates an ignorance to the reality of change!
Incidentally, does anyone know of any jobs or places to live in Dawson City? Or of anyone selling a car in Vancouver that is extremely inexpensive but also has the endurance and character to make it to the Yukon and back? WOOHOO!

Imaginary Bridge Building

If it hasn't already been made painfully, laughably, and obnoxiously evident by the existential angst just oozing out of this otherwise thematically-undeclared blog, being out of school for the first time in 18 years has been.... kinda weird. The dissolution of a clearly defined quantification of success has been disorienting to say the least, as has the abrupt dead end in a sequence of well-tread "next-steps" that once unfolded so naturally before me. And while Robert Frost may not have been caught dead on so smoothly paved a road, all my friends were always around, and that was really nice too. As it stands, I'm now cursing globalization from the rooftops for snatching up so many people I love and scattering them all around the planet; which, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I'm still pretty sure I think of as flat--the Earth that is, not globalization or my friends. Probably because I don't actually understand any of the evidence. Well maybe not flat, but definitely not spherical because there is no way I can think about that without picturing the people and animals of Antarctica living upside down. Shit--overwhelmed. I am happy for my friends though. Most of the time.

Segue (should be spelled 'segway,' no?): Over the past few days I've been reflecting a lot on life in Toronto since returning from India mid-August. Probably because it's been raining a lot lately, and I have some subconscious notion that forcing pathetic fallacy upon my own life is more than just pathetic. A fallacy as that may be (budum bum ching!), I really have been doing some thinking and one thing that stands out from within the tumult of this absurd indiscrete period of my life is a growing awareness of a discrepancy between "my" intellect and "my" emotions. With disappointing regularity, I often find myself feeling in ways that "go against everything I believe in." Now, I'm trying really hard not to lose my temper on myself, but I think (hope) you can see how such an experience at such alarming frequencies can really wear on a gal's patience.
Allow me to illustrate with some examples:

• Feeling: "I'm bored"
  Brain: "What the hell do you mean bored?! With the incomprehensible beauty of oneness palpably radiating all around you, how could you possibly be bored? Infinity is right at your fingertips, at the very least you should be able to just exist in a constant state of awe and wonder!!"
• Feeling: "Ugh I wish I could just figure out my exact schedule for this week"
  Brain: "How dare you?! You know the uncertainty principle is my favorite part of science! Where is your humility? I can't believe you'd have the audacity to want to know, control, and predict everything about your environment, rather than just let go and allow the universe to unfold in its perfection. You should be laughing, not stressing, you idiot."
• Feeling: "I'm never gonna understand this/get how this works/be able to do this perfectly"
  Brain: No you probably won't, nor should that be your goal! Instead, you should embrace your humanity, do your best, cultivate patience, compassion, and gentleness for yourself, and not be so freaking goal-oriented. Uch you exhaust me.  

The list goes on an on-- becoming most easily frustrated and hostile with the people closest and most committed to me, getting offended when a homeless lady didn't want the untouched cream of broccoli soup I offered her the other day, becoming absolutely furious by just missing the bus even though I'm not running late for anything, an inability to accept that the Earth is a sphere... 

Hilariously/horrendously, and probably the greatest (?) example of this infuriating discrepancy between my mind and my emotions, is that ALTHOUGH EMOTIONALLY THIS GAP DRIVES NUTS, I DON'T EVEN INTELLECTUALLY BELIEVE IN THE DICHOTOMY!!!! 

**What? Oh, I'm sorry. I just blacked out from over stimulation**

This blog, clearly, will not wrap up with a nice little bow symbolizing some conclusion I've extracted from the abstract and applied in such an intangible way that even I'll be lucky to ever actually internalize it (ouch. mega-burn to myself. sorta, i'm actually kind of in a weird way fine with it). 

Instead, my feelings will plea for your emotional support and assurance that I'm not alone, and feel relieved at having even just expressed this. Simultaneously, my brain will survey you for knowledge about how to bridge a duality that it doesn't actually even believe exists. The entity that was able to apply the "my" to both the feelings and the brain... well, I don't really know about that one. Or any of them. Shit, I'm all tangled up in invented fragments of myself now. (Brain: obviously!) 

OK then.
I LOVE YOU

PS sorry for the pathetic fallacy pun, I realize it was pretty lame. 

