The texture of the fruit was surprising. It was soft; delicate to the touch. It weighed more heavily than I expected as I shifted it from one finger to the next, examining its contours. The summer sunlight had made the fig soothingly warm. It had also tanned the exposed side of the already deep purple encasing. Now one side was a more vibrant shade of violet than the other. I felt the urge to raise it up closer to my face, to take a better look, to smell it, to taste it. The fig was not a showpiece; it had too many imperfections. I could relate to it in this way. I remember hardly noticing a trickle of its juice flowing down my middle finger. The heat of the Italian summer dried the liquid quickly and left a sticky, sweet residue on my hand which I refused to rub away. I quite appreciated it there. It made me feel more connected to the fruit which I so proudly cradled.
I was so mezmerized by the beauty of the fig that I had forgotten to look up for more than a few heartbeats as I walked along the cobblestone pathway . Venice is more beautiful at night, but the daytime reveals its character. Aside from the odd paddle rippling through the fluid streets and the buzzing of anxious and excited tourists, only an abnoxious boat motor threatened my paradise intermittently. More often than not, however, it was peaceful, calm, and comfortable. I felt like I was taking a walk through my state of mind when I am just waking up in the morning after the most satisfying sleep.
The colour. The colour was what captivated me most. Set on a backdrop of golden rays of sun, which played happily with the dancing currents of salty Venetian streetwater, the blueness of the sky was inpenetrable until I ripped open the simple skin of the fig in front of it. A red.. no... a deep and powerful golden-speckled magenta exploded out of the fruit. My eyes had a private disagreement with my tastebuds over which sensation was more pleasing: the appearance or the taste of this fantastic fig. I calculated how many bites I had left before the fig would fully become a part of me.
My attention was now split between the fig and the serenity of my surroundings. I had not fully considered the effect of the fruit on my feelings until after I had so carelessly taken the first bite. More sweet, warm, juice splattered down the back of my hand; down my chin. I felt a slight bit of regret, having torn open the helpless fruit... but it passed when I reaped the rewards of my conquest. The fragrant smell intensified; the taste was so sublime that I now consciously avoid describing it, for fear of failing.
As I walked and I marvelled at the magnificence of this fig and the beauty of my surroundings, I listened for the first time in a long time. I listened to the silence of my thoughts, which could just as easily have been described as euphoric or ecstatic noise. Perhaps this very same fruit would not have tasted quite as good if I had not been walking through the peaceful streets of an engineless city. The pigeons around me pecked about indifferently.
I will now perform some idea alchemy. I will begin writing about absolutely nothing, and hope that by the end of this post, I will have developed an idea worth reading. If this sounds absurd, just remember that real alchemists based their living on their ability to turn lead into gold. They failed 100% of the time.
So I was watching Cee Lo Green's video for the song, "F*ck You." Excuse my language, that's what the song is actually called. I noticed, in this brilliant motown-style instant classic, that he has a recurring line in it saying, "I pity the fool (that falls in love with you)." I immediately think of Mr.T when I hear it. From there, I end up thinking of Rocky III and other positively intimidating images of the first black man to popularize the mohawk, years before it went mainstream. If you know what I'm talking about, raise your hand.
I am dumbfounded by the realization that there will be a certain age limit for this hand-raising. In other words, at some point, fewer and fewer people reading this blog will be inclined to raise their hands... in fact, I doubt most of them are still reading this post. They were probably thinking, "Who the HELL is Mr.T???" ... long before I asked them to raise their hand. Next, they probably proceeded to click the link to facebook for the 53rd time today, effectively navigating themselves away from my nonsense forever.
I also noticed in the song that Cee Lo compares some dude to Xbox, and himself to Atari. Did some hands go down? I only 'remember' what Atari is because I was told these legendary stories of the first gaming system and how primitive it was, while I was playing the ultra-advanced Nintendo Entertainment System (yes, the original). I heard horror-stories of a black-and-white screen, and a 'joystick'. I know... phallic, right?
Back to my point! Cee Lo Green's song - instant classic? Why though? Well... he curses in it... as part of the chorus. Most rappers have to FIGHT to get songs with explicit lyrics aired on the radio, but Cee Lo comes along and the radio is chasing HIM. Interesting. He's also physically huge: not exactly an American Idol. What does this suggest about the judgemental consumer? Has mainstream accepted Cee Lo because he is a non-threatening and almost comical figure? Poor Cee Lo, if that's the case -- he's basically getting bullied into success. The beat is also old-school; hardly something you could call new and original. But on the flipside, perhaps this is exactly what is new and original about this song. You might as well put your hand down now, I was about to ask you to keep your hand up if you listen to motown on a regular basis and could name more than just one artist. Could you even name one without scrambling to type it into google? I couldn't. So here we have the rebirth of the old. The resurrection of what has been buried in another generation, with the added effect of some bad-boy swearing and the cute and cuddly image of Mr.Cee Lo himself.
What about the use of these time-travelling terms, as I mentioned above? Cee Lo has done more than just create a hit through this song. He has blended the present with the past... he has made historical music. A music that captures the eternal and perpetual human condition and stretches it over half a century of human tradition. He makes it new, embodies post-modernity, and packages it into something worthy of purchase for the unwitting consumer, who swears by the code of "wanting something new and original." Has my post turned into gold yet?
Just sayin.
