Thoughts from a weekend of relaxation...

Do you remember what it sounded like the first time you said you'll never drink again? It sounded like lying! My legs itch worse than they have for a long while. Insects meet for brunch at 2am it seems. Everybody here has a distinct snore, each one follows its own distinct pattern. I've had mine recorded before, it sounded familiar. Maybe there is some genetics involved in snoring.

Nights are so calm, meditation must be even more transcendent for the nocturnal. Or maybe less transcendent, since there's less to get past. Regardless, when the tiny wavelettes gently splash against the rocks in the still of the night, you can really start to embrace the loudness of silence. Right eye closing.


-This is what I scribbled into my little electronic journal at 2:30 am, up in cottage country, waiting for a drunken friend to sober up enough to fall asleep without fear of the morning. I had a few drinks myself, and took quite a few hefty pulls from the shesha. Sometimes I wonder how artists like Bob can be so in touch with the source of their art under the influence. I'm not altogether happy with what I wrote above - one or two parts I even slightly changed because I just couldn't stand the way I wrote it originally. I've left it mostly unchanged although to make a point; I'm not overly happy with it. I either have to smoke and drink a lot more or a lot less during my writing quests to unleash the raw power of my literary genius. Time will tell.

Interruption

A big pet peeve of mine is interruption. No matter how uninterested I am in what someone is saying I personally feel awkward interrupting their train of thought. Often, not only when interrupting someone's words but even when interrupting the flow of the conversation I'll say, "sorry" or "as an aside" so as not to rudely ignore the fact that the other person has something on their mind. I think sometimes that this might be my own personal disposition.

I hate it when someone says, "You've never said that" when in fact I have. Maybe I just talk too much, and maybe the other person simply for got, but sometimes I get the feeling that the other person just wasn't listening when I said it.

I hate it even more when I ask someone to repeat what I've just said, and they can't even do it. The game of broken telephone is supposed to involve more than 2 participants. If the words coming directly out of my mouth are too ambiguous than I question what mediums I can use that will get my message across. Maybe I talk funny, or my lisp is too pronounced, or the words that I use are incorrect, or the words themselves are being used correctly but their connotations smeer the message I am trying to get across, but sometimes I get the feeling that the other person wasn't really listening to what I was saying.

I get absolutely red with rage when I'm in the middle of a sentence, and someone interjects with a completely separate sentence. Like if I were to say, "Yea so today I was so mad..." and "I know of a great place to get sushi," are the words that completely truncate my thoughts and feelings. I'm getting that a lot lately, from a few people. I think that's it's the rudest thing to do in conversation. I mean to completely interrupt my words shows that what I was saying was of absolutely no value to them, and I begin to question whether what I say is ever of value to them, even when they don't interrupt me. I can't remember the last time anyone interrupted one of my entertaining anecdotes or words of flattery, but when I have something to say about just me, or my day, I almost have to race with my words to get it all out before the other party let's me in on whatever was on their mind while I was talking to them.

Maybe that's why I use MSN, you can't totally ignore me unless you block me or go offline while I'm talking. Actually people often go offline while I'm talking. We all have computer problems although, I'm sure that's all it ever is - at least I think so. But that's not important. What's important is, I'm beginning to remember why I used to keep to myself on the subject of myself. Interruption is like utter rejection, and rejection hurts.

Sunday

I've been growing a crack nail for a couple weeks. Not for functional reasons; the world of cocaine actually terrifies me, probably with good cause. Actually i've been growning this nail out of sheer laziness. The littlest things have seemed like the hardest things to accomplish lately. You know, like paying my bills (just going online and paying them, not makign the money) cutting my nails, getting out of bed in the morning, keeping my room clean. One more indication of clinical depression to add to the list.

I've decided I don't really care for words of reassurance anymore. Nobody understands, nobody will. Some may think they can. That only insults me more, generalizing my pain, or associating it with something non-personal. "It's as though my pain isn't mine, like I feel this way just because every other guy..."

I feel like Cheeko from Lords of Flatbush. Watch the movie, I'm not going to explain. I only mentioned that because it was playing as I wrote this. In any case, the fact is I'm burdened by the glass ceiling romantically. This has had backlashes on my emotions, so a change is in need. Unlike the fly in a jar, I potentially have the ability to transcend my dillemma but potential is misleading. I'm confused. I'm...confused. But I'll think about, then understand. Pray for mojo.

It starts with just one beer

I don't drink alone, and I don't drink at home. Both of the preceding claims have just been thrown out the window. To my right is a bottle of Heineken. Sounds like alcoholism is in the midst. My friend Annie just blogged about her newly discovered alcoholism, so I guess that makes me a no good follow-fashion. I'll drink to that.

You know, I could have been Dutch. My parents were considering moving there before my conception. Then I would have been born in the land of Heineken. Plus I would have been exposed to world-class futebol. I would've been a Jamaican living in the European capital of marijuana. This ample supply of ganja, and my consequent desire to indulge in it, would've opened to me various philosophical doors to which I am so rarely exposed here in the borough. With legal prostitution, and the inquisitive nature of youth, I would have no reason to lament over girl problems, as the solution would always be easily accessible. Every other world cup is in europe, so I'd rarely have to pay airfare. Being dutch would have its upsides for me.

Insensitive

They just showed this guy, Mr. Cochran, on the news. He's the president of CUPE. When the president of your country's biggest union weighs close to 300 pounds or maybe more, you start to wonder where your union dues are going.

Making babysteps towards profundity

The afternoon breeze is like a pen with an endless supply of ink. The leaves are the pages and the passage of time the story. For every story there is a reader, and for every reader there is an interpretation.

The beauty of art depends foremost on the beauty of the artist and his ability to lay this beauty down on his instrument; on the canvas, on the paper. We don't yet know who wrote the story on the leaves - we've heard a few of his pen names - regardless the leaves let us know that his heart is beautiful. The beauty of art depends secondly on the beauty of the voyeur, and his capacity or willingness to accept the artist's beauty in his own heart.

For the longest time I've been blind to this beauty. Mistaking the leaves for the tree, and the tree for the forest, I've missed out on so many levels of the story of nature. Beauty is like sunlight, and through the smallest crack it can find its way through, like today. Today I have a chance to enjoy the story. Today each leaf tells its own story. The trees regain their beauty, the forest its depth.