My Relationship with Apathy

Apathy and I like to flirt dangerously with one other. I inch a little closer; it flashes me a knowing wink; I giggle nervously; it nonchalantly invites me back to its place while checking out the reflection of some other girl in the mirror ... we're all about playing games really, especially if it gets a couple drinks in me, turns down the lights and up just the right music.

Except deep down I know I'm too addicted to the pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain to follow through. Which makes me kind of a tease. And the flirting only goes one way-- it couldn't care less about our relationship. Which makes me kind of pathetic. But I've generally come to terms with that. 

For me, it's like stepping out onto a 14-story balcony (give or take a couple stories), and feeling that inexplicable magnetic urge just to jump. You know you're not gonna do it, but you're a little intoxicated by the allure of so radically unexpected a thought pattern. Perhaps so profoundly even, that you may head back indoors just to change the subject. A nice predictable conversation about how small the cars look or how the balcony is perfect for a barbecue or how weird the elevator smelled or how you were surprised by how windy it was up there, should quickly induce a come-down from that kind of electrically palpable high. 

So yeah, it's probably never gonna really happen between us, me and Apathy. I'm too petrified to commit to the leap, and it's no good at opening up and really allowing another person in emotionally. I think I just like the idea of it. Sometimes though, I pretend we've gotten engaged just to mess with my mom a bit. Mostly out of boredom. 

The other night she insisted that all the roommates (me, her, and my dad) discuss the highlights and lowlights of our days over dinner. I glazed my eyes over with a light coat of indifference (so far i only use washable paint in that shade) and formed a sigh of resignation around the words "there are no ups or downs in monotony, mother." 

She called me a drama queen-- fair enough-- to which I responded, "UCH! MOM! THIS IS THE GREATEST PLAY I'LL EVER STAR IN! ALL THE WORLD'S MY STAGE AND AS A MERE PLAYER I THOUGHT EVEN YOU COULD UNDERSTAND THAT"

"Our" puppy barked and scratched herself. My father looked up from his blackberry and said "that's nice dear." Whatever. Last time I invite Apathy over for dinner.

What's so exhaustingly paradoxically annoyingly beautifully hilarious about all of this, is how emotional I get about pursuing a relationship with Apathy. This point is clearly evidenced by my Caps-Lock reaction to my mother's belittling of us being together. (Hi mom). 

It's not that I consider Apathy to be some sort of ultimate ideal. Far from something that I'm striving for, I find it lying in wait around every nonlinear corner, a shadow lurking deep within the greys of rejected dichotomies. Like a self-deprecating fling I can never seem to quite sever ties with it. The quicksand of uncertainty's landscape, it swallows you whole should your feet become heavy with the absence of light heartedness. In other words, prying open the floodgates of thought to include not only black and white, but the entire range of vibrating frequencies is not all fun and games. I mean, you've got this flood of electromagnetic energy comin atcha, masquerading as waves today and particles tomorrow, and a gal is bound to get confused in the dance from time to time. Grey is murky, and it's a scary thing to wade through. It's much easier to deal with existence while anchored to absolutes (which obviously I fully am, please don't think I think I'm not, oh god I hope you don't think I think I'm not), those landmarks make it way harder to get lost.

I have found my attempted exploration and experimentation with a pursuit of truth founded not in pillars of certainty but in uncertainty, to be like straddling a teeter totter that tends toward awe on one side and apathy on the other. It should also be noted that were I not living at home with all of my basic needs not only met but wildly exceeded, I would likely not spend so much time floating around in the abstract of my abnormally large stupid head. Really, it is literally abnormally large-- when I was a baby my parents sometimes had to cut the collars of my shirts in order to fit them over my massive noggin. 

Nonetheless, my extremes in experiences of both awe and apathy, have each made me cry a little.

This could explain why I've come to be so skeptical and distrustful of my emotions, and also why my mom thinks I'm a drama queen. But there's that pesty spectrum illusion again, and the inherent associated assumption of opposites. The (a) challenge, I'm realizing, is not necessarily to keep things tilted out of apathy's favor, but rather to stretch the teeter totter until its two points meet-- and then finding a way to live there.

Ideally, this would also minimize my mood swings. 

NB: If anyone has any practical suggestions for this, please feel free to share them because I'm doing that annoying thing again where I intellectualize myself so far away from my body that I no longer know how to a build a bridge that translates my thoughts into daily life. Does that make them pointless? Maybz. Maybz not.