I realize that lately my writing has lacked a particular theme or direction, and that more and more I come on here to just write freely and for no one. So--voyeur that you are--I hope that you content yourself with reading my personal diary; for if I had one I suppose this is the kind of stuff you could expect to find in it. No, strangely enough, I don't reserve this space and time for the criticism of others or to complain about the bad things that happen to me on a daily basis. Niether of those two activities serve to release my tensions or open my mind. Instead, I prefer to digress, to go off on tangents, to dream-write, so to speak, about all the peculiarities that surround me. And for a second, or hopefully a bunch of seconds, to forget about all the things I need to do, all things I should have done, and all the things I don't want to think about. You know what the best part about doing this is? Knowing that in capturing your attention, my noble reader, I have in fact transported you to my absent-minded state of mind as well, and convinced you that there is no other thing more important than to examine the arrangement of letters that I have here presented for you. Admit it, you haven't thought about a single painful thought this entire time. You might be asking yourself why the hell you're still reading this, but you must admit that this hasn't been a complete and total waste of time for you. Somewhere in here, you have made a bit of time for yourself and for self-reflection. This is more than you can say for yourself when you're not doing futile things like reading some random dude's blog about literally nothing.
Okay, so let's close with a thought of the day--just so that I be can sure that this hasn't been a complete waste.
Ready?
Here it goes:
.
people do strange things in the night-time, and i am no exception. sometimes i am driving and i am thinking while i am driving, not necessarily about the driving, but thinking nonetheless, and i get the urge to write. i want to write often. i want to write passionately, about what i see, about what i feel, about nothing, and sometimes about something. but then, by the time i get home and i have to opportunity to write... i don't know what inspired me to begin with, and i often lose myself to doing strange things in the night-time.
tonight i was driving. it was a short drive. the drive began at around 1:43 am and concluded at roughly 1:47 am. i rolled down the driver's side window to let in the fresh, but still soothingly warm, young september air. i turned up the volume on my car audio system. this is what i was listening to:
i observed as a blonde female on a bike pedalled by and i thought to myself: where could she possibly be going at this place and time. i mean, sure, it's like 8 am somewhere in the world, but not here. i couldn't imagine myself bike-riding through a dark suburban neighbourhood at this time of night. to me, this appears strange. i also watched, as i turned left from one residential side road onto another, as a young adolescent walked on his lonesome. he was dressed as if he were a criminal. i don't intend to offend anyone with this observation and judgement, it's just that, to my mind's eye, if this young man were to wear a full business suit and tie in the same circumstance, i may have deemed him to not look as much like a criminal as he did while sporting his oversized and overpriced (but made to look cheap) jeans, unnecessary excess jewellery, and sports cap from somewhere not too close by. he made himself look all the more suspicious as he swivelled the head that modelled the cap a full 180 degrees--perhaps aided by a subtle twist of his torso--to eye me and my outdated toyota camry as i cruised by. maybe he was wondering what kind of moron listens to this kind of music, at 2 am, and has it playing this loud out of his windows as if he's proud of it. i bet an argument about music wouldn't last longer than 45 seconds between this gentleman and i. but again, this is judgemental of me. for all i know, he's in the band.
sometimes when i am driving and wishing that i were writing, i begin to write metaphorically as i think. i write in my head. i usually listen to my music loudly, and so, as abstract as this may sound, coming from someone who knows not a damn thing at all about how to write music, i feel as though i am in fact imagining my thoughts and the sounds intertwining and wrapping themselves around the very impulses that define my 'life' essence. there is no other way for me to write this that will help you understand it any better. what i wrote, should be just as confusing for you to understand, as it is for me to conceptualize. i imagine my thoughts sprawling themselves out all over an imaginary musical meter, where the notes do not correspond with the actual music, but DO represent the feelings within my being. and then i come up with such brilliant concepts as the title of my next blog - which should, without question, be: "in the night-time."
think of your life when the sun goes down. personally, i have spent at LEAST 50% of my life awake when the sun is not. if i were to throw my day-time experiences in a ring with my night-time exeperiences, i fear the fight would be eternal between the two. possibly because the style of each fighter is so different that niether one is able to gain the upper-hand, but most probably because the day-time would be so weirded out by the night-time that it would dance around like muhammed ali and get punched in the face a few times but refuse to go down. what i mean to say is that, i do weird things at night-time. i wonder if this is because when it's night-time, normal things seem weird. let's experiment: blonde female riding her bike at 2 pm - normal; blonde female riding her bike at 2 am - weird. that was too easy... let's try again. gangster-looking little teen staring at your crappy car as you drive by him at 2 pm... meh........ 2 am? start to wonder whether he's hiding something. lol. i'm laughing out loud at my own blog post. it's 2:26 am and i am writing about the strange things people do at night.
oh irony.
If you can sit through church and argue that there is... you're full of shit.
OK, so let's assume that I am allergic to bee stings, and that this will be the last time my mind is able to communicate with the electric pool of knowledge available on the internet. What would my final words be? Do I send a shoutout to mom and dad? My sister and sweet baby jesus? Do I congratulate all my friends for resisting the temptation of being total pricks to me and actually valuing the relationship we've formed over recent years that have allowed us to experience some of the best times of our lives? Or do I write this post like any other post... just dwelling on the insignificant. What should separate this, my final post, from any of my previous ones?
In short, nothing.
I want to avoid using cliches, but sometimes they just work so well. Let me think up some creative way to tell you that you need to live your life as if each moment is your last. Hmmm... okay... so pretend there is a box of donuts. You really want a donut but you want to be conscious of your health and you've come to accept that by consuming a donut you are actually doing damage to your body since there's pretty much nothing nutritious about a donut. So if you are living this day as if it's your last, what do you do?
a) Eat the donut.
b) Ignore the donut and carry on with your day.
c) Eat half the donut.
d) Share the donut with three friends, thus allowing yourself to indulge in 1/4 worth of the temptation, while staying health-conscious.
What do you choose?