There's this amazing Buddhist saying I've been taught, that I find so liberating and also so terrifying. It advises that when one comes to meet the Buddha face to face, in that he or she has so realized the Buddha's teachings that they are partying side by side on the pinnacle of awakening, then this person should cut off the Buddha's head. GASP. An explanation being that even the path of the Buddha in all its wisdom is still binding, even reverence of so enlightened a being is still a form of attachment, and it is only in letting go of this teacher/journey/constellation of choices, that one can truly achieve enlightenment. 

K, it's not like I'm plotting the decapitation of religious leaders, and I certainly never expect to chill with the Buddhz. But still, what a powerful idea (which I guess I also shouldn't cling to heavily to... uch see what I mean?) In this context, I am choosing(ish) to understand that neither awe nor apathy are to be considered as ultimate goals, or points at which to grow stagnant. It's not like I've successfully mastered the teeter totter of absurdity if I plop myself down on the awe side always and forever and leave my old flame Apathy out to dry on the other end of some illusory line. These ideas- like Buddhist philosophy- these experiences- like awe and apathy- can serve as points of orientation along the way. But if you ever actually manage to commit to them wholeheartedly (and not just flirt), you better have your sword at the ready because they're not really the end or the ultimate, they're just there to help us navigate the swirling greys. 

A Treasure Hunt: In Pursuit of a Tasty Slice of "Time-Space Pie"

Emotions are fleeting. I'm in a good mood but I don't trust it. Because I don't know why I'm in a good mood when yesterday I was in a bad one. I could make up reasons and fool myself into believing them, I guess, but I'm not really in the mood. But I could be tomorrow. How obnoxious.
Slap the Eternity Syndrome onto that sucker, and you've got yourself a paradox my friend. I think. Ow owww! (to be pronounced in the high frequency range where flirtation becomes so obvious that it comes to symbolize the exact opposite, and does an arrogant little jig)

Anyways, some train of thought so irrational that to put it to words would be unsettling, got me thinking of pirates this morning. When I realized I was thinking about pirates, I naturally envisioned a ship full of Johnny Depps battling scurvy, applying eyeliner, and searching for treasure-- after all, what else is a gal to think about pirates in this day and age? While the prototype for the contemporary hypothetical pirate is clear, the contents of that buried chest are far more blurry-- at least in "my" brain.
**Sidenote: The reason I put quotation marks around "my" there, is because the phrase "my brain" implies that there is something independent of the brain that not only makes up who I am, but has enough freaking seniority to claim dominion over the twists and turns of the cerebral cortex! I'm not sure I'm in a position to make that assumption, especially about my own self. Yikes just got lost for a second thinking about the layers of what that doozy would entail**

But back to treasure. My inclination initially was to ramble on about how true treasure would be the sincere realization of all things as gifts, without feeling compelled to labor over some complex rendering of a giver that necessarily imprisoned the infinite within the trappings of "our" minds. Or coming to the genuine understanding that treasure is buried nowhere other than beneath the layers of our selves, and that to unearth it one need turn only inward. And yes, I guess theoretically I do think that would be just dandy. But the dumb current obnoxious fleeting reality is that I am SO far away from that place that pretending to go there, or going there intellectually but leaving all else behind, or hypothesizing about what it might be like to go there, is just annoying- even painful. And kind of irrelevant to my daily life. Kind of. It's a nice lighthouse to orient towards, but it's skipping FAR too many steps from where I'm at.

Because we all know, or know someone who knows, or know someone who knows that we know even though we don't think we do, what it is to feel that emptiness. That hollow ache that assures us there is no secret map with which to navigate this void. And that if X marks the spot, then every other letter of the alphabet is festering inside of us. Twenty-five clashes of sound and shape and symbols of anything other than treasure. Words like trappings, then, cannot be applied to the abstract in any way other than being trapped, enslaved even, to an inability to experience meaning. And you're the one, not the treasure, that's buried. **cue response that they're one and the same, a person and their treasure-- maybe, but I can't say it in a way that means anything really because I'm too far away from actually knowing it on any type of sustained experiential level. And, even more so, it can't mean anything (in an immediate, practical sense) to someone experiencing what I just described. And so effectively it's useless. Some treasure.

And so, for now, I'm paradigm-shifting my view of what's in the treasure chest from the distant abstract ideal to the practical, to the building of a bridge over that vastness-- to the baby steps that will slowly orient our passage through time toward ("to" seems really overly ambitious, at least for me) such liberating lofty realizations. To the things that feel like treasure in the moment, in that reality, to the infusion of taste into that ridonkulous slice of "time and space pie." And I'm doing it hoping that I will always allow that conscious paradigm to continue its natural shift into alignment with what feels balanced for where I'm at. I think that if/when I don't, then when that inevitable shift does come it is all the more abrupt, and so all the more painful and not-fun.

And so the fantastical treasure chest that I pursue (but as a ship full of Johnny Depps, you know like that weird thing that happens when you're dreaming sometimes) is at least for now in a state of perpetual dynamism. Rather than hold within it a realization that is lightyears away from my current orbit, or perhaps in a different metaphor what I am orbiting around, the treasure in the chest is fluid and it's also a guide. It's what you do in just this moment to experience happiness, and in doing so move closer toward that ultimate bliss. So I guess you're kind of filling the chest in the exact instant that you open it and find the treasure. Rather than render the pursuit pointless, this can, I think, transform all of life into the search. But not a quest toward a good that will someday come, that will someday validate and justify all of life thus far. In this paradigm of treasure hunting, the treasure is being found and changed and found again in every instant of growth. Way more gratifying, no? But more so it's real and it's practical and things are not for the good that lies ahead,  but rather they are the good. They are the treasure.

...Did this make sense? I'm pretty sure I know what I mean. I apologize if it wasn't articulated so clearly, the paradigm shift thing kind of happened only as I typed it out. So I guess I owe you another thank you... :) And on that note I'm also throwing out there the hope that I wasn't the only one that got something out of this blog, please just have your way with it-- do whatever so that it means something to you please. I think that would be really great.

PS the lead singer of a band I saw tonight must have been in her mid-to-late-60s. The little place was packed, and she wore a vest and a turtleneck and had grey hair and sang her heart out and it was so beautiful and I was literally flushed with emotion. Her name was Joanne and her band was called the Joannimals! I think that lady might know something I'd love to know someday.

An Attempt to Celebrate My Current Shade of Green

We are inundated, I think, with wonderfully relieving catch phrases. Wrapped up tightly, often with the best of intentions, in insulating blankets of cliches (blue if you're a boy, pink if you're a girl). Flotation devices to help us skim the surface. Water spiders of absurdity, too light and insubstantial to cross the threshold into tension. 

And who's to say the deconstruction of these "inspirational quotes" is necessarily beneficial, if an inflatable raft blown to buoyancy with raindrops ands roses and whiskers on kittens makes for such a smoother ride?

Unless of course they don't resonate, and their ubiquity leaves you feeling confused and alienated because mainstream bandaids don't stick and the depth of what you're experiencing can't quite be patched over by "you know, everything happens for a reason" or "don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened," as if crying is not also a testament to beauty, or as though you can't be doing both at the same time.  

Because the depth of pain is a direct reflection of the depth of honesty and that's what makes it beautiful even as it hurts. And it's an insult to that realness to try and force it through a cookie cutter and subject it to a splash of mass-produced sprinkles. 

And so no, I don't think that one should "never give up," nor do I believe that pain is necessarily conducive to some tangible gain. I imagine there are in fact instances when honesty is not the best policy, and silence is not golden. I consider it stifling to tell someone they should "never change," and am quite skeptical of the fact that love means never having to say you're sorry. If at first you don't succeed, it may not be your best or most healthy option to try, try, and try again.

Of course, there are elements of real value in all of the aforementioned examples-- where I find fault is their generalized nature, the way they use words like "never" and "always," the way they don't allow for exception, remaining deliberately broad rather than nuanced, simplistic rather than complex, as though value is derived from the quantity of things they can be applied to rather than how well-suited they actually are to an experience. But I guess "never give up" is more likely to be stitched on a pillow than "perseverance can be extremely beneficial and rewarding, but there are also instances where it can be ineffective or even detrimental, among other things." 

I must confess however, that much to my regret there is one such phrase that has particularly caught with me, absolutist language and all: "The grass is always greener on the other side." 

I am now going to make a statement "equally" as audacious, arrogant, absolutist and generalized as those I have been thus far bashing. Whatever, I'm a hypocrite-- so are you. **pausing to buckle seatbelt** 

I think this whole issue of grass pigmentation may in fact be the fundamental flaw of the "unenlightened" human condition, in that it's the biggest continued obstacle to our happiness. How terribly unfortunate it is, that we so consistently focus on what's missing rather than what's present. That we so constantly lament rather than rejoice, complain rather than complement, sulk when celebrating would just be so much more fun. What a freaking prank. It's so painfully obvious that we would be happier if we just appreciated our current shade of green, and my inability to translate that intellectual realization into an emotional/spiritual/mental one is really goddamn annoying.   I wish I could throw a big party for my patch of grass, but I don't have time to organize it because I'm too busy comparing and contrasting it to how green I thought it might be, how green it once was, how green his is, and how green it became for the protagonist of a romantic comedy I recently saw. Plus, inevitably if I invited people over for a grass-party I'd end up dying it greener. 