It doesn't matter what you choose. The point is that you choose, and that you choose based on a life plan that will work for you today, tomorrow, and 100 years from now. If your life ends tomorrow, so be it, but never have regrets. In other words, if you have decided to live every day of your life according to a healthy lifestyle, then that donut should not tempt you so much as to even think twice about this question. However, if you know that by refusing yourself that donut, that you will suffer as a result, you better eat that donut. But, you say, how will I ever lose weight if I keep giving in to temptation? Well, I say, if you are serious about weight loss you will research a way that works for you, that will allow you to consume that donut while staying healthy. Try the gym, as a hypothesis.
What is important is that we do not fear the inevitable and that we are active in affecting what is 'evitable' in a positive fashion. So here I am, with a theoretical ticking time-bomb of a venom pouch lodged into my arm, typing about living your day as if it is your last. Should I have any regrets if there were no tomorrow about spending 20 minutes writing to you here? If I did, then maybe I should never write in my blog at all... because that would be a perpetual waste of life. I should go out and seek to do activities that give me personal satisfaction at all times. And sometimes, as is the case when we work or do something we do not necessarily want to do, we must realize that we have obligations as citizens, friends, and family members, and that sometimes we must sacrifice some of our time in order to achieve the hedonistic pleasures that encourage us to go on. In any case, we should live our lives without regret and without second thoughts.
For the record, I love to write, and would do this on my deathbed until the final second of my life...
Oh, and also, I have determined that the bee that stung me was some sort of novice. He did a very half-assed job while stinging me... he left behind no stinger and there was a pool of yellow liquid on top of my skin after I felt that little prick (pun intended), meaning the venom probably didn't get into my skin. Looks like I might live to blog again...
Let Edith Piaf take it away from here, she's got the right idea (Song title translates to: "No I don't regret a thing"). And those of you who have seen Inception might get the wake up call from this too, so there can be no wrong in pressing play ;)
Continue Reading
Have you ever been to a concert and thought to yourself: "What the hell am I doing here? What a waste of money! I'm not even having fun..."?
I have.
I've also been to a few concerts where, for whatever reason, I was completely swept away by the music and the performance and loved every minute I was there. Most recently, I went to see the Silversun Pickups at a small venue concert held at Sound Academy (formerly known as The Docks, at Polson Pier in Toronto), and Metric at the Molson Amphitheatre on t
So why pay a boatload of money to orchestrate the perfect night to go and watch these people bopping on a stage, trying desperately (and often succeeding) to get the crowd excited and dancing by using corny lines like: "What's up Toronto!!?!?!?" - that one ALWAYS works. I've decided to write a blog about what makes ME like a concert...
1. Knowing the majority of the songs helps SO much.
It's weird because there are some bands that have never produced a track I don't like (i.e. Metric) however, even Metric is capable of making me stand still in awe when they play a song I don't know. How is this possible? If I like it, why shouldn't I enjoy it and the concert? Well... I do. But I also have come to realize that it's important to recognize the songs for another reason. Comfort. When we listen to this band's music while multitasking all day long - working, driving, exercising, gardening, lovemaking, hanging out with friends, whatever the case may be - we associate memories and, more importantly, feelings with these sounds. T
"Scar tissue that I wish you saw, sarcastic Mr. Know-It-All. Close your eyes and I'll kiss you 'cause, with the birds I'll shareeee"
2. Having a drink or two gets you in the mood.
"Not healthy," you say! "I don't need alcohol to have fun," you say! I don't care what YOU say. This is about me, remember? Ok.. so alcoholic beverages help. Why, you ask? Well, it continues along the theme of comfort. In case you haven't noticed, you will struggle a great deal to have fun if you are not comfortable... it's like one of those "Duh!" rules of life. So if you go to a concert, and everyone around you is holding a really expensive beer due to overpricing at event venues, and they are all smiling and dancing, and you are there, stiff as a board, bendin
g your knees off-tune, half smiling, half wasting your time noticing all the things you really wish you weren't noticing: like how ugly her shoes are and how tall the guy in front of you is, or the trickle of sweat tickling the outside of your left ear lobe.... well then how can you feel the music? Then you'll move on to watching the singer walking up and down stage trying to hype up the crowd and you will ask yourself why the hell it's working... how stupid does that dude look, doing what he's doing up there. Yeah "what's up Toronto?"... "nothing.... just play, idiot." Well sure! There's the spirit. You're really gonna love the concert now.... Instead, I suggest you have a drink... maybe two. Now you're smiling like everyone else, you're not worried about her shoes or his height and you just answered the stupid singer with a huge WOOOO!!!! Now your blood is pumping, you're not feeling awkward, now you're here to party.. and wow, that bass player is good. See... you need to FEEL the experience... you're not there to watch. You're there to feel!
3. Sing along.
Learn the words and sing the songs. Sing them as loud as you want.... no one can really hear you anyways. Feel the words, allow yourself to connect to the emotions that they bring up on you. The concert is an interactive event, it is not a show. We must rid o
4. Talk to people around you.
re all there to have fun. Make friends! People won't think you're a weirdo if you flash a friendly smile and make a funny comment during the show. Who cares if you never see any of them again, make sure they know you are enjoying yourself and that they should be too. This is part of making the experience interactive. Going to a concert should be about communal gathering, not about worshipping the musicians in silence as if it were a church. As an extension of this rule, we should strive to be more friendly with eachother ALL the time... not just at concerts where it's relatively easy to be.