Uch-- could that be any lamer?

The worst part (meh, who knows) is that our perception of how green another person's grass is, is so incredibly biased that our measurements are flawed from the get-go, if not sooner. 

But perhaps today (or maybe I'll start tomorrow), instead of gazing out the window, wrapped up in the pseudo-warmth of cliche blankets and eating cookies cut from a stencil while dreaming of a green that could always get greener...I'll turn on the sprinkler and frolic. 

But don't hold me to that....  

A Paradoxical Post :)!

Oh, hi there.
Even as I write the following with the utmost sincerity, I am painfully aware that it might easily come out sounding false at worst and lame at best. But I mean it:
Thank you so much for coming. I really appreciate you dropping by. I hope you don't feel I've entirely monopolized this conversation we've been having-- and it is a conversation, I think (hope), the very act of your reading necessitates your personal involvement in its "meaning" (ie. whether this appeal is genuine or the most annoying thing ever)--You should know that at this exact moment I consider that fluidity to be my favorite part of this whole blogging endeavor. You should also know that it was a struggle for me not to put quotations around almost every word of that sentence. A friend recently shared with me that he finds religious ritual susceptible to becoming a sort of idolatry in itself, in that one might come to revere the law in all its minutely detailed glory, and in doing so virtually overlook the worship of its supposed source. Of course, one could argue that it is through the fulfillment of divine command that a person is capable of approaching the supernatural-- but without getting too far into it I think this friend of mine raises a very good and subtle point, and upon further reflection I can imagine it manifested in other things as well, including (DUN DUN DUN) language.
Words, in and of themselves really are only symbols, and though perhaps connected one to the other they are quite arbitrary as a whole. The high-school version of myself used to freaking love words, revere them even as the medium of creation and means of transcending human mortality -- which at the time I was desperate to do-- this was before we studied Shakespeare's Ceasar in English class and I learned the word hubris. It was also before a summer in a Non-English speaking Ghanaian orphanage saw all my then-precious words simply fall away, at the hands of beautiful and abandoned children who sent me packing on an ongoing trek in pursuit of the all-elusive state of being: humility...I'm laughing out loud right now because that was three and a half years ago and I feel as though I'm still just consulting my compass, attempting to discern which way to start walking and what I should pack.  Even funnier is that I'm pretty sure I once thought I had already navigated the course and achieved its prize, having only scheduled in a couple of weeks at most for the whole ordeal.
...Anyways, I've since come to believe that words are in fact not the best shot we've got at conquering time, if for no other reason than that doing so is no longer an explicit goal of mine (at least not consciously).
I think of words now as a sort of layer, draped over some "deeper truth," shaped into peaks and crests and even vastness by cultural beliefs, by definition falling short/away from some objective reality because language attempts to crystallize, isolate, and compartmentalize all that is into word-boxes. That depth never used to exist for me; the word was the whole existential package--and therefore even holy-- whereas now I see the very act of language as the fragmentation of infinity. This is not original thought, of course, but I do feel I've come to the idea in a way that allows me to experience it as unique to me. And there's that subjectivity all over again-- not that I mind it, quite the contrary, but it is the reason I so often feel compelled to put things in quotations. Rather than cling as I once did to words for fear of finitude, lately I prefer to give three wholehearted cheers for absurdity and call it a "day" (to a point admittedly, usually all such abstraction implodes once intense personal emotion gets tossed into the equation).
The quotations are as if to say, "I don't really think the definition of this arbitrary collection of sounds adequately reflects what I am trying to communicate, but hey it's the best I've got in my word-repertoire so for the sake of functioning in this society I'll just use it. But I'm still kind of annoyed that I have to. Ya know?" Whatever, I'm not advocating for the reign of silence to overthrow language as our dictator, nor am I trying to undermine the very real power of the spoken word. I suppose I'm just exploring, and hoping that since we both speak English such exploration might resonate for you as well in some way that transcends these characters that I am typing.
By the way, the irony (is this irony? I never know) of the fact that my only means of communicating these ideas is through the very use of words themselves is not lost on me. In fact, I think it's gosh-darn hilarious. Lately I've started doing crosswords- it's fun. And I appreciate that their very design draws attention to the fact that every single letter is trapped in a box, scandalously touching linearities so that each word is just a collection of Appropriately. Filled. Boxes. And we just colour within the lines.
Anyways, thank you again for reading, and in doing so liberating these words from conforming only to the intention I have imposed upon them. I really appreciate you helping me internalize the subjectivity of language, and staving off my idolatry by having some sort of reaction to this post. Until I figure out how to conceive of, and then conjure online some _@#$%@#~~~~f9* that cuts through this communicative layer and somehow expresses an undivided reality, I do hope you'll keep on coming by.
Oh, and one last thing: I think you're beautiful.