he skill of the drummer and the bassist, you've enjoyed the different pitches of the singer's voice and how it meshes with the instuments brilliantly, you've been amazed by the guitar player's solos, you've been mezmerized by the keyboard and whatever other instrument finds itself cluttered in front of you... close your eyes. Feel how each piece of the ensemble comes together almost effortlessly after all the practice the band has had together. Think to yourself how music is born and how if each person on the stage were to stop... so would the music. Embrace the collaborative effort and think about how you feel as you are there. Once you are truly relaxed and comfortable, there will be no better feeling at that time than to just close your eyes and feel the music.Continue Reading
I may not have a clue what I'm talking about, considering I knew little about what the protestors wanted before going downtown Toronto Saturday, June 26 to see them protest, but I can tell you what I saw and it might not be what you expect.
ime and then decided to turn back and see what else was going on, as other protestors paraded back to Queen's park. Just as I was coming back into the intersection, I witnessed hundreds of black-clad people running Eastbound through Queen. When a large group of people begins to run like this in the middle of an area where people are otherwise only parading slowly or standing still, it is quite an attention-grabber. My friend and I became immediately interested and began to run with them, just to see where they were going. I referred to them as ninjas--because that's what they looked like to me, faces covered and entirely clothed in black.
e headlights, the windows, the sideview mirrors and dented the hood using bats and sticks. I was frightened and repeated to my friend more than a couple times that we should go before the police showed up and tear-gassed the crowd. My friend, the brave one, disagreed. He ordered me to march onwards with the ninjas and so we did. Within minutes we witnessed them break windows on a Scotiabank and a Starbucks coffee house. It soon became clear that they had specific targets in mind and had gone about hitting them in a strategic fashion. But where were the police? Where were those triple fortifi
ed lines of riot police with their shields and batons and intimidating phalanx positions? We marched onwards. Within every 100 metres or so, another glass window pane along the side of the street had been smashed open with bricks, flying hammers and wrenches, chairs, newspaper boxes... anything they could get their hands on. They were ruthless and reckless, and I was increasingly becoming paranoid by the prospect of the police coming to take care of the problem. But they never came...
We reached University and turned right. A BMO Branch was smashed open opposite a glass encasing housing a poster of Cristiano Ronaldo in underwear, which had also been attacked. Up ahead, someone screamed. Some more cracking glass could be heard and then the whole crowd turned and ran away... ran past me, backtracking at full speed. So we followed, scared for our lives... the police had FINALLY arrived (we thought)... we ran as fast as we could... for about 30 seconds, before realizing there was no reason to run. There was no police. Actually I lied... there was... but they ran away, apparently. We all turned around again and plowed further. When I got to the intersection up ahead I saw that another police car had been trampled, right in the middle of the intersection, 
and I was just in time to see a ninja with a lit piece of something, throw it into the broken-open driver side window and torch the car. Within minutes the vehicle was engulfed in flames. The smashed police cruiser behind the first one (yes, there were two this time) soon caught fire as well. I couldn't believe my eyes. Behind me, a police line formed. As the vehicle's flames picked up, the police backed up, allowing us to escape the blaze. We turned left on Yonge and ran for half a block. The police watched. I wondered what it was going to take for them to take action. They continued to do nothing.
aling. I admired this. Other moments of brilliance included the way the mob worked together to create space for an innocent motorist who had mistakenly been stranded on Yonge as the mob progressed. Together they helped the motorist turn the car around and leave. Then they all cheered together. Clearly, the vandalism was not about chaos and absolute destruction. There was a clear plan and purpose - despite what the media and the government will have you believe.
marching the streets for at least a couple of hours. The anarchists had left a huge trail of glass behind them and had proven their point that the 1.1 billion dollars spent on the G20 - including police - was in fact a complete waste. Where was the police as the anarchists chanted: "Who's streets? OUR STREETS!!!" for two hours and burned police cars and smashed windows at the POLICE STATION ITSELF. Even more painful to me, was that as the police sloooooooowly encircled us at Queen's Park, the anarchist ninjas formed huddles and changed their clothes. They came out of the huddles dressed like civillians and walked away innocently. I did not see a single one of them get arrested. Not one.
on top of this second cruiser, and we got there on time to see him light a piece of paper and tuck it under the breast of his blazer. His clothes started to smoke and once it became unbearably hot for this stoner, he retrieved the burning paper and dropped it on the hood of the car, where he stood. Unwittingly, however, it seems he dropped part of the burning paper INSIDE the car, where it ignited something inside. As he danced on the hood, he removed his jacket, shirt, and belt... until his pants were about to fall off. Then he realized that the car had caught fire, so he jumped off, grabbed a picket sign, opened the passenger door and stuck his torso inside to try and beat out the fire using the sign. He didn't realize that all this allowed him to do was actually stimulate the fire by fanning it and before long the smoke overwhelmed him. He ripped his half naked body out of the car and began throwing up. As he did, the car was overcome by flames. People crowded around to take pictures of the car and the half naked psycho dragged himself around, screaming "BACK OFF, THIS THING IS GONNA BLOW." People laughed at him and stayed there, takin
g pictures. What amazed me is that there were over 2000 police officers closing in on protestors up in Queen's Park... and not a single one here on Queen Street where civillians encircled a burning police car. Where was the police?But many of us don't ever really watch soccer and don't know many of the players. We only really tune in during a major tournament like this, and love it more than those who watch soccer on a regular basis. Some of us are still wondering why Zinedine Zidane and the original Ronaldo aren't playing this year. Let me attempt to explain something. Soccer is not attractive because it is fun to watch 100% of the time. On the contrary, some people would rather watch grass grow, apparently. The reason why soccer is so captivating in reality, aside from the colours, the nationalism, and the commercialization, is in its emulation of life itself. Soccer is not fair. It lacks good judgement from the referees, and oftentimes this reality is enough to turn us off from it entirely. Believe me, as a religiously fanatic supporter of the game, I've seen enough of this kind of thing for the next 18 lifetimes. But I still watch. I still play. I love it. I can't stop. I'm addicted. Why?
Because life is not fair.
I watched the USA rally back from two goals down to tie the game 8 minutes from its conclusion. They then went on to score a winning goal off of a beautifully orchestrated set play. The winning goal was called back. When the outraged players crowded around the referee to ask why he had disallowed the goal, he did not reply. The players, who gave interviews after the game with radiantly perplexed expressions on their faces, confessed that they still did not have any idea why they were denied the win. How can anyone maintain faith in a game that allows this kind of activity?
In life, your goal might also be disallowed for absolutely no reason. Sometimes you will do everything right, you will pour your heart and soul out to get the win and just when you're about to get there, your goalie will make the most costly mistake of his life and allow the softest goal of the tournament (see England's Robert Green vs. USA). What do you do? Aaliyah once said to "dust it off and try again." That might work for you. It did for Italy in 2006, who after failing to win about a billion penalty shoot-outs finally succeeded in the finals against France to win the holy grail of all competitions - the World Cup. But sometimes trying again is not an option. Sometimes you would rather just go for the substitution, a change in tactics... let someone else handle it. That could work for you too. The only difference is that if you opt for the sub, you are relinquishing your power to make a difference in your own game to someone else. You are taking a spectator role in your own life. How many of us do this and then cry when we lose? Isn't it better to stay on the field and fight until the end - win or lose. At the end of the game, although the object was clearly always to win, there is always a sense of fulfilment in realizing that you played all 90 minutes; that you made a difference. You made some mistakes but you won the ball back. You sent in a great pass for a teammate, you gave it your all.
The metaphor of life being like a game is dreadfully played out now so I won't bore you with more comparisons. Just take note as you watch the rest of these games of how many lessons you can learn from the players. The USA has been done a terrible injustice in this tournament and is now faced with a do or die scenario in their final game against Algeria.
How will they react?
How will you? Continue Reading
Let's get talking about bright sun-shiny days and saltwater fish. The warmth of that association is enough to make even the most frigid of ice queens thaw out a smile. I was in Cuba for a week, about a week ago. I'm well aware that the hypocrisy in that venture merits a series of blogposts but I have chosen to tackle a happy topic here and not dwell on the inconsistencies of human nature. Although the trip itself provided me with many things I could comment on, it's a thought that only struck me yesterday that really got me thinking. I'd like to think it was spurred on by my recent return to a place of inconspicuous intermingling between ultimate happiness and infinite pain -- the airport.
I randomly pictured going to the airport one day--a day when I am irreperably bored--and just standing at the gates of the arrivals and watching the people for a few hours. Although this makes me sound rather more like a creeper than the innocent and harmless daydreamer that I so desperately pose to be, I urge you to follow along in my reasoning. The airport seems to be quite straight forward. It is none other than a massive series of buildings encircled by a spaghetti bowl of tangled asphalt. We go there for a limited variety of reasons: We are either employed by one of the companies that are situated there or we are somehow related to an act of travel. We could, in fact, be the travellers -- leaving or returning from a place far enough that driving seems out of the question. We could, instead, be assisting a traveller by being their chauffeur for the day. The latter role is what interests me. Are you aware that upon accepting this responsibility - that of being the last familiar face the traveller sees before embarking on their adventure - we are the bridge between home and the unknown for that person? Have you ever given thought to how important you are for the person who is departing? And likewise I urge you to consider what your face means to the person who is arriving. You are symbolic. You are the first real sign of home, of comfort, of love and care for the returning explorer. Your job is much more important than that of simply being a chauffeur.
Allow me to elaborate through a spontaneous narrative of a typical scenario in front of the gates of arrival in any given airport, on any given day, at any given time. As you read, slow down and take the time to visualize and understand what each word means to you, the emotions it conveys, and the way you are affected by it through your own memories and characteristics.
An airport terminal is like a beehive for emotions and feelings -- constantly buzzing with activity and saturated with the very essence of life for those who interact with it. The airport houses the anticipation, the shock, the anxiety, the regret, the relief, the love, the jealousy, the surprise, the tears, the sweat, the exotic smells, the repulsive odours, the tans, the burns, the new clothing, the bright colours, the bags, the smiles, the frowns, the worries, the confusion, the voices, the moans, the whispers, the thoughts.... how many thoughts? what kind of thoughts? expectations? wonder? amazement? longing... longing for a person, longing for a home, for a pillow, for good food, for friendship, for comfort, for the next vacation, for what they lost on this one.
There is something revealing about watching a person who is waiting for an arrival at the airport. A man waits, emotionless, quiet. His eyes glimmer with the essence of one who is in expectation, although it is impossible to tell if he is worried, calm, or hiding something more explosive. Interesting interpretation of an emotion, I tell myself, seeing that we are dealing with an airport during terrorist times. The man waits, and waits. He paces back and forth but ultimately settles in his rightful (and infinitely temporary) place, leaning against a large semi-decorative pole that supports the entire structure. His arms are crossed, he fidgets. The doors flutter open again and again, but those who come through mean nothing to the man. He waits.
Beside the man there is a child playing with a toy airplane. The toy was likely handed down over at least a couple of generations. Several stickers have peeled off the surface and the silver paintjob looks more like a few splatters of silver paint on dull grey plastic. The wear of time has reduced it so. The child makes jet engine noises, or at least what he thinks they should sound like. "GUSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...........VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVUUUUUUU" He steps six steps right but eight left; he makes little progress. As he tinkers innocently he enters the subconscious imagination of all the adults in his vicinity. There is some tender annoyance with the child but no one addresses it except his painfully agitated mother, whom experiences a boatload of heart palpitations during times of extreme stress and does not deal well with anxiety. Her blue eyes, unlike the man's, are wide, bright, and glossy. They are full of worry, of hope, of expired patience - they are contrasted with a poorly done make-up job, which intended to use eye shadow to help bring out her eyes, but instead serve to make her entire face seem puffy and tired. She scolds the child in order to distract herself, but does do distractedly and decidedly ineffectively. The child senses her half-hearted concern for public peace and continues to fly his jet through the clouds of time.