Happy Arbitrary New Year!

So. The hour struck midnight, "Snookie" of Jersey Shore descended to Earth in a transparent ball (which, quite honestly, makes me want to just throw in the towel), and we all have to buy/print/upload new calenders because all of a sudden it's 2011 and we're startin 'er over. Seems kind of arbitrary that we compartmentalize our lives based on the activities of a universe whose existence we largely ignore. Or perhaps fitting that we measure the happenings of all things by whatever the Earth is up to in its borderline obsessive orbit of the sun, shushing Copernicus' pleas as we go. Happy New Year- whatever. I'm still unclear on why my schedule is dictated by the potentially miscalculated birth date of a being I have yet to be convinced was of divine incarnation. 

No offense. 

The worst part is that I still felt pressure to do something AWESOME that night. The best part is that the United Nations has declared 2011 to be the International Year of Forests, AND The International Year of Chemistry. Did you not hear that at the stroke of midnight (EST) the entire world dropped their weapons and joined hands to plant trees while reciting the sacred mantra of the periodic table of the elements? For the panasonic photo, smiling faces were strategically lined up in alternating order of ethnicities to assure donors that everything was going off without a hitch. 

OK-- you got me-- what's this rant really about? Sigh. It's my birthday tomorrow, which makes this my own personal New Year's Eve and the night my relationship with Jesus and Pope Gregory (of the Gregorian calender) gets especially awkward. No offense.

Admittedly, a quick consultation with Wikipedia has eased tensions slightly, by assuring me that I do not bear the burden of this night alone. As it happens, January 11th not only marks my birth (?) but that of John A. MacDonald AND Jean Chretien. It is also the date milk was first delivered in bottles (how romantic) and Romania first annexed Transylvania (consequences for vampires still unknown).

Although cute of Christian society to impose a collective New Years upon all of humanity, no offense, I feel like it makes more sense to scrap the whole hyper-commercialized evening altogether. Instead, I propose each person should celebrate his/her/not applicable/undefined/their own New Years on his/her/not applicable/undefined/their respective birthdays. Because let's be honest; the vast majority of us can't help but live our lives as though the world orbits around us anyways (which may explain the sun's subtle UV strikes of vengeance)

To be fair though, it's difficult for today's "first world" human to remain humble when it is possible to acquire, own and have dominion over virtually anything on the planet. Just ask the puppy sleeping in a locked crate in our kitchen whose head is stuck in a lampshade to prevent her from tampering with post-surgical stitches following the routine removal of her ovaries and uterus by our local veterinarian. Or refer to the bulk-sized crate of oranges from Florida going bad in our fridge, conveniently prepackaged and purchased just off the highway in the dead of Toronto winter. I can't be sure if the situation is similar for "third worlders," but I do hear that they're uniformly so very chipper, gracious and kind. Don't even inquire about the status of the "second world"... no one really knows what happened to them.

Anyways, it's my birthday and I am fighting the "yearly" Battle of January 11th to remain cool, calm and collected about the matter. If it hasn't already been made painfully clear to you, I have lost- again. 

It's even more annoying because I've fabricated the entire issue, and intellectually decided it's all arbitrary while emotionally reacting completely antithetically 

At this point, I think the only way to salvage any remaining dignity would be to admit defeat, tip my figurative hat to human vulnerability, acknowledge a worthy (only?) competitor--time-- and curtsy my way on out of this joint while laughing out loud. Preferably not maniacally. 

Happy New Year to all, and a special Personal New Years salute to me and my fellow Prime Ministers; you know who you are ;)

Wishing you all my very best for a happy, healthy, absurd and hilarious 2011, brought to you by Pope Gregory XIII. Amen.