The man coughs, the woman looks up at him. She doesn't care that he coughed. She is bored. Worried and bored. Not a good combination as she senses her heart beating at a semi-irregular pace. She waits.
Like the man, the woman, and the child, there are 226 people waiting for arrivals at any given time in this stretch of my imagination, in this fictional terminal, in this temporary image of a reality taken for granted. As each arrival comes through the door, a heart skips a beat, a smile is inevitable, a relief is reached, an agitation is calmed, a story has begun where another one has ended. The power we all have is immense when we open those doors and walk through the gates to come home; to go away.
The airport is not a port of travel, it is a theatre of emotion. A place we go to feel, to be felt. To smile, to laugh. The airport is a runway for the runaway heart. If you have never travelled, if you have never gone to greet an arriving traveller, you have missed out on a significant part of your emotional self. This, I argue, is a large part of the beauty of going on vacation and should never be taken for granted.
Below are the 12 things the man in your life/family wants you to remember during the World Cup 2010:
1. From June 11th to July 11th, 2010, you should read the sports section of the newspaper so that you are aware of what is going on regarding the World Cup, and that way you will be able to join in the conversations. If you fail to do this, then you will be looked at in a bad way, or you will be totally ignored. DO NOT complain about not receiving any attention.
2. During the World Cup, the television is mine, at all times, without any exceptions. If you even take a glimpse of the remote control, you will lose it (your eye).
3. If you have to pass by in front of the TV during a game, I don't mind, as long as you do it crawling on the floor and without distracting me. If you decide to stand nude in front of the TV, make sure you put clothes on right after because if you catch a cold, I won’t have time to take you to the doctor or look after you during the World Cup month.
4. During the games I will be blind, deaf and mute, unless I require a refill of my drink or something to eat. You are out of your mind if you expect me to listen to you, open the door, answer the telephone, or pick up the baby that just fell on the floor....It won’t happen.
5. It would be a good idea for you to keep at least 2 six packs in the fridge at all times, as well as plenty of things to nibble on, and please do not make any funny faces to my friends when they come over to watch the games. In return, you will be allowed to use the TV between 12am and 6am, unless they replay a good game that I missed during the day.
6. Please, please, please!! If you see me upset because one of my teams is losing, DO NOT say "get over it, its only a game", or "don't worry, they'll win next time". If you say these things, you will only make me angrier and I will love you less. Remember, you will never ever know more about football than me and your so called "words of encouragement" will only lead to a break up or divorce.
7. You are welcome to sit with me to watch one game and you can talk to me during halftime but only when the commercials are on, and only if the half time scores is pleasing me. In addition, please note I am saying "one" game; hence do not use the World Cup as a nice cheesy excuse to "spend time together".
8. The replays of the goals are very important. I don't care if I have seen them or I haven't seen them, I want to see them again, many times.
9. Tell your friends NOT to have any babies, or any other child related parties or gatherings that requires my attendance because:
a) I will not go,
b) I will not go, and
c) I will not go.
10. But, if a friend of mine invites us to his house on a Sunday to watch a game, we will be there in a flash.
11. The daily World Cup highlights on Sportsnet, Sports Centre, The Score, or any other news channel every night is just as important as the games themselves. Do not even think about saying "but you have already seen this...why don't you change the channel to something we can all watch?" because, the reply will be, "Refer to Rule #2 of this list".
12. And finally, please save your expressions such as "Thank God the World Cup is only every 4 years". I am immune to these words, because after this comes the Champions League, Italian League, Spanish League, Premier League, FA Cup, etc.
Thank you for your cooperation.
After that tragedy, I've teamed up with a certain Anthony Prochilo and come through on a number of predictions, quite consistently, every two years. We started humbly -- with a warning of a Greek tragedy. All we said in 2004 for the Euros was "Watch out for the Greeks," but hell, they shocked even us when they won the whole damn tournament. Well done.
In 2006, I was convinced. So was Anthony. Italy was going to win the World Cup and not even a German SS firing squad could stop them. Germany's soccer team couldn't either. Italy won the tournament and we went ballistic. Not only were we right, but our team won. I will never be able to describe the joy we felt at that moment.
Still 2006, but when the partying stopped, Anthony and I sat in reflection. I claimed that Germany would win the 2008 European Championships. Anthony placed all his eggs in the Spanish basket. Our consensus was that the final would be Spain-Germany.
When 2008 finally came, Anthony and I went to Austria & Switzerland to watch the Euros for ourselves... perhaps not believing that the TV would tell us the truth when we witnessed yet another prediction pan out our way. Sure enough, the final was Spain-Germany. Spain won it... 1-0.... close enough for us to both be satisfied with our 2-year old guesses.
On the plane ride back, Anthony and I drew up another consensus.
The winner of the 2010 World Cup will be:
England.
Now I could sit here and explain the reasoning, but really what's the use. Nothing can ever justify why things happen in soccer - they just do.
We also concluded that Argentina would be finalists, and the final itself would be one of the most epic battles of all time... but that Lionel Messi would NOT be walking away with the cup this time - sorry to break it to you Diego.
England will beat Ivory Coast in their semi final and Argentina will beat Spain.
Hey, it might not play out exactly like this but if it does, just remember who told you so ;)
I have a proposal. Why not turn tradition on its head and do something completely crazy and uncalled for. Add something to your bucket list that will make you different from everyone else. Throw a party, at some point in your later middle ages or early senior years. Rent a banquet hall and invite EVERYONE you know. Call it a "Going Away Party" and tell your guests that they can bring friends. Party like you'll never party again. Take lots of pictures; dance up a storm, and don't stop till it's 6 in the mornin'. Enjoy life.
no?
Do you believe in fate? That everything that happens, happens for a reason? Do you believe that if you behave in accordance with the teachings of (insert ambiguous religious or political figure here) that good things will come?
Have you answered yes to all of the above?
If you did, you are a hypocrite.
Well okay, let me take three steps back before I drag you along for this marathon. Perhaps it is me that is the hypocrite. I pretend to know better than to lose myself among the controversial arguments of competing religions - but admittedly, it's not like I have the solution either way. All I have is some time to think. A room of my own, if you will. If I were female that would have sounded better.
So, fellow hypocrite, explain to me how it is possible for a person to believe in fate, but also in their own power to make decisions and live life. Having been brought up Catholic, I've been exposed to many Christian teachings throughout my childhood. My most recent experience came at a funeral, where the priest preached a very good thing and a very bad thing. I feel like I'm conducting a session of "Good Idea, Bad Idea," so I'll just roll with it.
Good Idea: To understand that life is not over at death; it is changed.
Bad Idea: To believe that the goal of life is to reach the afterlife, and that once we have gotten there, we will have fulfilled our purpose.
Are you then telling me that our sole purpose in life is be 'good' so that we can be rewarded by God with this amazing and incredible promised land (heaven). Is that how selfish we are - that we attribute our entire existence to being rewarded? Methinks there could be something we are overlooking here. Life on Earth ain't so bad, even at the worst of times, why must we constantly be concerned with how green the grass is on the other side? What if there is no other side? What if the other side is as made up as the misery that we are led to believe we are constantly battling?
But going back to the fate thing: All of you who think that our destiny is predetermined - that our life experiences are a product of some cosmic storyline that has yet to be played out - you are robbing humanity of its agency. You are not just claiming, you are SCREAMING out that we are not rational, responsible, active beings... we are just actors. If fate really does have a place in this universe, then NONE of our actions are a result of our own volition. We have been written into life, like a script. Is our creator so cruel, to give us both consciousness and to staple our feet to the traintracks of life simultaneously?
No, I think not. And please, please don't try to justify your faulty belief system by claiming that you can change your fate because then you are no longer a hypocrite - you have, at that point, transcended the boundaries into the land of imbeciles and other incorrigible souls.
I guess the point of this blah blah blah is that I don't feel as though I am an actor. I don't feel as though my life is connected to some universal xbox, where my actions hinge upon the directions relayed to me through a controller or joystick. I am an active, rational, and intelligent human being. I can think, I like to think, and I only act after having thought. My own conclusion is that no one controls me but me, and I am the author of my own fate. The dude with the joystick up in the clouds controls all the external stuff. The obstacles, the challenges, the really crappy moment, and the big breaks or strokes of luck that many of us refuse or are incapable of recognizing. I believe that it's my job to adapt and to survive -- not to pray for salvation. I depend on no one, but I will remain respectful and I will work for the benefit of humanity because I believe that in bettering others I am bettering myself. If all of us were to take up this cooperative outlook on life none of us would have to be hypocrites in thinking that we are selfless because we go to church or political rallies and halfheartedly follow the teachings of our saviour.
Reality check: if you believe in a saviour then you want to be saved, which means you are selfish. Go help someone in need; be THEIR saviour. YOU are the one that wrote the script of your own life thus far so don't be afraid to add some stage directions to it as it plays out... Continue Reading
The Record Skips
rolling, tumbling, down down down.
the climb was tough, but not the crown.
i fall, i fall - the record skips
the beating of the drum
blinding light
the sun.
running, flying, left left left.
my heart was the victim of your reckless theft.
i fall, i fall - the record skips
the beating on your brain
through ur chest
the rain.
pulling, taking, away away away.
the thought is gone, but you could stay.
i fail, i fail - the record skips
the beating of the plight
before you
the night.
pushing, striving, "bar bar bar".
you laughed, you mocked, but you lost the war.
i fail, i fail - the record skips
the beating with the sword
pierce your soul
your word.
Good Game
The worst feeling in the world can be when you realize it's game over. When the referee blows that final whistle, when the buzzer sounds, when the super mario song tells you you just died and ran out of lives. You were trying so hard, working as hard as you could... to achieve something. To get there. To reach your goals. And then, tragically, it was all cut short. You died. You were losing 2-1 -- you wanted to score the equalizer. It was a tie game -- you wanted to win. There was something more to do, something left to prove.
It's always this way until you're in the championship match and you're up by a goal. That's the only time it's okay for the ref to blow the whistle, for the ref to say - "you win"... here's your trophy, add it to the rest, you earned it, you deserve it... by the way - "good game."
I look into my dog's eyes, and it's almost there. the whistle is going to be blown soon, to tell her, "good game"... but she wants something more - another cookie, another laugh, another ring of the doorbell. something to tell her she's wanted, she's loved... she has made an impression, she will leave her mark. she wants to understand, she wants to go for a walk - that's a funny smell, what is it, i love it when you scratch my back like that, keep going, woah, there it goes - that stupid squirrel, i'll catch you some day, and you will pay... and that postman too, stupid postman. i love you.
Good game Kisha. Good game
"Although the most acute judges of the witches, and even the witches themselves, were convinced of the guilt of witchery, the guilt nevertheless was non-existent. It is thus with all guilt."
- Friedrich Nietzsche (1882)
Why is it that sometimes the simplest little concepts need to be written down before they are considered to be genius?
I was sitting in my car today, at a traffic light on the way to York University. I was about to rid myself of my Honours Essay, which turned out to be 93 pages in length, and had made me very, very tired in its production. I was feeling a rare concoction of feelings, now that I think back. The recipe would have consisted of a large bag of butterflies for my stomach, some visine for extra wattery eyes, a bad case of insomnia, some deep cold for application to the brain in hopes of inducing numbness, an extra bright flashlight aimed at my face to allow for intense squinting, a horse named charlie to kick both legs as a punishment for days of inactivity, and a case of redbull to cause a bit of shaking in the limbs. It wasn't pretty. But I remember looking out the driver's side window of my vehicle as I sat there, frozen in time, jittery in this surreal position that I had only imagined in the preceding months--and I had imagined it to feel much better than it did. And then there they were. Snowflakes.
Tiny, little, cute, frigid, icy, white, god-forsaken, good-for-nothing, SNOWFLAKES. In the middle of April... DAYSSSSS after it was 24 degrees. Figures, no?
But here's the point of this post, and it's a good one I assure you. In my moment of total absent-mindedness and the unwanted reminder that I live in Canada and not Cancun, I automatically thought of updating my facebook status with some clever little quip about how it's snowing in April. Thankfully, I look out for myself, and I make sure to give myself the least amount of armaments when I'm out on the road. My severe lack of a 'smart'phone meant that I had no means of updating my facebook status, and thus saved my 500 contacts from having to read another fact about the obvious conditions of our shared surroundings. But more importantly, what technology has allowed us to do now, is in the absence of another person to annoy with redundancies about... the weather, for example, we use facebook as our 'buddy' to confide in. Except, when we post on facebook, we have a vision of about 10-15 people reading it and totally lose sight of the fact that there are upwards of 500 lives which could possibly change upon stumbling on our comments about snowflakes.
Oh the fun of social networking.
Sphinx
What happens when you're gone?
guardian of the fortress,
protector of the innocent,
bravest in the face of danger;
humblest in the face of discipline.
Your riddle, your jibber jabber,
your rough rough rough,
you live for one thing,
the more legs you have, the weaker you be;
always on guard.
You are the first thing, the last thing,
the only constant, the only variable,
and after a lifetime or two,
and when we talk to you;
comprehension is not your priority.
You won't smile, you can't laugh,
o gentle strangler,
your pose gives it away,
don't worry, we're not offended;
we love you all the same.
Your riddle, your rough rough rough.
- Riccardo Lo Monaco
river storks
the river caresses the riverbank;
playfully teases the stones.
it grows in the spring time;
it moistens your bones.
it glistens in the morning sun;
and is always either black or blue.
but no matter how well it's flowing;
it pushes outwards like a screw.
so what happens when the river floods;
when the river forks,
when the river dries;
when the river storks
bring their babies to other places;
cause big smiles on other faces.
what about the fish that used to call this place home?
what about the wish that has written this poem?
- Riccardo Lo Monaco
A few weeks ago, I read and studied Albert Camus' novel, The Plague. This novel deals with issues of natural disasters and epidemics and examines the ways in which people interact with each other during an event of such urgent change. I couldn't help my mind from wandering from the newly developed images of what a small village ravaged by a Limnic Eruption would look like, to the philosophical ideas associated with natural disasters in general... since it was still so fresh from lecture. I decided I would explore my ideas a bit further through this entry.
So, I ask, if God is the one to bring this suffering upon a people, then it is assumed that any attempt at trying to relieve the city of the epidemic is futile. God has given and he will take away. Who are we to interfere with the daily affairs of the divine? I mean really, what else can explain something as random and sudden as a Limnic eruption? Especially in a lake by a small remote village in Cameroon. I bet most of those people haven't even ever heard of God. Did they really offend him THAT badly to deserve this punishment. And ironically, since we have no way of explaining it, we end up turning to God in times of confusion... hoping He will provide us with a 'sign'.
Or at least this is where the misconception is. I find that people are obsessed with finding a reason or an explanation for everything that happens in the world. For as religious as so many people claim to be, they still interest themselves with the work of science or the science of society to understand why things happen or why things exist the way they do. In striving ceaselessly to find all of these explanations, people often get lost and realize that the world wasn't made to reveal all of its secrets to us. And so when we can't find the answer, the solution, the explanation to something, we turn to God. God is the one thing that is comprehensive and magical enough to answer for the unexplained -- and ironically enough, we have attached ourselves to a 2000-year old book to explain God for us... because of course, even the unexplained needs an explanation.
I suggest for you to think about this whole situation differently now. Rather than constantly seeking out the explanation for everything that happens in your life, allow yourself to come to terms with the fact that you will NEVER know everything about the world, about the people in it, or about yourself. It is literally impossible. You've got to agree that if this all-knowing and all-powerful God that created us is capable of creating all the world and its mysteries, we should be significantly inferior in intelligence, and therefore never arrive at understanding our true purpose in life.
And THIS, is my favourite part of thinking this way, because while most of you are outraged at the apparent pessimism in my tone, no one has even begun to think about the freedom that this afords us. Like Nietzsche said:
God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?
Now obviously God's not actually dead. What this is referring to is our pre-modern dependence on God... and our tendency to continue to resort to Him when we can't find the answer or explanation to something. It's suggesting that if our option to turn to God for magical answers fades, then how can we live our lives? Wouldn't we be free to do whatever we want? Who will tell us what right and wrong is? Will we ourselves have to become 'Gods' to carry on?
